Work Text:
The newsroom at the Daily Planet was buzzing the way it always did at 4:30 p.m.—half deadlines, half coffee. You were bent over your keyboard, typing furiously, when a looming shadow crossed your desk.
“Uh… hey,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses in that nervous way he always did.
You glanced up. “Hey, Kent. You working on the mayor piece?”
“Y-yeah. Yeah, the mayor. He’s… uh… very… mayoral.”
You blinked, amused. “That’s usually the job description.”
Clark gave you a lopsided smile, clearly flustered. He opened his mouth, closed it, then leaned against the edge of your desk—only to immediately knock over your pen holder.
“Sorry! Sorry,” he stammered, scrambling to pick up your pens. “I was, um, just wondering… do you… uh…” He trailed off, his face flushing.
You arched an eyebrow. “Do I what?”
Clark shoved the pens back into the holder, upside down and in complete chaos. “Do you like… food?”
“…Food?” you repeated, fighting back a grin.
“Yeah. You know, the stuff people eat? I mean, not all the time, because then it wouldn’t be… special. But—uh—sometimes, with another person, it’s… nice.”
You tilted your head, watching him twist himself into knots. “Clark, are you trying to ask me to dinner?”
His mouth opened, shut, then opened again like a fish out of water. “…Yes?”
You laughed, leaning back in your chair. “You’re terrible at this, you know that?”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, I’ve been told.”
“Well, lucky for you, I like food,” you teased, saving your draft and shutting your laptop. “Pick me up at seven?”
His face lit up like you’d handed him the Pulitzer. “Seven. Yes. Definitely seven. I can do seven. Seven’s—seven’s great.”
“Good,” you said with a smirk, brushing past him. “And Clark?”
He turned, wide-eyed.
“Next time, just start with ‘dinner?’”
Clark’s ears went pink. He looked away sheepishly, fiddling with his glasses as he muttered, “Got it.”
And despite the disaster of a delivery, you couldn’t help but smile.