head in the clouds

It was his first day at the Daily Planet. He was still adjusting the knot in his tie, silently rehearsing his “Hi, I’m Clark Kent” line on loop in his head, when he walked into the bullpen and spotted you.

You were hunched over your laptop, typing like the fate of the free world depended on each keystroke. Your brows were knitted, your lip caught between your teeth, a pen tapping absently against your notebook. Your hair was pulled into a high ponytail, a short, fitted skirt framed your curves, high boots and a cozy sweater completing the picture. A delicate butterfly necklace rested just below your collarbone, catching the light in a way that seemed unfair. The matching earrings swayed gently when you moved.

And Clark… well, Clark was staring.

Staring in that “oh no, I’ve forgotten how to blink” kind of way.

Stop it, stop it, she’s going to notice—

“Uhhm, h-hey,” he blurted, voice cracking like a nervous teenager. “I’m Clark. Clark K-Kent. I’m Perry’s new hire.”

You looked up, and the transformation was instant—your serious, concentrated expression melted into a warm, easy smile that hit Clark like sunlight on a winter morning.

“Oh, hey! Welcome to the madhouse.” You stood, smoothing your skirt before offering your hand.

Clark took it.

And didn’t let go.

“Wow,” he murmured before he could stop himself when you said your name. “That’s a really pretty name. Does it… mean something?”

You tilted your head, clearly amused. “It actually means ‘hope,’ where I come from. But your name isn’t bad either.” You gave him a quick wink.

Hope. How ironic, he thought to himself.

So meant to be.

“Nice grip, by the way. Are you planning to let me have my hand back sometime this year?”

His brain stuttered. He released your hand so fast it was almost comedic.

“Oh! Right, sorry, I didn’t—uh—”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Relax, Kent. You’ll get used to the chaos around here.”

Clark wasn’t so sure. Because if perfection existed—and he was starting to believe it did—it was standing right in front of him, with a butterfly necklace and a smile that made him forget the rest of the newsroom even existed.

Someone coughed nearby. The sound jolted him, reminding him that they were, in fact, still in a very public, very busy workplace. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones rushed back into his ears, along with the unmistakable bark of Perry White demanding three articles “yesterday.”

You dropped back into your chair, fingers already flying across the keyboard again. “So, Clark, where’d you transfer in from? You’ve got that new-guy look. A little lost, a little too polite. You’ll shake that off in a week or two.”

He blinked, trying to will his brain to form coherent sentences. “Uh—Smallville. Well, technically it’s called—uh—never mind, Smallville works.”

You looked up again, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Smallville? Is that a nickname or the actual name of the place?”

“Actual,” he admitted sheepishly. “Population’s about… well, let’s just say if you sneeze, someone on the other side of town will probably bless you.”

That earned him another laugh—soft, genuine, and warm enough to send a shiver up his spine.

“Sounds… kinda nice, actually,” you said, and for a dangerous moment Clark let himself imagine you there. Not just passing through, but there—standing barefoot in the Kent farmhouse kitchen, hair a little messy, stealing a piece of pie cooling on the counter—

“Earth to Clark,” you teased, and he realized too late he’d been staring again.

“Sorry!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Got distracted. Happens sometimes. Well, a lot.”

“Uh-huh,” you said with mock suspicion, spinning slightly in your chair. “Just don’t let Lois catch you daydreaming. She’ll make you pay for it. Probably by making you cover something awful, like the annual ferret festival in Hobbs Bay.”

“That… doesn’t sound so bad,” Clark said honestly.

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’ll learn.”

“C’mon,” you said suddenly, pushing back from your desk. “If you’re new here, you need the crash course in who’s who.”

“Oh—uh—okay,” Clark said, falling into step behind you as you wove through the maze of desks and rolling chairs.

You stopped at a workstation stacked high with half-empty coffee cups and crime scene photos. “This is Lois Lane—star reporter, occasional hurricane, and probably the reason Perry has blood pressure medication.”

Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “I heard that.” Then, with the faintest smirk, she finally looked at Clark. “So you’re the new guy. You look like you still say ‘gosh’ unironically.”

Clark’s ears went warm. “Uh… sometimes.”

“Mm. Cute,” Lois said, already turning back to her article.

You grinned and tugged him along before he could sputter out a defense. “This is Jimmy Olsen, photographer extraordinaire. If there’s a good side to be found, Jimmy’ll find it.”

Jimmy looked up from adjusting a camera lens. “Hey, man! Welcome to the Planet. You play poker?”

Clark blinked. “Not well.”

“Perfect,” Jimmy said, grinning. “See you Friday night.”

Before Clark could ask what that meant, you were steering him again—this time toward a desk surrounded by perfume bottles, fashion magazines, and an alarming number of animal-print accessories.

“And this,” you said, “is Cat Grant. She’ll charm you, flatter you, and then probably tell the entire office your most embarrassing secret.”

Cat gave him a slow, appraising glance over the top of her magazine. “Small-town farm boy? Honey, you are going to be fun.”

Clark wasn’t entirely sure if that was a threat or a promise, but before he could decide, you were pulling him back toward your own desk.

“There,” you said cheerfully. “Now you’ve met the core cast. Survive them, and you’ll survive anything.”

Clark smiled faintly, still feeling the lingering warmth of your hand on his sleeve. He had no idea then that this introduction would be the start of something far more complicated than just “settling in.”

Since that moment, Clark had been hopeless.

He’d fantasized about you in every way two people could be together—not in some grand, sweeping, cinematic way, but in the small, ordinary moments that actually mattered. You and him at the beach, laughing when the wind caught your hat. You and him sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in a dark movie theater, sharing popcorn. You and him at the grocery store, debating which brand of cereal to buy.

The kind of life he’d always wanted.

And he hated it—hated that he was letting his mind wander there, because he knew he could never do anything about it. You were… you. Effortlessly dazzling, magnetic, the kind of person everyone noticed when you walked into a room.

And he was… himself. A man who still sometimes tripped over his own feet, who could lift a car without breaking a sweat but couldn’t hold your gaze for more than five seconds without turning red.

So he’d set rules for himself. Boundaries. Okay, Clark, he’d tell himself, this is it. Today you end this stupid nonsense and stop thinking about her.

And then you’d walk into the newsroom—smiling that smile, wearing something that would make even the most hardened criminals turn their heads—and it was over. Whatever resolve he’d built that morning would crumble faster than a paper cup in the rain.

Today was one of those days.

You breezed in with a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other, hair just slightly wind-tousled from the walk. Your grin hit him square in the chest like a freight train made of sunshine.

Clark sank a little deeper into his chair. You’re pathetic, Kent.

Which brought him here—to the decision he’d made over lunch, staring at the steam rising from his soup: it was time to “break up” with you, but for real this time.

Not that there was a relationship to end. But he had to put a stop to whatever was happening in his head. It was getting dangerous. Distracting. He’d almost called Perry “sir” earlier, which was asking for trouble.

He looked across the bullpen to where you stood talking to Jimmy, your hand gesturing animatedly, your laughter ringing over the low hum of office noise.

Clark swallowed hard. Alright. Rip the bandage off. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say. If anyone heard his thoughts, they would probably send him to an insane asylum.

Just as he was mustering the courage to get up, a voice drawled from behind him. “You’re doing the staring thing again, Smallville.”

He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Lois.

“I’m not staring,” he said automatically.

“You’ve been locked on her like a heat-seeking missile for at least three minutes,” Lois said, dropping a stack of files on his desk with a thud. “You trying to kill her with your eyes or just send her telepathic love letters?”

Clark sighed. “I’m… ending it today.”

Lois blinked. “Ending what? Your subscription to awkwardness?”

“My… thing for her.”

Lois gave a short laugh. “Thing? Clark, you’ve spoken to her, what, twice about anything that wasn’t work? You can’t break up with someone you’ve never actually dated.”

Clark straightened his glasses. “It’s still ending.”

Lois shook her head. “And how exactly do you plan to accomplish that?”

Clark hesitated. “…By keeping things strictly professional. No more… daydreaming.”

Lois smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure. And I’m giving up coffee starting tomorrow.”

Before Clark could reply, you looked up from Jimmy’s desk and caught his eye. You waved.

Clark froze, heart thumping. And just like that, his whole “breakup” plan was already falling apart.

You crossed the bullpen toward him, weaving between desks with that easy, confident stride like you’d been born for newsrooms. Your heels clicked in an unhurried rhythm, the kind that somehow made every head turn—not because you were loud, but because you carried yourself like you belonged everywhere you went.

Clark caught sight of you the second you stepped away from Jimmy’s desk, and his pulse kicked up like a faulty engine.

Okay. Don’t panic. Keep it cool. You are a fortress. You are unshakable. You are…

“Hey, Kent,” you said when you reached his desk, leaning one hip lightly against it. The edge of his notepad pressed into your thigh, and Clark had to remind himself to breathe. “I’ve got a question about that city hall piece you were working on.”

He opened his mouth to respond—only for his brain to promptly drop the baton and wander off for coffee.

You were close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in your irises, the faint smudge of ink on the side of your hand, the subtle sway of your earring catching the light.

“…Uh… what?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow, but your lips curved into a laugh. “Wow. Either that article’s way more complicated than I thought, or you’ve gone temporarily deaf.”

Before Clark could sputter a defense, Lois’s voice drifted over from her desk without even looking up from her monitor. “I’m betting on deaf.”

Clark could practically hear the smirk in her voice.

Clearing his throat, he forced his eyes back down to the scrawl of his notes, as if the half-legible sentences there might anchor him. “Right. Uh—city hall. What was your question?”

You tapped your pen against his desk—a steady, almost teasing rhythm—as you repeated it. Your voice was calm, measured, but your tone carried that spark of interest you always had when you were chasing a lead.

Clark tried to listen. He really did. But then the faint scent of your shampoo reached him—something clean and light, with just a hint of citrus—and his focus went up in smoke. The soft, thoughtful crinkle at the corner of your eyes when you smiled wasn’t helping either.

Focus, Kent. Professional. This is work. WORK.

He managed to put together an answer that was, at the very least, not embarrassing enough to ruin his career. You glanced at the notes, nodded once, and gave him that grin again—quick, bright, the kind of smile that could undo every wall he tried to build—before pushing away from his desk and heading back across the bullpen.

The moment you were out of earshot, Clark sagged back in his chair like a man who’d just survived a major battle. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Lois rolled her chair halfway into his space, propping her chin in her hand, the picture of judgmental amusement.

“That,” she said slowly, “was painful to watch.”

Clark’s lips twitched. “It’s harder than it looks.”

Lois tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Buddy, it looks impossible.”

Clark straightened his glasses and muttered, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Lois smirked. “Oh, I have confidence—in her. You? Not so much.” She gave his shoulder a light pat before swiveling back to her own desk.

Clark watched you from across the room, laughing at something Cat had said, and thought, Yeah… she’s probably right.

Clark had a brilliant new plan. The new plan was foolproof. Step one: avoid you completely. Step two: keep conversations under thirty seconds. Step three: don’t make eye contact for longer than it takes to blink. Perfect. Simple. The three pillars of not-being-an-emotional-disaster.

It lasted exactly fourteen minutes.

Because that’s when you appeared beside his desk holding a box of doughnuts.

“Want one?” you asked, holding it out like a peace offering from some benevolent pastry deity.

Clark’s brain helpfully informed him that you looked very cute holding pastries. He ignored it. “No, thank you,” he said, going for “cool and detached” and landing somewhere closer to “nervous hotel concierge.”

You peered at him, mock-suspicious. “What, you don’t like doughnuts?”

“I do. I just—uh—don’t want one.” Smooth. Perfect. Pulitzer-worthy dialogue.

Your eyes narrowed in playful challenge. “Are you sure? Because this one has your name written all over it.” You pointed to a perfectly iced chocolate-glazed ring in the corner of the box. “Look, it’s even big enough for Smallville-sized hands.”

Clark smiled tightly, gripping the edge of his desk like it might anchor him. “I’m… good, really.”

You tilted your head. “Okay… but now I’m suspicious. Did Lois put you on some weird health kick?”

Across the bullpen, Lois—without even glancing up from her monitor—called, “Don’t drag me into your little rom-com, babygirl.”

Clark nearly choked. “It’s not—!” He stopped himself, cheeks heating, and mumbled, “Thanks for the offer, though.”

You gave him a little shrug, as if to say your loss, and strolled off toward Jimmy’s desk, the box balanced easily on your hip.

Clark exhaled. Step one, technically, still intact. He hadn’t eaten a doughnut. He hadn’t made prolonged eye contact. Progress.

Then Jimmy laughed at something you said, and Clark found himself watching again—your smile, the easy way you leaned on Jimmy’s desk, the way your necklace caught the light— Nope. Nope nope nope. Fortress, Kent. You are a fortress.

By lunchtime, the plan was in tatters. Not just “slightly frayed at the edges,” but utterly, irreparably shredded like an overstuffed paper in the Planet’s ancient shredder that Perry kept meaning to replace.

It began innocently enough.

You had stopped by his desk, leaning your forearm casually on the edge like it was your personal territory. “Hey, Kent—Jimmy and I are heading to that little sandwich shop on 8th. Want to come?”

Clark had smiled—polite, reserved, the kind of smile meant to create distance, not bridges. “No, thanks. I brought my own.”

“Suit yourself,” you’d said with a shrug, though your tone carried a hint of mock tragedy. “You’re missing out. Best turkey club in the city. Life-changing.”

“Life-changing turkey,” he’d repeated, amused despite himself.

“You laugh,” you said, already backing away, “but when you see Jimmy and me floating three inches off the ground after lunch, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Clark chuckled quietly after you left, telling himself that was fine—friendly conversation, nothing more. The plan still held.

Then came strike two.

About half an hour later, you reappeared, holding a printout. “Hey, could you look over these two paragraphs? Just for clarity. I swear, my brain keeps rearranging words like it’s playing Scrabble against me.”

Clark’s first instinct was to say no—to keep that boundary—but the words that came out were, “Sure, happy to.”

You slid the paper across his desk, and for the next few minutes he was hyper-aware of you leaning just slightly over his shoulder, scanning the screen as he worked. He focused on the sentences, marking small tweaks with his pen, all while pretending the faint warmth of your presence wasn’t utterly dismantling his focus.

“Perfect,” you said once he handed it back, giving him a little smile that made something in his chest loosen. “Thanks, Kent. You’re a lifesaver.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, watching you walk away and realizing with mild despair that the plan was already cracking.

The final blow came just before clocking out.

Somehow—he couldn’t quite remember how—it ended with the two of you walking back from the copier together. He was holding a thin stack of printouts; you had a manila folder tucked under your arm. And you were telling him a story.

“So there I am,” you said, gesturing with one hand for emphasis, “sitting on this bench at the boardwalk, right? Sun’s perfect, breeze is perfect, I’ve got this giant sandwich that I’d been looking forward to all morning.”

Clark smiled faintly, glancing sideways at you. “Sounds nice so far.”

“Oh, it was. And then—” You broke off, eyes widening in mock horror. “This seagull—no warning, no respect for personal boundaries—swoops in, grabs my sandwich right out of my hands, and takes off.”

Clark laughed, picturing it instantly. “Did you chase it?”

“Obviously,” you said, as if that was the only logical response. “But those little criminals can fly, Kent. They don’t care about your hopes and dreams.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Sounds like you lost pretty badly.”

You sighed dramatically. “Crushed. And do you know the worst part?”

“What?”

“There was a second one watching the whole time. Like it brought a friend just to humiliate me.”

That made him laugh harder, the sound warm and genuine. He told himself it was just politeness—laughing at a good story. Not flirting. Definitely not enjoying the way your voice had a lilting rise when you reached the funny parts.

You grinned up at him as you reached your desks. “I love talking to you, Kent.”

And there it was—the coup de grâce. Five little words that went straight through his “breakup” armor like it was made of tissue paper.

He sat down heavily, watching you return to your own chair, and thought grimly: I’m doomed.

Clark was back at square one. Maybe even square negative-one.

His desk was a battlefield of half-finished notes, coffee rings, and two articles that really should have been wrapped hours ago.

Lois appeared at his elbow like she’d been summoned by the smell of his failure. She propped herself against the corner of his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp with the kind of amusement only a seasoned observer of other people’s disasters could muster.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out. “How’d Operation Emotional Distance go?”

Clark stared at the half-empty coffee cup sitting just to the right of his notepad—the one you’d left there when you’d rushed off to a meeting earlier, promising you’d “grab it in a minute.” The coffee was cold now. He hadn’t moved it.

“…I think I made it worse,” he admitted, voice quiet like he was confessing to a crime.

Lois’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “Shocker.”

Clark leaned back in his chair with a sigh, tilting his head toward the ceiling for a moment before letting his gaze drop to the desk. “It’s like… every time I try to pull away, she just… smiles.”

“And then it’s over?” Lois guessed, her smirk widening.

He nodded. “Completely over. All the boundaries, all the mental pep talks… gone. Just—poof.” He mimed something vanishing in the air, looking faintly exasperated with himself.

Lois reached over and patted his shoulder in exaggerated sympathy. “You’re doomed, Smallville.”

Clark gave a small huff of laughter, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flicked back toward your desk. You were shrugging into your coat, chatting with Jimmy, your laughter floating lightly over the noise of the room.

As you headed for the door, you spotted him and gave a little wave—bright, warm, utterly effortless.

Clark’s lips curved before he could stop them.

Lois shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “hopeless,” before wandering back to her own desk.

Clark sat there for a beat longer, watching you disappear into the hallway, and thought maybe Lois was right. And maybe, just maybe… he didn’t really want to be saved.

The brilliant plan—what little remained of it anyway—wasn’t even 24 hours old when Clark walked straight into its demise.

It was supposed to be a quick errand. Grab milk, maybe some bread, be back in ten minutes. He didn’t even bother changing out of his work clothes, just loosened his tie and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stepped into the softly humming fluorescent glow of the Metropolis FreshMart.

And then he saw you.

Halfway down the cereal aisle, leaning on your cart, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, black biker shorts showing just enough leg to short-circuit his brain. Your hair was up in a messy bun, not the artfully styled kind you wore at the office, but the real kind—stray wisps escaping, just barely tamed with a scrunchie. No makeup, but somehow you looked brighter, softer, even more magnetic than you had all day.

Clark stopped dead. Unfair. The word bloomed in his head with the clarity of a headline. Unfortunately, it also slipped out of his mouth.

“…so unfair.”

You looked up, instantly catching him. “What’s unfair?”

Clark froze mid-step, caught like a deer in headlights, clutching the handle of his basket like it was a lifeline. “Uh—prices. You know. On cereal. Inflation. Wild stuff.”

One eyebrow arched in pure disbelief. “Mm-hm. That sounded totally cereal-related.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “I just meant—uh—you look…” His brain scrambled for safe words—different, casual, off-duty—but none of them seemed right. “…different,” he finally said, weakly.

You took a slow step toward him, cart wheels squeaking on the tile. “Different good or different bad?”

“Good,” he said instantly. Too instantly. “Definitely good. Very good. Like… ridiculously—” He stopped, realizing he was walking straight into the quicksand.

Your smile turned sly. “You know what’s unfair?”

Clark swallowed. “…What?”

“These slutty little glasses you’re wearing.”

His jaw actually dropped. “My—what?”

You gestured toward his face, perfectly straight-faced but with a dangerous glint in your eye. “Thin frames, slightly askew tie, sleeves rolled up like you’re about to either write the world’s most heartfelt op-ed or fix someone’s leaky faucet for free. It’s… a lot, Kent.”

“They’re just glasses,” he said weakly.

“Mhm.” You plucked a box of granola bars off the shelf and tossed it in your cart. “Sure they are. Anyway, keep wearing them. It’s working for you.”

You pushed past him with a grin, your cart squeaking away toward the produce section, leaving Clark standing there with his milk, his bread, and the distinct feeling that he’d just been politely demolished in the cereal aisle.

He’d taken the scenic route to avoid crossing paths with you again, weaving through cleaning supplies and pet food like a man dodging laser tripwires. But fate—or maybe just the cruel geometry of grocery store aisles—wasn’t on his side.

Halfway through unloading his basket onto the conveyor belt, he heard your voice behind him.

“Well, well. Smallville in the wild.”

He turned, and there you were—cart half-full, a bag of spinach perched precariously on top, looking like you’d just stepped out of an athleisure catalog without trying.

Clark managed a polite smile. “Hey.”

You started unloading your own items, glancing at his modest pile—milk, bread, coffee, eggs. “This is very… wholesome. Not a single frozen pizza or questionable snack food. I’m impressed.”

“I, uh… cook a lot,” he said, fumbling his wallet out of his pocket.

“Makes sense,” you said with a little nod. “Farm boy hands, farm boy meals.”

Clark swiped his card, trying to focus on the screen instead of how close you were standing. Unfortunately, you didn’t seem inclined to let him off the hook.

“You know,” you added casually, “the glasses are even more dangerous under these fluorescent lights.”

He blinked. “Dangerous?”

You tilted your head. “Yeah. The light catches them just enough to make you look… I don’t know. Like you’re about to change someone’s life with a single headline.”

Clark coughed into his hand. “They just help me see.”

“Mm-hm,” you said again, in the exact tone of someone humoring a very bad liar.

The cashier handed Clark his bag, and he muttered a “thanks” before turning toward the exit, hoping to make a clean getaway.

Except you fell into step beside him, pushing your cart toward the parking lot. “See you tomorrow, Kent,” you said with a little wink, peeling off toward your car.

Clark stood frozen for what felt like an eternity but was probably no more than three seconds, the grocery bag in his hand suddenly heavy and awkward. His heart hammered like a frantic drumbeat, but then his brain fired up with sudden clarity—You know what? Screw the plan.

He jogged a few steps, sneakers squeaking faintly on the asphalt as he caught up to you. “Hey—uh—wait!” His voice came out rougher than he’d hoped, cracking just a little.

You paused beside your car, keys jingling in your hand, and tilted your head with a curious smile—equal parts amused and expectant. “What’s up?”

Clark swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of his clammy palms gripping the crinkling paper grocery bag. His words stumbled out, “I, uh… I was wondering if maybe you’d—if you’re free sometime—like, I could maybe take you to dinner. Or lunch. Or, uh… anywhere, really.”

Your smile deepened into something that was both teasing and genuinely warm, the kind that made the world narrow down to just the two of you. “You’re not sticking with your plan, huh?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “...My plan?”

“Yeah,” you said smoothly, leaning a hip against the gleaming side of your car, one boot tapping lightly on the asphalt. “Operation Emotional Distance? Avoid me at all costs? Keep it strictly professional?”

Clark’s stomach twisted into a knot. “How—how do you know about that?”

You grinned, the sparkle in your eyes wicked and knowing. “Lois told me. She’s my best friend, y’know.”

His ears burned hot, cheeks flushing bright red. “Oh. Right. Of course she did.”

You tilted your head again, eyes soft but teasing as if weighing a delicious secret. “So… you’ve been trying not to like me?”

Clark ran a hand nervously through his hair, every inch of him radiating shy, awkward farm-boy charm. “Trying. Failing spectacularly.”

That earned a soft, almost musical laugh from you. You stepped closer, the scent of your shampoo—fresh and lightly citrusy—filling the space between you like an intoxicating invitation. “You’re ridiculous, Kent.”

“Is that… bad?” His voice was tentative, hopeful all at once.

“No,” you said, shaking your head with a smile that made his pulse spike. “It’s cute. You’re cute.”

Before his brain could sprint away to safety, you closed the distance between you slowly—intentionally. Your hand found his wrist, warm and steady, and your eyes held his with quiet certainty.

Then your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, gentle like the brush of a feather, but then it deepened—warm and hungry, slow and sure. Your fingers tightened slightly on his wrist, pulling him closer until the space between you was nothing but heat and breath.

Clark’s hands lifted tentatively, one brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the other settling on the small of your back. The grocery bag crinkled forgotten, falling to the pavement as the world narrowed to the feel of your lips, the scent of your hair, and the spark of something electric passing between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes shone with amusement and something softer, more tender. “Dinner sounds great,” you breathed, your smile lingering like a secret.

Clark felt like he’d just won the front page and a slice of Ma Kent’s homemade pie all at once. “Okay. Dinner,” he said, his voice steady despite the rapid beating of his heart.