Chocking on a mouth full of sugar
The Pulse of a Paperweight
The Metropolis sun was particularly aggressive today, slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Daily Planet and catching the dust motes that danced over Cariño Anderson’s desk. To anyone else, it was just a Tuesday. To Clark Kent, it was a sensory overload that no amount of Kryptonian discipline could damp down.
He sat at his own desk, ostensibly typing a follow-up on the warehouse fire in the Suicide Slum, but his fingers were frozen over the home row. His super-hearing, usually a tool for global salvation, was currently tuned to the agonizingly sweet sound of Cariño’s breathing. It was steady, rhythmic, and occasionally interrupted by a soft, frustrated huff whenever they had to deal with a particularly stubborn staple.
Clark felt like his own heart was going to beat out of his chest. It was a traitorous muscle, thumping against his ribs with such violence that he was genuinely concerned the vibrations might be picked up by the seismograph at S.T.A.R. Labs. Every time Cariño tucked a strand of hair behind their ear or leaned back to stretch, Clark felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with his solar-powered physiology.
It was like a spoonful of sugar had been forced into his mouth—cloying, sweet, and utterly overwhelming. It warmed his heart to the point of a total system collapse, leaving him as a mute, blabbering idiot.
"Keep it together, Kent," he whispered to himself, adjusting his glasses for the tenth time in five minutes. "You’ve flown through the heart of a red giant. You can handle a coworker in a beige cardigan."
He couldn't. He really, really couldn't.
Across the room, Cariño was battling a mountain of paperwork. They hated the bureaucracy of the office, the way the fluorescent lights felt like they were bleaching the color out of the world, but they worked with a quiet, fierce dedication. Clark watched as they paused to look at a small succulent on their desk. They touched a leaf with a tenderness that made Clark’s breath hitch. That was Cariño—finding space and beauty in the mundane, giving it the quiet support it needed to grow. They were the glue of the office, the unsung hero of the bullpen, and Clark was absolutely, devastatingly gone for them.
Suddenly, the sirens began to wail.
It was the specific frequency that meant something big was happening. Clark’s internal alarm bells went off simultaneously. He saw Lois jump up, grabbing her press pass, and Perry shouting from his office about a giant mechanical spider on 5th Avenue.
"Kent! Lane! Get moving!" Perry roared.
Clark stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. He caught Cariño’s eye for a split second. They looked worried—not for themselves, but for the city. That was the thing about them; they felt everything so deeply.
"Be careful, Clark," Cariño said, their voice small but steady amidst the rising chaos of the newsroom.
"I... uh... safety! Yes. Careful is my middle name. Well, it’s Joseph, but... I’ll be back!" Clark stammered, nearly tripping over his own trash can as he bolted for the stairwell.
Minutes later, Superman was in the air.
The transition from Clark to Superman was usually a relief. It was a shift from the fumbling, oversized man who couldn't handle a stapler to the god-like figure who could move mountains. But today, even the cape felt heavy. As he dived toward the mechanical spider—a rogue LexCorp prototype, naturally—his mind kept drifting back to the quiet beauty of the person sitting at the desk three rows away.
He landed in front of the machine, the pavement cracking under his boots. He caught a car that had been tossed like a toy and set it down gently.
"Everyone, get behind the barricades!" he commanded. His voice was deep, resonant, and projected an aura of absolute authority.
In the crowd, he spotted a familiar forest-green cardigan. Cariño was there, helping an elderly woman away from the debris. They weren't fumbling now. They weren't stuttering. They were calm, efficient, and blunt.
Superman flew over, landing a few feet away from them as the police moved in.
"You need to move further back," Superman said, his tone professional and distant. He was the Man of Tomorrow; he didn't have crushes. He had duties.
Cariño looked up at him. Their face was a mask of cool, detached admiration. There was no blushing, no stuttering. "The structural integrity of the subway grate behind you is failing, Superman. If you keep standing there, you’re going to drop through the ceiling of the Blue Line. Move ten feet to your left."
Superman blinked. He felt a strange, hollow pang in his chest. "Thank you. I’ll... I’ll do that."
"Good," Cariño said, already turning back to help another civilian. "And watch the hydraulic fluid leaking from the spider’s joints. It’s highly corrosive. It’ll ruin your boots."
They spoke to him like he was a particularly large piece of city infrastructure—useful, but ultimately just a part of the landscape. They were so restrained, so curt. It was a far cry from the way they looked at Clark.
*They must think I’m too much,* Superman thought, a wave of insecurity washing over him that would have baffled the rest of the Justice League. *They don’t want to weird me out with praise, so they’re being blunt. Or maybe they just don't like me like this. Maybe they only like the version of me that spills coffee.*
The thought was devastating. He punched the mechanical spider with a bit more force than necessary, sending it skittering back toward the harbor.
By the time the threat was neutralized and the city was safe, Superman was a mess of internal contradictions. He flew to the roof of the Planet, changed back into his rumpled suit, and headed back down to the newsroom.
He found Cariño at their desk, their hands shaking as they tried to organize a stack of folders. The calm, blunt hero from the street was gone. In their place was the jittery, fumbling person Clark loved.
"Cariño?" Clark asked, leaning over the partition.
They jumped, a stack of papers flying into the air like a flock of panicked birds. "Clark! Oh god. You’re... you’re back. You’re safe. I mean, of course you are. You’re very... sturdy."
"I’m okay," Clark said, his heart starting that frantic, rhythmic pounding again. He reached down to help them pick up the papers. "I saw you out there. You were amazing. Helping that woman, giving Superman advice... you were so brave."
Cariño’s face turned a shade of red that rivaled Superman’s cape. "I was... I was just being practical. Superman is... well, he’s Superman. He’s a lot. I didn't want to be one of those people who just stares and gawks. I probably sounded like a jerk."
"You didn't sound like a jerk," Clark insisted, his voice softening. He stayed on the floor, picking up a stray sheet of paper that had drifted under the desk. "You sounded like someone who cares about the city. He probably appreciated the help."
Cariño peeked at him from behind a folder. "He’s so perfect, Clark. It’s intimidating. Being around him is like being around a sun that’s too bright to look at. But you..."
They trailed off, their eyes searching his.
"But me?" Clark prompted, his lungs feeling like they were filled with cotton candy.
"You’re like the shade," Cariño whispered. "You’re where I can breathe. I don't have to be 'on' with you. I can just be... a mess."
Clark felt like he was going to melt into the carpet. He wanted to say something profound, something that would capture the way he felt about the way they found light in the shadows, but his brain had officially exited the building.
"I... I like being shade," he blurted out. "Shade is good. For plants. And people. I’m a very high-quality umbrella."
Cariño giggled, a short, breathless sound that made Clark’s knees go weak. "You’re a dork, Clark Kent."
"The biggest," he agreed, finally standing up and handing them the papers.
He stayed there for a moment, lingering in the space between their desks. The office was loud, the phones were ringing, and Perry was still shouting, but for Clark, it was silent. He could hear the tiny, frantic beat of Cariño’s heart, a perfect echo of his own.
"Do you... do you want to go get a coffee?" Clark asked. "A real one. Not the stuff from the breakroom that tastes like melted crayons."
Cariño looked up, their eyes shining with a mixture of terror and delight. "I’d love to. But... I have to finish these vouchers. Perry will have my head if they aren't in by five."
"I’ll help you," Clark said immediately. "I’m great at vouchers. I’m a voucher virtuoso."
"You’re really not," Cariño said, a genuine smile breaking across their face. "I saw your expense report from last month. You tried to claim a 'replacement tie' as a business expense."
"It was a casualty of the job!" Clark protested, laughing.
They spent the next hour working side-by-side. Clark handled the stapling—carefully, so as not to crush the metal into atoms—while Cariño did the sorting. It was mundane, boring, and utterly perfect.
As the sun began to set, casting a long, golden glow over the newsroom, Cariño leaned over and bumped their shoulder against Clark’s. It was a tiny gesture, but to Clark, it felt like a solar flare.
"Thanks, Clark," they said. "For staying. For being... you."
Clark looked at them, taking in the quiet beauty of their profile, the strength in their hands, and the way they made the beige cubicle feel like a sanctuary. His heart was still beating too fast, and he was still a fumbling idiot, but for the first time, he didn't feel like he needed help.
He just needed them.
"Anytime, Cariño," he said, his voice finally steady. "Anytime."
He turned back to his desk, a goofy, unstoppable grin on his face. He had a world to save and a secret to keep, but as he listened to the scratch of Cariño’s pen and the steady thrum of their heart, he knew he was already home.
Someone please help this man, he thought to himself, but he knew he was beyond saving. He was a love-struck fool, and he wouldn't have it any other way.