Chocking on a mouth full of sugar
The Gravity of a Sunlit Desk
The Monday morning after the Press Club mixer felt different. Usually, the air in the Daily Planet was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and the frantic, metallic tang of deadlines. But as Clark Kent stepped off the elevator, the world seemed to have shifted its axis by just a few degrees. The fluorescent lights didn't hum as loudly, and the floor didn't feel quite so solid beneath his feet.
He was carrying two cups of coffee—one black and bitter for himself, and one with exactly two sugars and a splash of oat milk for Cariño. He had spent twenty minutes at the cafe down the street debating the ethics of "accidentally" knowing their exact coffee order, but then he remembered he’d seen them order it once three months ago and his brain had cataloged it under *Vital Information for Survival.*
He approached their cubicle, his heart already beginning its rhythmic drumming against his ribs. It was a traitorous organ, really. It could withstand the pressure of the ocean floor, but the sight of a forest-green sweater made it want to retire on the spot.
Cariño was already there. They were hunched over their desk, but they weren't doing the filing. They were staring at the window—the one Clark had suggested they sit near. The morning sun caught the side of their face, illuminating the fine, soft hairs at their temple and the concentrated line of their brow. They were holding the black fountain pen Clark had given them, twirling it between their fingers with a grace that made Clark’s throat go dry.
"Good morning," Clark said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for 'casual coworker' but landing somewhere near 'breathless Victorian heroine.' "I, uh, I got you this. From the place on 5th. They were having a... sale. On liquids."
Cariño looked up, and the sheer radiance of their smile nearly knocked Clark backward. "A sale on liquids? That sounds like a very Clark Kent way of saying you bought me coffee."
They reached out, taking the cup. As their fingers brushed against his, Clark felt a literal spark. He knew it wasn't static electricity; he knew it was just the sheer, overwhelming reality of being near them.
"Thank you," Cariño whispered, their eyes meeting his. The social anxiety was still there—he could see the way they tucked their chin and the slight tremor in their hand—but there was something else now. A tether. A shared secret that lived in the space between the diner booth and the newsroom floor.
"How’s the... the light?" Clark asked, gesturing vaguely at the window. "Is it okay for drawing? I can move some of these filing cabinets if it’s blocking the sun."
Cariño laughed, a soft, bubbly sound that made the hair on Clark’s arms stand up. "Clark, you’d move the entire building six inches to the left if I asked you to, wouldn't you?"
"Only if the zoning permits allowed it," Clark joked, though they both knew he was lying. He’d move the planet into a different orbit if it meant Cariño got the perfect reference photo.
"It’s perfect," Cariño said, looking back at the window. "I’ve been watching the way the shadows hit the gargoyles on the building across the street. I never noticed how much detail there is when you actually stop to look."
"You find beauty in everything," Clark said. He didn't mean for it to sound so heavy, so honest, but it slipped out anyway. "I’ve noticed that about you. You give everything space to be what it is. Even the boring stuff."
Cariño’s face turned a dusty, beautiful rose. They looked back down at their desk, suddenly very interested in a stack of expense reports. "I just... I think people overlook things. They’re always in such a rush to get to the next big headline. They miss the way the ink looks when it’s still wet, or the way the air smells right before it rains."
"I don't miss it," Clark said softly. "Not anymore."
The moment was broken by the sound of a stapler hitting a desk with the force of a hammer. Lois Lane was standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, watching them with an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement.
"If you two get any more domestic, I’m going to start charging you for the dental work I’ll need from all this sweetness," Lois said, her eyes twinkling. "Kent, Perry wants the follow-up on the LexCorp pylon. Anderson, I need those travel vouchers from the Gotham trip yesterday."
Cariño jumped, nearly knocking their coffee over. "Right! Yes. Vouchers. I have them right here. I just need to... to staple them."
"Take your time, Cariño," Lois said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. She shot Clark a look that said *I am going to tease you about this for the rest of your life* before strolling back to her desk.
Clark lingered for a second longer. "I’ll let you get to your... stapling."
"See you at lunch?" Cariño asked, looking up hopefully.
"Wouldn't miss it," Clark promised.
He spent the next four hours in a daze. He wrote three paragraphs about the LexCorp incident, but he had to delete them because he realized he’d accidentally described the robot’s armor as 'the color of Cariño’s favorite charcoal.' He was a mess. He was a blabbering, lovesick idiot who also happened to be the most powerful being on the planet, and he had never felt more vulnerable.
Being near Cariño was like being forced to eat a spoonful of sugar while trying to run a marathon. It was good—it was the best thing he’d ever felt—but it made his heart feel like it was going to collapse under the weight of its own warmth. They were his true north. Not the cape, not the fortress, not the sky. Just a shy artist who thought their work was mediocre while they single-handedly kept the Daily Planet from spinning off its axis.
When lunch finally rolled around, Clark found Cariño waiting by the elevators. They looked nervous, their hands shoved deep into their pockets, shuffling their feet.
"I thought maybe we could go to the park?" Cariño suggested as the elevator doors closed, sealing them in the small, metallic box. "The weather is... it’s actually nice today. Not 'Metropolis nice,' but actually nice."
"I’d love that," Clark said.
The elevator settled into a quiet hum. Clark could hear the gears, the cables, the distant chatter of the lobby—but mostly, he heard Cariño. He heard the way their breathing hitched when the elevator jolted. He heard the soft rustle of their sweater.
"Clark?"
"Yes?"
Cariño looked up at him, their eyes wide and vulnerable. "About the mixer. And the diner. I... I really liked it. I mean, I know I’m not very good at the talking part, and I probably made it awkward, but I haven't felt that... safe in a long time."
Clark felt his heart swell until it actually hurt. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently took Cariño’s hand in his. Their skin was cool, but their pulse was racing.
"You didn't make it awkward," Clark said, his voice dropping to that low, steady register he only used when he was being absolutely, terrifyingly honest. "You’re the easiest person in the world to talk to, Cariño. Because you actually listen. You see me. Not the reporter, not the guy who trips over his own feet... just me."
Cariño squeezed his hand. "I see you, Clark. I’ve always seen you."
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into the bustling lobby, still holding hands. Clark didn't care who saw. He didn't care if Perry White walked through the revolving doors right that second. He felt like he was flying, and for once, he didn't need to leave the ground to do it.
They walked to Centennial Park, finding a quiet spot under a sprawling oak tree that was just beginning to turn gold at the edges. Cariño sat on the grass, immediately pulling out their sketchbook and the fountain pen. Clark sat beside them, leaning his back against the rough bark, watching them work.
"Can I ask you something?" Clark asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence.
"Anything," Cariño said, their pen flying across the page.
"Why do you think your work is mediocre?" Clark gestured to the sketchbook. "I’ve seen what you do. You capture things that people spend their whole lives trying to ignore. You see the soul of the city."
Cariño paused, the nib of the pen hovering just above the paper. They looked out at the pond, where a group of ducks was noisily debating over a crust of bread.
"Because it’s never as good as the real thing," they said quietly. "I look at a tree, and I see the way the light filters through the leaves, and I see the strength in the trunk, and I see the history of every storm it’s ever survived. And then I look at my paper, and it’s just... ink. It feels like I’m trying to catch a hurricane in a glass jar. It’s never enough."
Clark reached over, gently tilting the sketchbook so he could see what they were drawing. It wasn't the tree. It wasn't the pond.
It was him.
But it wasn't the 'Clark Kent' the world saw. It wasn't the slouching, bumbling reporter with the crooked tie. It was a drawing of a man who looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but chose to smile anyway. It was a drawing of someone who was powerful, yes, but mostly, it was a drawing of someone who was kind.
"Cariño," Clark breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "This is... this is me."
"It’s how I see you," Cariño said, their voice trembling. "I know you think you’re just a dork from Kansas who can't handle a stapler, Clark. But you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I don't mean 'pretty.' I mean... you’re like the sun. You just give, and you give, and you don't ask for anything back. I’m just trying to catch a little bit of that light before it moves on."
Clark felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest and take flight. He felt the familiar heat of tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He had been called a god, a hero, a savior, and a menace. But no one had ever called him 'beautiful' for just being Clark.
"I’m not moving on," Clark said, leaning in until their foreheads were almost touching. "I’m staying right here. As long as you’ll have me."
Cariño let out a shaky breath, their eyes fluttering shut. "I’m terrified, Clark. I’m socially anxious, and I’m a mess, and I hate paperwork, and I probably spend too much time in my own head."
"And I’m a bumbling idiot who can't go five minutes without breaking something," Clark countered, a small smile playing on his lips. "We’re a disaster, Cariño. A complete and total disaster."
"The best kind," Cariño whispered.
They sat there for a long time, the sun warming their skin, the sounds of the city fading into a distant hum. Clark watched Cariño draw, and Cariño watched the light, and for the first time in his life, the Man of Steel felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
He didn't need to save the world today. He just needed to sit under a tree with a beautiful artist and be the man they saw in their sketches.
As they walked back to the office, their fingers intertwined, Clark realized that he didn't need anyone to help him. He was collapsing, yes, but it was the best kind of fall. It was the kind of fall that ended with your feet firmly on the ground and your heart finally, blissfully, at peace.
"Clark?" Cariño said as they reached the revolving doors of the Daily Planet.
"Yeah?"
"I think I’m going to finish those expense reports now. And I might even use the fancy pen."
Clark laughed, leaning down to press a quick, shy kiss to their temple. "That’s my hero."
Cariño beamed, their face lighting up with a brilliance that rivaled any sun Clark had ever flown past. They stepped into the building, their head held just a little bit higher, their stride just a little bit surer.
Clark followed them, adjusting his glasses and tripping slightly over the threshold. He caught himself, straightened his tie, and smiled. He was a love-struck fool, and he had never been happier.
The newsroom was still a cacophony of noise, but as Clark sat down at his desk and heard the soft, rhythmic scratching of a fountain pen three cubicles away, he knew that the most important story in Metropolis wasn't on the front page. It was right there, in the quiet support of a sunlit desk and the heart of a man who had finally found home.