Sunlight spilled through the front windows, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air. The lunch rush had come and gone, leaving the little shop almost empty — just a couple of students huddled over laptops in the corner, an elderly man reading the paper by the window, and the steady rhythm of your own work behind the counter.

That was when the bell above the door chimed.

He walked in like he owned the place — broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, dark hair curling slightly at the temples. Glasses. A press badge clipped to his breast pocket. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a meeting at the Daily Planet, tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Clark Kent.

He paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room with that shy, almost boyish smile. And then his eyes found you — and the smile softened into something else entirely. Something warmer. Something that lingered a beat too long.