It had started with little things.

Your mug never disappeared from the communal dish rack, even when everything else mysteriously vanished into coworkers’ desk drawers. There was always a spare pen when yours ran out. Commonly, more than you'd admit, there was a folded Post-it note with your name scribbled across it stuck to your printed pages when you forgot them on the copier tray.

Which made it all the worse how Clark Kent was so kind.

Clark Kent with his too-long sleeves and too-big heart.

Clark Kent who blushed when you complimented his writing.

Clark Kent, who offered to walk you home even when it meant doubling back half the city.

You noticed. Felt super bad about it. But—

You didn’t mix work with play.

That was your line, your rule, your boundary. You'd never let yourself indulge in what-ifs. Easy to follow when most of your coworkers weren’t Clark Kent.

You smiled. You said thank you at his gestures. And you never, ever let it go further.

So when you casually mentioned to Lois—half-distracted by your screen—that you might stop by the office party at the rooftop bar, you didn’t even register him nearby. You had no idea he’d been listening. You had even less of an idea he’d remember. Especially after he’d said, for days, that he wasn’t going. That office parties weren’t really his scene. That he had plans that night. That “maybe next year”.

So when you pushed through the rooftop crowd that night, drink in hand, breath fogging in the crisp Metropolis air—and saw him?

You stopped mid-step.

In a soft navy sweater and those dumb corduroy slacks that fit just right. Glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks pink, a glass of ginger ale in hand— Clark Kent the Kind.

He caught your gaze and blinked, like he hadn’t expected this either. Then smiled, a little sheepish.

“…Didn’t think you’d come,” He shyly and hesitantly approached, scratching the side of his cheek.