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The newsroom was winding down for the evening.That sacred golden-hour lull had settled in. The time when breaking news slowed, gossip ramped up and reporters who lived off adrenaline gave up on chasing corruption for chasing the last dregs of the break room coffee.
Lois Lane was still at her desk, typing with just enough effort to look busy. Her eyes were only half on the screen. Maybe a third. Her brain had clocked out twenty minutes ago and was now daydreaming about dinner, cocktails, or setting the copy machine on fire.
Then the elevator dinged.
Clark Kent walked in, holding two coffees and a sleek paper bag from that absurdly fancy Gotham bakery. The bag alone looked like it had a PR team.
Upon closer inspection the bag bore the unmistakable logo of that absurdly fancy Gotham bakery—the one that charged $12 for a croissant like it was a crime thriller in pastry form.
Lois didn’t look up. “Did Gotham’s golden himbo send pastries again?”
Clark sighed with the weariness of a man who had accepted his fate and gave her a sidewards glace that that begged her please don’t make a thing out of it and set the bag down in front of her.
“He likes to make an impression" he muttered, with that little half-smile he got when he knew she was about to tease him.
“Mm-hmm.” Lois peeked inside, and her eyes narrowed. She groaned with unnecessary dramatics. “Ugh. Of course he remembered I like the blackberry ones. Why is your boyfriend better at gift-giving than my last three dates combined ?”
She leaned back in her chair, fixing him with a look that was half amusement, half mild disbelief. “I still don’t get it. You, Clark Kent—who once tripped over a recycling bin while trying to ask out a waitress—somehow bagged Bruce Wayne.”
Clark winced. “Can we not use the word ‘bagged’?”
“Oh, we’re using it,” Lois said, pointing a croissant at him like a weapon. "The man once winked at me during a press gala and I nearly choked on my wine. You know Perry told me, ‘Die with dignity, Lane’?”
“He’s not really like that,” Clark muttered into his coffee, ears turning a very specific shade of flustered pink.
Lois raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Not like what? A walking PR stunt wrapped in silk and smarm? The man flirted with Perry. He called him ‘boss man’ and finger-gunned at him. Finger-gunned, Clark."
Clark looked down at his coffee and tried very hard not to laugh. “He’s... different in private.”
Lois blinked. “You mean he takes the sunglasses off indoors?”
Clark’s expression softened, the kind of fondness that made her stop mid-sip of her drink.
“When it’s just us,” he said, quieter now, “he’s quiet... Thoughtful. Serious in a way that feels... safe. He still makes dumb jokes, but he waits until no one else is around to hear him laugh at them.”
Lois stared at him for a second too long, temporarily disarmed. “That’s almost disgustingly romantic.”
Clark smiled, sheepish. “Sorry.”
“No, I approve. It’s weirdly sweet.” She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “So you get the secret Bruce Wayne? The one who doesn’t giggle through board meetings or pretend not to know what a fiscal quarter is?”
He gave her a small nod. “I think so.”
Lois exhaled through her nose, clearly torn. “Fine. I guess that’s kind of hot. But I’m still calling him Brucie.”
Clark chuckled. “He says it’s branding.”
“Well, he’s your problem now,” she said with a smirk, grabbing one of the pastries. “You get to deal with the gala circuits, the yacht rumors, the moody billionaire schedule.”
“Already do,” Clark said flatly.
Lois barked a laugh. “You know what, Smallville? I’m rooting for you two. You’ve got the warmth of a Hallmark movie and he’s one bad day away from buying the moon out of spite. It shouldn’t work, but it weirdly does.”
Clark just smiled again, soft and a little shy.
And Lois, mouth full of gourmet blackberry tart, pointed at him with her pastry again. “But if he ever sends me raspberry by mistake, it’s over. I will tell him personally.”
That’s when the elevator dinged.
Not unusual. But they both spared a glance anyways, curious as to who arrived.
Out stepped Bruce Wayne himself—sunglasses, coat, aura of casual billionaire chaos fully engaged. He strolled in like he he owned the place.
Lois blinked. “Okay, never mind. You’re both trying to kill me.”
Clark straightened up reflexively, because even Superman had a visceral response to Bruce showing up unannounced.
Clark cleared his throat. “Bruce?”
“Hey,” Bruce said simply, crossing the newsroom like it was a red carpet, which to him, it probably was. He had sunglasses on—naturally—and pulled them off just in time to give Lois a smile that walked the line between sincere and smirk.
Lois narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing in Metropolis anyway?”
Bruce shrugged. “I was in the area.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “You hate Metropolis traffic.”
“Yeah, well,” Bruce said, now turning toward him with a smirk that was absolutely not work-appropriate, “some things are worth the detour.”
Clark, now very pink in the ears, coughed into his coffee.
Lois clapped once. “Okay. Gross. Cute, but gross. Go stand in a broom closet if you’re gonna make heart eyes like that.”
Bruce ignored her entirely. “You want to grab dinner?”
Clark hesitated. “I was gonna finish up here…”
Bruce leaned on the edge of Lois’s desk, clearly not planning to leave without him. “I brought Alfred’s leftovers. And wine.”
Lois looked between them. “You came all this way and brought Tupperware to lure him away? You really are Gotham’s most dramatic sugar daddy.”
Bruce didn't even flinch. “It’s glassware.”
Clark gave up the fight. “Fine, I’m done for the day.”
Bruce smiled like he’d just won something—which, in his defense, he often did—and straightened up.
As they walked toward the elevator, Bruce’s hand brushed against Clark’s, fingers just barely touching, but intentional. Familiar.
Right before the doors closed, she called out, “By the way if you ever want to adopt an overworked journalist with a mild pastry addiction, I’m available!”
Bruce lifted a hand without turning. “Noted.”
The doors slid shut.
Lois took one last bite of her blackberry tart and grinned to herself.
Somehow, the world’s most terrifying billionaire and the planet’s most awkward farmboy had managed to fall in love.
Honestly? She was into it.
Back at their apartment—well, technically Clark’s, though it had slowly been infiltrated by Bruce’s cologne, obscenely expensive cashmere throws, and a very judgmental espresso machine—the vibe was a little quieter.
Mostly because Clark was currently trying to microwave soup without triggering another “we should really get you an induction stove” conversation.
Apart from the microwave, the only sound to be hear were the quiet purs of a cat Bruce hadn’t technically adopted but “occasionally fed”. The cat was curled up tightly on the windowsill like it paid rent.
Clark changed into sweatpants and an old t-shirt from a Daily Planet staff softball game. Bruce came out of the bedroom in Clark’s Gotham U hoodie, hair tousled, glasses gone. For all his suits and smirks, this was Bruce at his realest—quiet, barefoot, still somehow managing to look like a Calvin Klein ad in loungewear.
Clark turned from the microwave and blinked. “That’s mine.”
Bruce glanced down at the hoodie. “It was yours. Then I wore it. Now it’s ours.”
Clark opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. The man had point.
Bruce wandered into the kitchen like a man on a mission, looked at the microwave, then stared up at Clark, unimpressed.
“You’re Superman and you’re microwaving canned soup.”
“I like it” Clark said defensively.
Bruce pulled a face like he’d just witnessed a crime. “You’re Superman. You can fly at Mach 3. You can hear a whisper in Siberia. You could sear a steak by breathing on it. And you’re heating canned soup in a microwave?"
“I didn’t feel like breathing on food today, okay?”
Clark chuckled, reaching to stir the soup halfway through. “Well, unless you’re cooking, this is what we’re having.”
Bruce paused. “I did bring leftovers.”
“You brought a single Tupperware container with risotto. That’s not dinner, that’s a suggestion.”
“Fine,” Bruce said, putting two wine glasses on the counter like he hadn’t been plotting this all day. “You can have the soup. I’ll have Alfred’s risotto. That way, you won’t feel bad when I say mine’s better.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Wow, romance really is alive.”
Bruce leaned on the counter, watching him. “You say that, but you’re going to eat soup and then cuddle with me on the couch and fall asleep twenty minutes into a documentary you picked.”
Clark looked over his shoulder. “We agreed not to bring up the Planet Earth incident.”
“You fell asleep during the penguin migration, Clark. That’s the best part.”
“It was warm,” Clark said defensively, “and you were doing the voiceover. In a British accent.”
Bruce didn’t even look embarrassed. “You said it helped you sleep.”
Clark gave in with a helpless laugh and handed him a spoon. “Fine. Deal. You get risotto, I get soup. And we’re watching something you can’t narrate.”
Clark stirred the soup a little more thoughtfully. “Thanks for coming by the Planet. You didn’t have to.”
Bruce leaned back against the counter, wine glass in hand, gaze softer now. “You looked cornered.” Bruce sipped. “Lois is a force of nature. I had to intervene.”
Clark shook his head, smiling. “She likes you.”
“I know,” Bruce said, smug. “She called me Brucie again, which is a clear sign of affection.”
“She said if you ever forget her favorite pastry, she’s revoking your Gotham privileges.”
“Fair,” Bruce said. “But not happening. I’ve got a spreadsheet.”
Clark blinked. “You have a Lois Lane Pastry Preference Spreadsheet?”
Bruce raised his glass. “I run a multinational corporation. I fear no one… except investigative journalists with long memories and better throw pillows than me.”
Clark took a slow sip of his wine, then grinned. “You’re kind of perfect.”
Bruce paused for a beat, a little startled by that—then covered it, like always, with a smirk. “Don’t tell the tabloids. I have a reputation to destroy.”
Clark walked over and kissed him. Not a dramatic, world-ending kiss. Just a quiet, familiar one. Warm and lingering, like the smell of soup on the stove and the sound of a penguin documentary playing in the background.
When they pulled apart, Bruce muttered, “You taste like blackberry tart.”
Clark raised a brow. “You’re welcome.”
Eventually, they settled on the couch, feet tangled under a blanket Bruce claimed was “handwoven from sustainable alpaca” but that Clark suspected was just code for “obscenely overpriced and suspiciously soft.”
The soup had cooled. The wine was half gone. The documentary played in the background with the volume low, the narrator a soothing and very British Bruce.
Clark leaned his head against Bruce’s shoulder.
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “You’re falling asleep already.”
“Not true.”
“You just drooled on my sleeve.”
Clark lifted his head. “You literally spent ten minutes making penguin facts sound seductive. It’s sabotage.”
Bruce gave a rare, real laugh—low and soft, the kind only Clark got to hear. “You know,” he said, brushing a hand through Clark’s hair, “if someone told me a year ago I’d be in Metropolis, drinking wine on a couch, watching penguins with Superman…”
Clark opened one eye. “You’d what?"
Bruce smiled, resting his forehead against Clark’s. “I’d probably have checked for a concussion.”
Clark grinned, drowsy now. “And yet here you are. Dating the farm boy with soup and slippers.”
“You’re more than the farm boy,” Bruce murmured. “I know exactly who you are, Clark.”
Clark looked at him with that same soft intensity he reserved for quiet hero moments and midnight cityscapes. “I know who you are too. Not the playboy. Not the press conferences. Just… you.”
A beat passed.
The cat snored.
Clark fell asleep not long after, tucked under Bruce’s arm, the remnants of dinner on the coffee table and the world outside still spinning.
But for tonight, the planet was quiet.
And so were they.