The bellow cut through the din. Perry White, Editor-in-Chief, stood in the doorway of his office, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

Clark offered a small, polite nod and began weaving through the maze of desks. He moved carefully, measuring each step to human scale.

He passed Jimmy Olsen, who was balancing three cameras and a box of donuts.

Clark steadied him with a light, almost imperceptible touch to his elbow.

And then he saw her again. The woman from the entrance. Y/n. She was at a smaller desk tucked near the archives, surrounded by towering stacks of folders and old newspapers. Her head was bent over a microfiche reader, one hand pushing her glasses up her nose, the other scribbling notes on a legal pad.

Perry didn’t look up from the copy he was slashing with a red pen.

Perry jabbed his pen toward the door, in the general direction of Y/n’s desk.

Clark nodded again.

He stepped back into the noise. His new cubicle was a few desks away from hers. He sat, arranging his notepad and pen with precise alignment. He could see her from here. The way she chewed the end of her pen when she was thinking. The way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.