Chocking on a mouth full of sugar
The Architecture of Wallflowers
The Press Club mixer was held in a venue that was far too small for the amount of ego packed into it. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, cheap gin, and the frantic, electric energy of journalists trying to out-scoop one another. Crystal chandeliers rattled every time a heavy-set editor laughed, and the floorboards groaned under the weight of several hundred people who all believed they were the most important person in Metropolis.
Clark Kent stood near the buffet table, looking like a man who had been told to hold a live grenade and was trying very hard not to drop it. He had spent twenty minutes meticulously adjusting his tie in the restroom mirror, only for it to somehow end up crooked the moment he stepped into the ballroom. His suit, while clean and pressed, felt three sizes too small because his chest was currently expanded by a heart that refused to stop pounding.
He scanned the room, his enhanced vision filtering through the sea of faces, looking for the only one that mattered. He saw Perry White holding court near the bar, and Lois Lane already deep in conversation with a city councilman, her eyes sharp and predatory. But no Cariño.
*Maybe they didn't come,* Clark thought, a mixture of disappointment and relief washing over him. Relief, because if they weren't here, he wouldn't have to worry about his brain turning into a bowl of oatmeal. Disappointment, because the room suddenly felt very gray.
Then, he saw them.
Cariño was tucked into a shadow behind a large, decorative fern near the emergency exit. They were wearing a soft, forest-green sweater that looked incredibly soft and a pair of dark slacks. They looked like they wanted to vibrate out of their skin. They were holding a glass of sparkling cider like it was a lifeline, their knuckles white, eyes darting around the room as if looking for the nearest exit strategy.
Clark felt that familiar, devastating tug in his gut. To anyone else, they were just a shy office assistant hiding from the crowd. To Clark, they were a masterpiece of quiet resilience. He could hear their heart—pitter-patter, pitter-patter—fast and fluttering, a perfect match for his own.
He took a deep breath, straightened his glasses, and began the perilous journey across the crowded floor. He bumped into a waiter, apologized to a coat rack, and narrowly avoided stepping on the hem of a society columnist’s dress.
Finally, he reached the fern.
"Is there room for one more in the wallpaper department?" he asked softly.
Cariño jumped, nearly sloshing their drink over the rim of the glass. When they saw it was Clark, their entire body seemed to deflate with a massive sigh of relief. The tension in their shoulders dropped, and a small, shy smile—the one that always made Clark feel like he was flying through a nebula—cracked across their face.
"Clark," they breathed, their voice a tiny anchor in the storm of the party. "You actually came. I thought... I thought you’d be busy talking to the mayor or something."
"The mayor is currently debating the merits of deep-dish pizza with the head of the legal department," Clark said, stepping into the small, shadowed alcove beside them. "I think I’m much safer here. How are you holding up?"
Cariño looked down at their drink, their face flushing a lovely shade of pink. "I’ve been here for twenty minutes and I’ve already apologized to a statue for bumping into it. I think I’m peaking, Clark. It’s all downhill from here."
Clark let out a genuine, booming laugh, then immediately muffled it with his hand, looking around sheepishly. "I once apologized to a revolving door because I thought it was stuck. We can be the 'Apologetic Duo.' We’ll fight crime by saying 'sorry' until the villains get uncomfortable and leave."
Cariño giggled, a sound so sweet it made Clark’s teeth ache. "That sounds like a very polite way to save the city."
They stood in silence for a moment, the roar of the party muffled by the heavy velvet curtains behind them. The distance between them was barely six inches, and Clark could feel the heat radiating from Cariño’s body. It was a warm, earthy scent—like rain on cedar and a hint of the charcoal they used for their sketches. It was more intoxicating than any of the champagne being served.
"I saw your sketch," Clark blurted out.
The silence shattered. Cariño froze, their eyes widening to the size of saucers. They looked like they were considering the merits of the emergency exit again. "You... you did?"
"I didn't mean to pry!" Clark said, his hands flying up in a frantic gesture of innocence. "It was just... the wind caught the page? Or, well, I have very good eyesight. Not that I was looking! I mean, I was looking, but not in a creepy way. In a... 'wow, that's a beautiful drawing' way."
Cariño hid their face behind their glass, their ears turning bright red. "It was just a doodle. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have... I know you’re my coworker and it’s weird to draw people you work with."
"It’s not weird," Clark said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming steady and warm. He reached out, his large hand hovering near their arm before he pulled it back, afraid of overstepping. "It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, Cariño. Truly. You made me look... happy. I liked that."
Cariño peeked out from behind their cider, their gaze searching his. "You always look happy, Clark. Even when you’re tripping over things or getting yelled at by Mr. White. There’s this... light in you. I just wanted to see if I could catch it on paper. I didn't, really. Paper is too flat for someone like you."
Clark felt his heart do a slow, agonizing roll in his chest. *Someone please help me,* he thought. *I am a grown man who can move planets, and I am about to melt into a puddle because of a compliment about my 'light.'*
"I think you caught it perfectly," Clark managed to say, though his throat felt like it was full of cotton. "I actually... I have something for you, too."
Cariño blinked. "For me?"
Clark reached into his suit jacket pocket. He had spent three hours the previous night at a 24-hour art supply store in midtown, staring at pens like they were alien technology. He pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped box. It was heavy for its size.
"I know you hate the office pens," Clark said, handing it to them. "The ones that leak and make your hands all blue. And I know you’d rather be outside drawing the trees in Centennial Park than filling out spreadsheets. So... I got you this."
Cariño took the box with trembling fingers. They unwrapped it slowly, revealing a professional-grade, weighted fountain pen with a nib designed for sketching. It was a deep, matte black, simple and sturdy.
"Clark..." Cariño whispered, running a thumb over the smooth surface of the pen. "This is... this is too much. These are expensive."
"It’s a 'thank you' pen," Clark insisted, his face heating up. "For holding the office together. And for... for being the person I look forward to seeing every morning. Which is a very normal, coworker thing to say. Obviously."
Cariño looked up at him, and for the first time, the social anxiety seemed to take a backseat to something much more powerful. Their eyes were shining, and they stepped a little closer, moving out of the safety of the fern’s shadow.
"You look forward to seeing me?" they asked, their voice barely a breath.
"Every day," Clark admitted, the truth tumbling out before he could stop it. "I get to my desk and I listen for... well, I just wait for you to arrive. The whole building feels different when you’re there. It feels... better."
Cariño’s breath hitched. They reached out, their fingers grazing the sleeve of Clark’s suit. The contact felt like a lightning strike. Clark’s super-senses went into overdrive—he could hear the individual threads of their sweater rubbing together, could see the tiny gold flecks in their irises, could feel the way the air pressure changed as they leaned in.
"I feel the same way," Cariño said. "I stay late not because I like the paperwork, but because I know you’re usually still there finishing your articles. It’s the only time it’s quiet enough to feel like... like maybe I could actually talk to you without the whole world watching."
"We’re talking now," Clark pointed out, his voice thick with emotion.
"We are," Cariño agreed.
The party continued to rage around them. A glass shattered somewhere near the bar; Perry White roared about a headline; the music shifted into a slow, brassy jazz number. But in their little corner, the world had narrowed down to just the two of them.
Clark felt a surge of courage—the kind he usually reserved for flying into the heart of a sun. He shifted his weight, his hand finally finding theirs. He didn't grab it; he just rested his palm against the back of their hand, an invitation.
Cariño didn't pull away. Instead, they turned their hand over, slotting their fingers between his. Their hand was smaller than his, but their grip was firm and sure.
"Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"If I asked you to leave this party right now and go get a very greasy burger at that 24-hour diner down the street... would that be too much?"
Clark grinned, and this time, it wasn't the dorky, bumbling Clark Kent smile. It was something brighter, something more real. "I think that’s the best lead I’ve had all day. I’ll even let you draw on the placemats with your new pen."
Cariño laughed, a bright, clear sound that cut through the noise of the room. "It’s a date, then?"
The word 'date' sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through Clark, but he didn't stumble. He didn't trip. He just squeezed their hand. "It’s a date."
As they began to navigate their way toward the exit, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible, they passed Lois Lane. She was still talking to the councilman, but as Clark and Cariño walked by, hand-in-hand, she paused. She didn't say anything, but she caught Clark’s eye and gave him a sharp, knowing nod, a tiny smirk playing on her lips.
They burst out of the heavy doors of the venue and into the cool, night air of Metropolis. The city was alive with neon lights and the distant hum of traffic, but for Clark, the air had never tasted sweeter.
Cariño took a deep, gulping breath of the fresh air, looking up at the sliver of moon visible between the skyscrapers. "God, that feels better. I thought I was going to turn into a fern if I stayed in there any longer."
"You would have been a very beautiful fern," Clark teased, swinging their joined hands slightly as they walked down the sidewalk.
Cariño bumped their shoulder against his. "And you would have been the clumsy gardener who forgot to water me."
"Hey! I’m very attentive," Clark protested. "I would have bought you the best fertilizer money can buy."
"So romantic," Cariño joked, but they leaned their head against his shoulder for a brief second as they walked.
They reached the diner, a glowing neon oasis on a quiet corner. Inside, the smell of frying onions and old coffee greeted them. It was perfect. They found a booth in the far back, tucked away from the windows, where the yellow light was warm and the vinyl seats were cracked.
Cariño immediately pulled out the pen Clark had given them. They flipped over a paper placemat and began to draw, their movements fluid and confident. Clark watched them, mesmerized. He didn't need his X-ray vision to see the soul they poured into every line.
"What are you drawing?" he asked, leaning his chin on his hand.
Cariño didn't look up, but their smile was wide. "The view from the corner. The best part of the night."
Clark looked down at the paper. It wasn't a drawing of the diner, or the street outside. It was a sketch of two sets of hands, intertwined on a tabletop, surrounded by the messy, beautiful chaos of a life being shared.
In that moment, Clark Kent—the man who could hear the heartbeat of the world—realized that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. He wasn't a god, and he wasn't a disguise. He was just a man in love with an artist, sitting in a booth, waiting for a burger.
And as Cariño reached across the table to squeeze his hand again, Clark realized that his heart wasn't betraying him by beating so fast. It was just trying to keep up with the joy of finally being found.
"You know," Cariño said, looking up with a mischievous glint in their eyes, "you still have your tie on crooked."
Clark laughed, reaching up to tug at it. "I’m hopeless, aren't I?"
Cariño reached across the table, their fingers gentle as they straightened the silk fabric. "No, Clark. You’re exactly right."
The burger arrived, the coffee was terrible, and the night was cold, but as they sat there, talking about everything and nothing, Clark knew he had finally found the one thing even Superman couldn't fly to: a place where he could just be himself.