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You Promised

part 1

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – Eventually 18+ MDNI, best friends brother trope, Best Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst & Yearning, Mutual Pining, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cozy Domestic Moments, Clark Kent is the most romantic dork alive

word count: 13k

Summary: When Kara Zor-El crash-landed into your life at fifteen, everything changed. She was bold, brilliant, and desperate for something real—and you were it. Her anchor. Her safe person. You’re also the girl who she made promise not to fall in love with him. But you did. You fell for Clark Kent with the kind of love that lingers quietly for years. A love built on late-night walks, inside jokes, and aching silences. A love you buried every time he dated someone else, every time you reminded yourself he wasn’t yours to want. Part 2 | Series Masterlist

notes – not proofread

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You hear it before you see it.

A sound like the world cracking open, thick and low and splitting through the sky like God struck a match across the clouds. It rattles your bedroom windowpane. Makes your bedside lamp flicker. Your feet are already hitting the floor when the second boom echoes, closer this time, angrier. Less thunder, more impact.

You’re fifteen and barefoot and running out the back door with your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

The grass is wet beneath your soles, sharp with cold and half-mowed. Lightning pulses low and wide across the summer sky, casting your backyard in short, stuttering flashes. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you round the corner of the barn and see it.

Not a meteor.

Not a plane.

Not any human thing.

A crater, still smoking, carved deep into the earth like a wound. The soil around it glows faintly red, broken glass and splintered fence posts scattered like forgotten bones. At the center is a shape, small, curled, trembling.

A girl.

She’s crouched low and naked to the skin, hair wild and clinging to her face. Her shoulder blades twitch as if remembering wings. Her knees are drawn to her chest like she’s hiding something beneath them, something precious, something dangerous, you’re not sure. The air shimmers around her, heat-warped and unnatural, like the laws of physics haven’t caught up yet.

You don’t run. You should, but you don’t. Something ancient and impossible presses at the edge of your brain and tells you this isn’t real. That this is a dream or a movie or some freak cosmic joke.

But then she lifts her head. And her eyes, God, her eyes are glowing gold. Not yellow, not amber, gold like sun through honey. Gold like the last five minutes of daylight. Gold like danger.

“Are you okay?” You whisper, because what else is there to say to a thing (girl?) that fell out of the sky?

She flinches as the words leave you. Her lip is split, her hands curl into the dirt like she’s bracing for gravity to betray her again. She doesn’t speak, just stares, and you realize she’s scared. Not of you, but of herself. Of what she is. Of what she’s done. There’s a burn mark across her shoulder that’s still sizzling at the edges. Smoke threads from it, rising like steam from hell.

Sirens wail in the distance. A beat behind them, your dad’s voice is shouting your name from the porch. The light flips on, flooding the yard. A neighbor’s dog starts barking. The world is catching up to this moment, but you’re not ready to let it in.

You drop to your knees. “I won’t let them take you,” you say, because it’s the first thing that comes to your heart, your mind not catching up until a few beats later. “Whatever you are. Whatever happened. You’re safe.”

She shudders.

“You’re safe,” you press your palms into the dirt beside hers and whisper it again, softer. Her eyes soften, not completely, not entirely, but enough.

She’s heavier than she looks. Not in weight, but in presence, like gravity clings harder to her skin. Like the world hasn’t decided how to hold her yet. Her body folds into yours without a word, damp hair sticking to your collarbone. Her breath comes in shallow, panicked pulls, hot against the hollow of your throat. Dirt smears your pajama shirt, her scraped knee dragging across your thigh. She smells like ozone and scorched metal, like burnt wires and new air.

The sirens get closer. You curl around her tighter. Your heartbeat is a frantic drumbeat behind your ribs, but your hands don’t shake. One presses to her spine while the other finds the back of her head, cradling it like something fragile. Your palm nearly burns against the heat bleeding from her neck.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. She just holds on.

Later, there will be laughter. Ridiculous nicknames. Snack wrappers on your floor and boots on your pillow and windows that no longer lock.

But tonight, there’s only this:

The weight of a stranger pressed to your chest.

The heat of something not-quite-human.

The unshakable pull in your gut that says: Keep her safe. Don’t let go.

You don’t know what she is. Or what she’ll become. But as red and blue lights flicker through the trees and the night breaks wide open, you whisper it once, barely moving your lips.

“I’ve got you.”

And you mean it. With every inch of your skin, every beat of your terrified heart, you mean it.

You don’t know it yet, but that moment becomes everything. The origin point of a story that will bend your life into something you never saw coming.

-

She starts breaking into your room like it’s her own not long after.

It begins small: a rustle on the roof, the creak of windowsill wood, the soft thump of boots hitting carpet. At first you think you’re dreaming, half-asleep when she steps through the glass like it isn’t solid, like physics is just a polite suggestion for everyone else. She’s always barefoot. Always bleeding. Always chewing on something she definitely didn’t pay for.

“Don’t freak out,” she says, holding up a plastic bag from a gas station you know is two towns over. A slushie drips neon blue onto your rug. “Got you gummy worms and a hot dog I sat on by accident.”

You sit up, bleary and blinking. “Is that… blood?”

She glances down at her knees, then the spray across her shoulder. “Some of it’s not mine.” She grins wide.

You groan and she tosses the gummy worms at your face and peels off her jacket, smearing something green and viscous onto your pillow.

You learn, quickly, to keep a laundry basket labeled Alien Shit under your bed.

-

Your parents don’t ask questions anymore. Not after she saved the neighbor’s dog mid-air and melted your dad’s tool bench by accident. They think she’s just a troubled girl. Foster system. Maybe foreign. They ask for no paperwork and offer her food.

Your mom packs two lunches for you now, one with meat, one without. “Just in case she’s vegetarian,” she says, not noticing the time Kara inhaled a half-raw steak like it was fruit.

-

You wake up one morning to Kara floating upside down on your ceiling. “Can’t sleep,” she says, voice echoing weird in the walls. “Too loud outside. Earth’s noisy.”

You throw a pillow at her. She giggles, falls like a stone, and lands in a crouch beside your bed. “You’re such a menace,” you murmur.

She shrugs before leaping into your bed, arms wrapping tightly around you. “You’re my human. Deal with it.”

-

You cut her hair once when you’re sixteen with scissors that instantly dulled in your hand. The strands of her hair smelled faintly of lightning and cloves. You braid it afterward, fingers trembling at how soft it is despite being able to dull scissors.

She sits cross-legged in front of you in your pajamas, grumbling about boys on the news and girls on another planet and how she hates the word terrestrial.

“You’re not alone,” you whisper as you tie the braid off.

She doesn’t answer. Just leans back against your knees until your chin is touching the top of her head and your heartbeat is trapped between her shoulder blades.

-

She starts calling you her anchor. It’s always half a joke. Always slipped in when she needs you most.

When her powers spike and she shatters the bathroom sink. When a history video on a war makes her stop breathing. When her hands shake in the aftermath of an accidental rescue, where she saved you from nearly drowning, and her eyes flash red and her mouth won’t form words.

She finds you every time.

You’ll be brushing your teeth or writing a paper or halfway through a dream, and then she’s there, at your window. Dirt-streaked. Drenched. Wild-eyed. Shaking.

She still never knocks. She just climbs in and says your name.

And you hold out your arms before she even finishes it.

-

Some nights you lie side by side, her hand curled around your wrist like a tether. She mumbles nonsense in Kryptonian when she dreams, syllables that buzz against your skin like static. You memorize the sound, not the meaning. You learn the rhythm of her, how her foot kicks when she’s annoyed, how she hums when she’s hungry, how she can punch through a wall but crumples when you compliment her art.

You lend her a pen one day and she carves an entire alien language into the back of your algebra notebook. When you ask what it says, she just smirks.

“Probably something dumb like Mine.”

You laugh, but it knots something in your chest.

-

She calls you her sister now that you’re seventeen. Says it casually, in front of others.

But when she’s hurt, when she’s tired, when the world feels too big and she needs somewhere small, she presses her forehead to yours and says, softer than anything else she’s ever spoken, in Kryptonian, something that she translates to, “My Constant.”

-

You still have dreams of that first night. The crater. The burn in the air. Her face lit by fire and fear.

You see her now, brash and bold, covered in dirt, wearing your hoodie inside out and yelling at a livestreamed video game, and it still feels like that same girl is clinging to your chest in the dark, shaking like a leaf and pretending not to be scared.

And every time she says my human, every time she tosses a rock through your window because she refuses to knock like a normal person, every time she calls you her anchor with a grin and a wince, you think: I’m yours. I always was.

And you swear, without saying it out loud, without needing the words, you’ll never let her be alone in this world again.

-

You’re seventeen the first time you see him. It’s a hot July day. Cicadas scream from the cornfields and the Kent Family Farm smells like sun-warmed hay and ripening tomatoes. Kara’s tugging you by the wrist through the gravel drive, wearing cut-off shorts and an oversized tee that says Don’t Make Me Punch You that you bought her as a joke. Her hair’s a mess, there's dirt under her nails, and her knuckles are skinned again, she says it was from “gravity problems,” but you’re pretty sure she just picked a fight with a delivery drone for fun.

She’s talking a mile a minute. Something about cows. Something about Clark being so boring you’ll actually die.

You don’t hear most of it because then, you see him. Not just tall. Not just handsome.

He looks like the kind of boy you’d read about in summer paperbacks. The kind girls doodle in the margins of their notebooks. Tanned arms and a soft flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, collar slightly damp with sweat, dark curls falling over his forehead like they’re trying to keep a secret. There’s a grease smudge on his cheekbone and a wrench in his hand. He’s leaning over the open hood of a truck like he’s listening to it whisper.

When he looks up, the sun hits him square in the face, and you stop walking dead in your tracks. Something in your chest stutters like your body doesn’t know how to breathe around him yet.

You don’t speak, you just stare. He doesn’t seem to notice as he wipes his hands on a rag and flashes a warm, worn-in smile, one that feels like it belongs to someone else’s future. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and patient. “You must be Kara’s friend.”

You blink and Kara elbows you in the ribs. “Don’t mind her,” she says, grinning. “She forgets how to speak around pretty people.”

You flush violently. Clark laughs, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that to be funny. And when he turns back to the truck, your eyes chase him like they’re caught on string.

Then Clark and Pa Kent put you both to work. Kara takes the tractor. You carry baskets. Clark fixes a fence post and hums an old pop punk song under his breath that you faintly recognize as one that Kara plays on repeat. His hands are calloused but gentle. His laugh comes easy. And every now and then, just barely, he glances your way. He looks away first, before you can really tell if it was anything at all.

But when he fully glances up the next time, it’s to shield his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Need help with that?” He asks.

You shake your head quickly, gripping the basket tighter. “I’ve got it.”

There’s a pause, and then he smiles, barely, but it counts. “You sure?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you manage, stubbornly. Not wanting to seem uncool in front of this literal god. But, what you’re saying is not true. You’re actively losing circulation in your right arm. Not that you’d ever say that.

Clark nods like he believes you, however. “Must be. Kara said you once knocked a guy out with a snow globe.”

You blink. “I…she talks about me to you? Wait. I mean. Yeah—yeah. I did.” Nice one, you think, mentally smacking your head.

“Well, she made it sound heroic. Most of her stories about you are.” He says kindly, ignoring your awkwardness.

“It was in a Walgreens. And it was mostly an accident.”

Clark laughs at that. It’s low and golden and makes the air feel too warm as he says, “Still counts.”

Later, he offers you a drink from the garden spigot, and wipes the sweat from his brow before handing over the metal cup. You take it, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, but you feel his breath catch. Just slightly.

“You always work barefoot?” you ask, nodding at the grass stains on his feet. “Kind of… weird. Must run in the family.”

“Harsh,” He teases, “But seriously, only when it’s too hot for boots,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Ground’s soft today.”

You sip the water. It tastes like minerals and rust and something sweeter.

Clark watches you swallow like he’s trying not to.

The conversation doesn’t pick back up because Kara flies full speed across the farm, fully launching herself at Clark, and you watch the two of them split a tree with how hard they collide with it.

-

At one point, while stacking wood for the firepit, you’re crouched low beside the kindling pile, fingers splintered with bark, palms streaked with dirt. The late sun drips gold across your shoulders, heat clinging like syrup, sticky and slow. You’re balancing a half-split log on your knee when you feel him move behind you, quiet, careful, and deliberate.

“’Scuse me,” he murmurs, voice low and worn at the edges, like flannel stretched too thin.

The air shifts. You feel it before you feel him, his presence brushing along the curve of your spine like the wind changed direction. His hand doesn’t touch you, not really. It just hovers, fingers spread, heat bleeding through the space between you. Like he’s bracing himself. Like he wants to touch but won’t. Can’t. Not here. Not yet. You’re not sure which it is, but you ache to feel him nonetheless.

You don’t move or breathe. The log balanced on your knee starts to tip, but you’re frozen, caught in the gravity of that almost-touch.

And then he’s gone, just as quickly as he appears.

He steps away with the wood, his flannel brushing the side of your arm like an aftershock. And when you blink back into motion, you swear your skin still remembers exactly where his hand didn’t land.

-

Once again as the sun is setting, you catch him looking. You and Kara had gone down to the creek that splits the back field, dared each other across the slick stones like you were still ten, laughing too loud and splashing too hard until your jeans were soaked past the knee and your braid came loose. Kara cannonballed as you slipped in sideways and gasped when the water bit your ribs. The two of you spent who knows how long splashing one another and wrestling in the water.

Now, back on dry land, you’re wringing out your shirt at the hem, fingers shaking droplets loose from the cotton. Your skin is goosebumped and flushed, your neck damp with creekwater and heat. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, amber and syrupy, and it hits the curve of your shoulder just so. Makes you look like something lit from the inside.

That’s when it happens. You feel it first, the weight of a gaze. The way the air stills. You glance over, casual, unguarded. And there he is.

Clark Kent.

Across the field, one hand resting against a porch post, body angled toward the barn but his eyes? His eyes are on you. Mouth slack. Brows furrowed. Not in confusion, something else. Something sharper. Something closer to regret, maybe. You don’t know him well enough to tell the way you do with Kara from just a glance.

He blinks and looks away before you can hold it. He rubs the back of his neck like he’s done something wrong, ears a little pink in a way that you can’t help but find adorable.

He looked like he got caught thinking something he shouldn’t.

You stand there, dripping, and wishing you could think of something to say. Kara starts yelling something about watermelon and a bonfire, but her voice is far away. You stare at the horizon, heart hammering, and try to pretend it didn’t happen.

You try to convince yourself it was nothing. That you imagined it. You try hard to unlearn the shape of his smile.The way it folds soft at the edges. The way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he’s fighting it. The way it lingers.

That night, the sky goes blue to black in a slow, molten crawl. You lie belly-up on the porch roof with Kara beside you, sticky with sweat and dried creek water, bare feet propped on the railing. The air smells like damp wood and charcoal smoke and the mint gum she keeps tucked in her sock.

There’s a bag of pretzels between you. She tosses one at your face. You blink when it hits your cheek and bounce off the siding.

“You’ve got that look,” she says.

You don’t turn. “What look?”

“The stupid heart-eyes look.” Her voice goes mock-dreamy. “Oh my god, Clark, tell me more about tractors!”

“Shut up,” you groan, elbowing her.

She snorts, rolls onto her side and props her chin in her palm. “You blushed when he handed you a wrench today like it was a fucking bouquet.”

“I was hot.”

“You dropped it.”

“It was heavy!”

“It was titanium. You carried me out of a river last summer, but sure, blame the wrench.”

“It’s not like that,” you cover your face with one hand, pretzels rattling across your chest.

“It’s exactly like that.” She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been extra weird since the creek.”

You stiffen. She sees it. “Oh my god,” she says, sitting up. “What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“What. Happened.”

You hesitate. Then, quietly, you confess, “I think he looked at me.”

Kara tilts her head. “He looks at everyone.”

“Not like that.”

She’s quiet. You stare at the stars. There aren’t many tonight, just a few freckles of light above the cornfield. Finally, she sighs and lays back down, arm stretched above her head. “Promise me you won’t fall in love with him.”

You blink. “What?”

“Promise.” She says it again, softer this time.

You roll your head toward her. “What? Gross. I’m not—”

“You are,” she says, a little too fast. Then, teasing again, she coos, “You’ve got the goo-goo eyes.”

“You sound like a cartoon.”

“Promise,” she says, turning her face toward you. Her eyes catch the porch light. They shine like firefly glass. “Just… don’t. Okay?”

You laugh, weak. “Why?”

She shrugs, but it’s not careless. “He’s always been perfect. Everybody always loves him. I just…” Her voice falters for the first time all night. “I don’t want to lose the one person who doesn’t.”

There’s a breath that passes between you before you force a smile and say, “You’re ridiculous.”

She pokes your side. “Promise.”

You sigh. Draw the word out like a performance. “Fine. I promise.”

She leans back, satisfied. But something in her smile wavers, not enough to break it. Just enough to show the ache underneath. The fear. The weight of what she’s asked. Like she already knows it’s a promise you’re going to break. Like she already knows that he looked at you like his even if you don’t.

-

You don’t sleep. Kara does. Out cold by midnight, sprawled on the twin bed beside yours, mouth slightly open and one leg kicked out like she fought off sleep with both fists and lost. Her hair’s still wet from the creek. There’s a pretzel in her elbow crease. You could laugh if your chest didn’t feel so tight.

The window’s cracked open. The breeze smells like hay and clover, cool against your cheek, but your skin’s still hot, prickling like you stood too close to the firepit for too long.

You lie there staring at the ceiling. Watching the shadows shift across the wooden beams. Listening to the distant groan of an owl and the soft click of the kitchen’s old fridge cycling on. Down the hall, someone moves, a floorboard sighs under weight, and you know it’s him.

Clark.

You imagine him in his room. Shirt off. Hair damp from the sink. Turning off the light with that quiet kind of grace he carries like muscle memory. Folding himself into a too small bed the way someone raised in a small house does, like they don’t want to take up too much space, even when they could.

You press your knuckles to your mouth and swallow a sound that’s not quite a sigh.

“Promise me you won’t fall in love with him.”

Kara said it like a joke. Like a dare. Like a line drawn in sand she never thought would hold. But she meant it. She wouldn’t have said it to you otherwise. And now it’s sitting in your chest like an ember. Low and glowing and wrong.

You close your eyes and try to remember what his smile looked like early today when you first met. Before the creek. Before every little moment. Before you caught him looking like maybe, maybe, he saw you.

You can’t.

Not clearly.

-

You wake up late. The sun is already spilling through the kitchen windows when you pad down the hall, bare feet sticky against the tile. Kara’s outside somewhere, you can hear her yelling about fence integrity and laughing at her own bad jokes.

Clark is inside at the sink rinsing a plate. One hand is braced on the edge, forearm flexed, the cotton of his worn t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.

You almost backpedal. You almost pretend you forgot something in the guest room. But before you can, he turns.

“Morning,” he says, and his voice is thick with sleep and honey. He offers a bright smile, dimple popping.

“Hey,” you manage, heart beat fumbling. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it the way that Kara can.

You move past him toward the coffeepot. He steps aside instinctively, gentle, careful, never in the way, but as you pass, his hand brushes your shoulder. His fingers skim the fabric of your shirt like a breath, a suggestion. Warmth blooms through the contact point like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet.

Neither of you says anything. Neither of you flinches. But your hand shakes just a little as you pour your coffee. And Clark clears his throat too quickly. Wipes his hands on the dish towel like they’re stained with something he can’t name before accidentally dropping it and bending too quickly to pick it back up.

You both pretend it was nothing.

But you feel it for years.

-

“Hold still,” you murmur, curling your fingers around Clark’s wrist.

You’re sitting on his couch in his Metropolis apartment, but it’s soft and too big for the room and smells too much like him to let yourself fully think straight. The coffee table is covered in takeout boxes and one of Kara’s flip-flops that lost a battle with Krypto. There’s a blanket pooled at your hips and an old episode of Jeopardy! buzzing quietly from the TV, ignored.

Clark’s arm is tense in your hands. Not because he’s resisting. Just the opposite. He’s trying not to hold onto you too hard, like he’s worried he’ll hurt you even after all these years. His knuckles are white where they are formed into fists, and his pulse flutters beneath your palm like something trapped.

You keep your voice low. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

His eyes are closed. Glasses forgotten on the end table. Hair damp from the sink, curls flattened in odd directions. He nods, once, sharp, and tries again. This time he manages a full deep breath.

“Good,” you whisper. “You’re doing good.”

You feel him start to settle. Slowly. Carefully. Like a building realigning its weight after an earthquake. You stroke your thumb over the bone of his wrist, once, twice, three times, and say nothing more.

He had a panic attack at the grocery store. Just… out of nowhere. Halfway between the pasta and the soup aisle. You’d seen the signs before, shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked, blinking too fast, and you’d grabbed his hand without asking.

It’s rare for him. He’s Superman. He sees some of the most impossible things on a daily basis. Can fly, has xray vision, heat vision, super breath. But, sometimes, it happens. And you’re no stranger to them yourself.

So now, you’re here, on the couch, saying nothing. But doing everything you can to help him and provide comfort.

This is your rhythm now. He brings you soup when you’re sick. You hold him through the wreckage when things are too loud. It’s quiet. Constant. And almost enough.

When he finally exhales and lets his head fall back against the cushion, you feel the tension bleed out of him like steam.

“Better?” you ask.

He nods without opening his eyes. “You’re good at that.”

“At basic breathing?”

“At making me feel like I’m not going to implode.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest. “You’ve never imploded around me, Clark.”

“Yet,” he says, voice gone soft. “But seriously, thank you.”

You squeeze his wrist once more before letting go. The loss of contact makes your fingers ache.

Later, you clean up the takeout containers while he washes his face. You lean against the kitchen island and watch him through the cracked bathroom door as he pats his skin dry, careful around the eyes, like everything about him could bruise if someone looked too close.

You think about the wedding last spring, how he asked you to be his plus one in an attempt to cheer you up after a bad break up. He had said it with a shrug and a half-smile. You remember how you wore a navy dress and he’d looked at you once, just once, like the world had tilted. You’d danced. Held hands. Swung in lazy circles under string lights until your feet hurt.

He’d driven you home and walked you to your door. He could’ve kissed you. You think he almost did.

Instead, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and said, “Whoever broke your heart was an idiot.”

You hadn’t known what to say. How to tell him that it was you who had broken your own heart in a million little ways. Or how to say it was him, with his warmth and effervescence. How since that first day you met, all those years ago, no matter what changed or who you both became, he never stopped showing up for Kara. For you. Even when looking at him sometimes made you feel like you were swallowing thousands of needles at once.

You still don’t.

-

You’re friends now. Real friends. Not through Kara. Not because of shared blood or expectation. Just you and him.

He texts you photos of stray cats and bad diner signs. Brings you coffee the way you like it, extra hot, two sugars, lid twisted on fully because he knows your hands shake when you’re tired. You fix his glasses when they sit crooked on his nose, just tilt them straight without thinking, and he always flushes but never stops you.

You know the sound of his laugh when he means it, the one that cracks wide open and leaves him breathless. You know exactly how big he has to smile to get his dimples to really pop. You know how he folds in on himself when he’s overwhelmed, big hands fidgeting with threads on his shirt hem, mouth drawn quiet. You know what calms him. What makes him come just a little undone. What songs make his shoulders sway just a little when he thinks no one’s watching.

You know the scar on his knuckle from learning to open beer bottles on belt buckles in college. You know the mole on the side of his neck just below his jawline. You know that he says your name differently than anyone else.

And you want him. Still. Always. With a hunger that's patient. Gentle. Ancient.

It’s not about kissing him. Or having sex with him until he’s actually breathless. It’s about hearing him brush his teeth in the morning and wanting to hand him the towel before he asks. It’s about sitting next to him in silence and thinking, please never look away.

It’s about love so quiet it hurts.

You’ve never told him. Never dared. Because there’s something coiled tight beneath your ribs, older than the wanting, older than the ache. Something made of the memory of Kara’s voice on a summer night, teasing but not really. The way she smiled at you like she already knew how it would end.

You made the promise once and Kara’s never really brought it up again, but that doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.

There are nights you lie awake tracing the shape of that vow with your breath. Wondering what it meant. Who it protected. Whether she remembers at all or whether you’re the only one still carrying it, heavy and folded, like an unmailed letter.

You hadn’t known how to explain the quiet erosion, how loving him, silently and for so long, had carved hollows into your ribs where softness used to be. How the closeness felt like cruelty some days. Like being handed a glass of water after wandering a desert, only to be told you couldn’t drink.

You thought you could bear it. You thought friendship was enough. But it’s not. Not when you know the warmth of his laugh. Not when you’ve memorized the weight of him beside you on a too-small couch. Not when his nearness feels like gravity, steady, irresistible, and cruel in how gently it pulls.

You still don’t know how to say any of that. So instead, you drink your coffee, ask about his day, and pretend your hands aren’t always inches from grabbing and holding on.

-

It’s just past midnight when the knock comes. Not at the front door. But on the glass of your seventh story balcony.

You jolt where you sit cross-legged on the couch, half a bag of chips spilled beside you, your tank top sliding dangerously off one shoulder. You’re wearing boxer shorts, nothing else on your legs, and your skin flashes cold as you stare toward the sliding door.

And there he is.

Clark.

Framed by the low glow of the city behind him, coat ruffled by the breeze, hand still raised mid-knock with a sheepish wince already forming on his face.

You grab the nearest blanket like a lifeline.

He mouths something through the glass, “sorry sorry sorry,” but you don’t bother reading his lips. You unlock the door with a sigh and slide it open, still clutching the throw blanket around you like a toga.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“I know,” he says, stepping inside. “I didn’t think you’d be standing right there. In… very little.”

You arch a brow. “You think I wear jeans to bed?”

His ears flush pink. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

“No,” you murmur, voice teasing. “You rarely do.”

He grins that boyish, shy grin that should be harmless but somehow never is when it’s pointed at you and shuts the balcony behind him with a quiet click. The night air that snuck in is cool on your legs, still bare below the hem of your top, and you swear Clark’s eyes flick down once before zipping back up to your face like he’s ashamed for even looking.

“Cute socks,” he mutters as he steps into your living room, brushing snowmelt from his shoulders. “Penguins?”

“You’re lucky I like you, Kent.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, plopping onto the couch, nearly stepping on your foot in the process.

“Shut up,” you say, but you’re smiling. He’s still in his work clothes, tie askew, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, coat now shrugged fully off onto a heap next to your couch. He must’ve come straight from the newsroom or maybe from somewhere even higher, halfway across the hemisphere if his hair’s anything to go by. You reach out to smooth the wind-tossed cowlick near his temple and feel him go still under your fingers.

“Why are you here?” you ask gently, softer now.

He shrugs again. “Kara texted. Said you sounded… off.”

You blink. “I did not.”

“She said you posted about three tequila memes in a row.”

“…Okay. That’s fair.” You sigh and flop onto the couch next to him, accidentally bumping your knee into his thigh. He makes a sound like a half-smothered laugh, his hand drifting toward his knee where you just bumped him. He doesn’t touch you but he doesn’t move away either.

“Tequila memes are a cry for help, you know,” Clark says solemnly. “It’s in the journalist handbook.”

“Oh yeah?” you stretch your legs out across his lap, blanket pooling at your hips. “What page?”

He frowns thoughtfully, tugging his glasses down his nose like he’s actually trying to remember. “Page… twelve. Right after the chapter on how to cry at your desk without smudging your notes.”

You snort. “Guess that’s why you always use a notepad.”

“Exactly.” He lifts his brows, smug, like he’s won something. “Ink runs. Graphite endures.”

“Did you just say that like it’s poetry?”

“It is poetry,” he insists, but his voice is warm with laughter now. “Don’t mock the power of a pencil, Op-Ed.”

You toss a chip at his chest. It bounces off his tie and lands in your lap. He stares at it like it betrayed him.

“I’m serious,” he says, plucking it up and tossing it back into the bag. “Pencils are reliable. Can’t say the same about people.” That last part slips out quieter. Almost too quiet. But you hear it anyway.

You don’t say anything at first. You just shift, nudge your foot against his hip, and offer him the bag. “We still talking about office supplies, Kent?”

He looks like he’s about to deflect again, classic Clark, but then something softens in his shoulders. The kind of honesty he doesn’t always let show. “I’m still figuring out who I can count on,” he says after a beat. “But you? You make it easier.”

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands, your fingers still tangled in the edge of the blanket, and try to pretend your heart didn’t just do a full somersault. “You always know the right thing to say,” you murmur.

“I usually don’t,” he says quickly. “I just…mean it. That helps.”

You glance up at him again, catch the way he’s watching you, like he’s memorizing every shift in your expression. The air changes. Barely. But you feel it. And Clark does too.

He clears his throat. “So. Uh. What were we watching?”

You blink. “Oh. Reality TV. The worst kind.”

“Good. I came to make sure you were okay, and then to suffer.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I didn’t start a murder doc. Or worse. The Bachelor.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Whatever helps avoid you posting more tequila memes. Kara was ready to show up with a bottle.”

You grab the remote, start the episode over, and settle back into the couch. Your legs are still stretched across him. His hand is near your ankle now. You’re not sure if he put it there or if it just… ended up that way.

The show is stupid. The contestants are already drunk. One’s crying because someone else stole her “emotional support wine glass.” You feel Clark laugh beside you, that low, involuntary chuckle that rumbles through his chest before he catches it and tries to muffle the sound.

“God, I forgot how terrible this is,” he says, voice half-buried in the blanket you’ve now shared between you.

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts slightly, enough to bump his shoulder against yours. “I love a lot of things,” he says softly.

You tilt your head toward him, just enough to see his profile. He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you, soft and unreadable, like he’s cataloguing something he’ll never write down.

“You’re not staying the night, right?” you ask, suddenly aware of how close you are. How easy it would be to turn just an inch and kiss him. “You’ve got an early shift at the Planet, don’t you?”

Clark shrugs. “I’ll manage.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“I’m always exhausted.”

“You’ll—”

“I want to stay.” He cuts you off like it’s simple. Just the truth, unadorned.

Somewhere between 2:13 a.m. and the next fake-love monologue, your eyes drift shut. You don’t mean to fall asleep. But it’s warm. And quiet. And Clark doesn’t move.

When you blink awake, bleary and blinking in the TV’s soft glow, your head is on his chest. His arm is around you. His pulse, steady beneath your cheek. One of his fingers, barely there, is tracing circles on your hip.

He’s not asleep. You know that instantly. His breathing is too careful. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. And neither does he.

You just stay like that.

Until dawn.

-

This is Kara’s idea.

You’re three blocks from the Planet when she loops her arm through yours and grins like she’s planning mischief. “We’ll bring him coffee,” she says, sing-song. “Make fun of his tie. It’ll be cute.”

You’d agreed because it did sound cute. Clark in his work habitat, tucked behind a desk, glasses slightly fogged, probably with a tie crooked from the minute he put it on. You like catching him in the middle of things. In motion. He always seems to turn toward you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

The elevator dings. The bullpen hums. Phones ring, keys click, papers shuffle and there he is.

Clark stands near the copy machine, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loose, pen between his teeth. He’s talking to Jimmy Olsen, who’s waving a camera lens around like it’s a baton. The second he sees you, Clark straightens. Then falters. The pen falls from his mouth and clatters to the floor. You pretend not to notice.

“Morning, newsboys,” Kara chirps, breezing ahead to toss a coffee cup at Clark.

You hold yours out in offering. “I brought you the cocoa with cinnamon that you said helps you think. Kara also brought you a coffee because she said you like it more.”

Clark blinks and takes the cocoa. “You remembered that?”

“I remember things,” you echo, tossing his own line back at him.

He blushes.

Jimmy steps in, grinning. “And who’s this charming, incredibly thoughtful friend?”

“Jimmy,” Kara groans.

But you play along. “Hi. I’m a friend of these two, and apparently the only one who remembers his cocoa order.”

Jimmy offers you his hand with dramatic flourish. “James Olsen. Photojournalist. Doer of justice. Can I get you anything? A drink? A snack?”

“She’s already got a coffee, Jimmy,” Clark says, voice dry. “You don’t need to impress her.”

“Maybe she deserves two,” Jimmy says, tossing you a wink.

You’re about to laugh when Clark shifts closer. Subtle, but there. One step. A glance. His shoulder brushes yours as he reaches for a stray printout. His hand lingers just a beat too long near yours before pulling back.

“She’s good,” he says, trying for light but landing somewhere closer to overprotective older brother who just got caught staring.

Jimmy raises both brows. “Dude.”

“What?” Clark’s ears are already turning pink. “I’m just being hospitable.”

Kara snorts into her coffee.

You sip yours to hide your smile. “I can fight my own battles, Kent.”

He glances at you, sheepish, then ducks to retrieve the pen he dropped earlier. “I know,” he mutters. “Just… don’t want you to have to.”

That makes you pause. Kara clears her throat loudly, breaking the moment. “Okay, Romeo, let’s dial it back before you lift Jimmy through a wall.”

Jimmy grins and leans toward you conspiratorially. “He’s not usually like this. I’ve flirted with his cousin before. He didn’t say a word.”

“That’s because I can bench-press a truck,” Kara says, flashing a wicked grin.

Clark groans. “Please stop talking.”

But you’re already smiling. You nudge his arm gently as you pass. “Don’t say I never bring you anything.”

His voice is soft behind you. “You always bring me exactly what I need.”

And when you glance back, he’s still watching you, tie askew, pen forgotten, a whole newsroom bustling around him. But all he sees is you.

-

Kara tosses a handful of popcorn at your head.

“Stop making that face,” she says, pointing at you with her chopsticks. “You look like someone just killed your childhood pet.”

You blink, startled out of your daze. “What face?”

She mimics you, eyes unfocused, lip between your teeth, brow furrowed like you’re working on a five-thousand-piece puzzle.

You sigh. “I’m just… thinking.”

“That’s your Clark Kent face,” she announces, smug.

“I don’t have a Clark Kent face.”

“You do. It’s the same one you made the first time you saw him carry a couch one-handed.”

“That was a heavy couch.”

“That was not the point, babe.”

You groan and flop onto your side, burying your face in a throw pillow. Kara jabs your thigh with her chopsticks until you roll back over. “Okay, okay, hear me out,” she says, tucking her legs under herself on the couch. “His name is Evan. He’s a pediatrician. Tall, dreamy, glasses. But not in the same ‘little bitch with a secret identity of a god’ kind of way.”

You raise a brow.

Kara frowns. “Too soon?”

You snort. “Always.”

“He volunteers on weekends. He has a dog. He likes musicals. Come on. Let me set it up.”

You try. You really do. You imagine Evan. His smile, his dog, his charming glasses. You imagine sitting across from him at dinner, nodding along to stories about his little patients. But your brain won’t stay still.

It drifts.

To Clark’s laugh when he’s caught off guard. The way he gestures with his hands when he gets excited about a story. The careful way he tucks his tie before every press conference like he still hasn’t figured out people watch him. The scar on his knuckle from when he tried to slice an avocado without looking.

You think about the night he brought you soup when you had the flu. The way his voice softened as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You think about the playlists. You think about the coffee he brings you. You think about how easy it is to think about him.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, poking at the edge of the popcorn bowl. “I’m probably just… not in a dating headspace.”

Kara eyes you. “You mean you’re in a Clark Kent headspace.”

You roll your eyes and say, “Shut up,” but it lacks heat. And she knows why.

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll hold off on Evan. But just know I’m sitting on gold, and it’s your fault if he ends up dating a barista with no upper lip.”

You snort. “A barista?”

“She’s very nice,” Kara says, too quickly. “But Evan deserves more. You deserve more.”

You glance at her, surprised by the seriousness in her tone. Kara nudges your knee. “Especially more than my dumb cousin.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your cheek to the pillow again and let your thoughts drift, not to Evan. Not to baristas. But to Clark. To his hands. His voice. His smile. To the way he says your name like it’s the first time every time.

And you wonder again how much longer you’ll be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

-

The party winds down early.

Kara ducks out before midnight, mumbling something about space alerts and reruns of Hell’s Kitchen. You offer to go with her.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “Go flirt with the cute guy from Gotham or whatever.” She smirks, shoves a bag of chips into your hands, and vanishes out the front door in a gust of cold air and frayed denim.

You do flirt. A little. The guy’s nice enough, tall, sharp-jawed, probably knows it. He compliments your drink choice, your earrings, the way you say “technically” like it’s a threat. You laugh when he leans in, even let him touch your arm once. But the spark never lights. Your smile’s too practiced. Your eyes keep drifting toward the kitchen where Clark is leaning against the counter, nursing a bottle of root beer like it’s a nervous tic. His glasses are a little crooked. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbow. He’s talking to someone, but every time you glance over, he’s looking somewhere else. At you.

When the guy from Gotham says something about splitting a cab, you hesitate.

You feel it in your chest, this low, certain no. “I think I’m gonna walk,” you say. “But thanks.”

He shrugs. Doesn’t press.

You’re pulling on your coat near the door when you hear the voice behind you, soft, warm, and too familiar. “I could walk you.”

You turn.

Clark’s there, holding his jacket in both hands, like he’s afraid of offering too much. “Only if you want,” he adds quickly, glasses slipping a little lower on his nose. “I don’t mind.”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your sleeve. You nod. “I’d like that.”

The city exhales around you as the door clicks shut behind him.

It’s late, that hour when even Metropolis quiets, when traffic thins and the streetlights buzz faintly like they’re trying to stay awake. The sidewalk is damp with the ghost of an earlier rain, but the sky’s cleared now, leaving the pavement slick and silver under the streetlamps.

Clark walks beside you, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. You can hear the way his boots scuff the concrete, unhurried. You match your pace to his like you always do.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s comfort in it, the quiet. But there’s tension too, stretched taut between you, invisible and obvious, like string pulled between two tin cans.

You steal a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His hair’s gone soft and unruly in the misty air, curls dark and curling along the nape of his neck. There’s a spot on his collar where his flannel didn’t quite sit right under the jacket. You want to fix it. You don’t.

“It’s not really that far,” you murmur eventually.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

“I could’ve walked alone.”

“I know that, too.”

You glance over. “Then why offer?”

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “I guess I just wanted to.”

That lands heavy in your chest. You look forward again. Your apartment is six blocks away, but you start wishing it were twelve.

Two blocks later, your fingers brush. Just for a second. A graze of knuckles, a breath of skin on skin. Neither of you pulls away.

You feel it immediately, how the air shifts. How everything tilts, gently, toward that place you’ve both been orbiting for years. Your pulse stutters. His shoulders tense. His hand is still in his pocket, but his arm lingers closer now, the way a magnet hesitates before it gives in.

You stop walking. So does he. You turn to face him beneath the wash of a flickering streetlamp, golden light stuttering across his face.

Clark looks at you like he’s memorizing something he’s not allowed to keep. His mouth opens. Closes. His tongue wets his bottom lip, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Or won’t.

“Clark?” You swallow.

He takes half a step closer. His coat brushes your sleeve. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, solid and steady and unbearable. The space between you isn’t space at all. It’s static. It’s breath. It’s wanting.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same. The silence buzzes.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, and this time it’s not a warning. It’s an apology.

“I know,” you breathe out, quiet, shaking. But neither of you moves. Not yet. His head tilts, just slightly. Yours does too. One of you, or maybe both, lean in just a bit. And for one second, one unbearable, incandescent second, you think he’s going to do it.

You think this is it.

But then a dog barks three blocks over, loud and sudden. A light flicks on in a window. Someone laughs. The moment breaks.

Clark exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face. “I should…”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, cutting him off. “Me too.”

He steps back. You unlock your door. You don’t look at him when you say goodnight. And when the door shuts behind you, you press your palm to the wood and let your eyes close.

His breath is still in your hair. His almost is still echoing in your chest.

And you know, God, you know, this won’t be the last time you stop just short of falling.

-

A few months later and the guy from Gotham texts you good morning before his coffee. He double-knots his shoelaces and brings up his therapist in conversation without being weird about it. His hands are large and warm. His apartment smells like cedar and peppermint. He listens when you talk.

You like him. You do.

But he doesn’t make you nervous.

And that’s a problem.

-

Lois Lane has cheekbones like weaponry and a voice that cuts through boardrooms like a buzzsaw. She is brilliant. Unapologetic. Fast-talking and sharp-dressed and funny. She once told a senator to shove it in three languages during a live press conference, and the video plays on loop in your head more often than you’ll admit.

Clark smiles when he talks about her. Not the shy, crooked smile he gives you. The other one. The one with his whole mouth.

You adore her.

So does Kara.

It helps that Lois doesn’t look at you like she’s trying to read your mind. She just hands you her wine glass and says, “I can’t do another one of these unless you’re double-fisting with me.”

You clink glasses like a pact.

-

The triple date happens by accident.

Kara sets it up. You suspect she means well, but it’s a mess from the start. Too many candles, too many rooftop heaters, too many tiny plates stacked like apology letters. The kind of place where the menus are printed on thick matte cardstock and the waiter introduces himself like he’s auditioning for a role you didn’t know you were casting.

You sit between your boyfriend Richard, the guy from Gotham, and Kara, directly across from Clark. Which is cruel.

Kara looks fantastic. Backless jumpsuit. Gold hoops. She’s halfway through her second glass of wine, already calling Lux, her med student date, Dr. Dumbass with the kind of affectionate venom only she can get away with. Lux is nice. A little sweaty. His collar’s too tight and he keeps trying to catch Kara’s eye like he’s waiting for a cue.

Richard’s knee is pressed to yours beneath the table. He’s warm. Always warm. Always steady. Dark hair, big hands, a smile that melts hearts. He reaches for your hand when the server asks for drink orders, thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles. It’s sweet.

You don’t pull away but you don’t lean in either.

Clark’s jacket is draped over the back of his chair. Not folded, just tossed, one cuff slipping halfway to the floor. You don’t know if it’s carelessness or comfort. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbow again, forearms tanned and dusted with the soft kind of hair you know would tickle if you touched him there. His collar is slightly askew, just enough to notice, just enough to want to reach for. There’s a cocktail in front of him, untouched. Lime wedge drying. Salt clinging to the rim like something that won’t let go.

The server arrives with her pen poised and fake cheer dialed to eleven. Everyone fumbles for their menus. Clark doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance up when he says, “She’ll have the halibut, no lemon, and Kara wants the risotto. Extra parmesan, right?” It’s too easy. Too practiced. Too casual to be coincidence.

Kara blinks. “How’d you know?”

Clark shrugs. “I remember things.”

Lois snorts. Her chair is angled toward his, their knees brushing, the curve of her ankle tucked behind his boot like they’ve been doing this a while. Her lipstick is already worn at the corners from laughing too hard at something Kara said earlier, and her rings clink against the base of her martini glass when she lifts it.

“Do you remember the thing I told the mayor last week?” she asks, raising a brow over the rim.

Clark’s smile tilts, crooked and boyish. “That’s… different.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty Smallville,” she mutters, and loops her arm through his like it’s a reflex. Her head leans against his shoulder for exactly three seconds, long enough to look effortless, short enough not to make it a thing.

Your heart curls in on itself. You look down at your menu and trace the embossed lettering like it’ll tell you how to feel. Richard is still beside you, saying something to Lux about rooftop yoga studios. Kara’s pretending to be interested, nodding absently as she sips her drink. The city hums just outside the glass railing, and the table is alive with movement, shifting shadows, passing servers, but all you see is the ease in the way Clark holds space.

For Lois. For Kara. Even for Lux and Richard, who are clearly swimming in this whole thing.

You’re the only one at the table who feels like she might shatter if she breathes wrong.

Richard is telling a story now. Something about a Gotham elevator and a guy dressed like a raccoon. Or maybe it was a possum. He’s doing voices, accents, full gestural reenactments. Everyone’s smiling. Even Lux chuckles, finally settling back into his chair like he’s decided not to be afraid of Kara tonight.

You laugh, too. Not because it’s all that funny. But because Clark is watching you.

You can feel it. That soft, familiar weight of his gaze, more aware than affectionate, more quiet than kind. It isn’t hunger. It isn’t even admiration.

It’s recognition. Like he’s watching you become someone else in real time, and he’s wondering how much of you he’ll still know when it’s over.

So you laugh. Too loud. Too long. It bursts out of you like a reflex, sharp and bright and aching at the edges. A sound designed to perform joy, not express it. The kind of laugh that says I’m fine, and means please look away.

You lift your wine glass mid-giggle, but your fingers are too tight around the stem. Too tense. The base wobbles as it hits the table again. Just a little. Just enough.

Clink. The rim kisses the side of your water glass, clear, precise, piercing. The conversation doesn’t stop. But Kara hears it. She turns her head so fast it’s almost a whipcrack, blonde hair catching in the breeze. Her brow is arched. Her mouth pulled tight around a half-finished sip of wine. The look isn’t subtle.

You drop your hand to your lap. Rest it there like it belongs. Her eyes flick between you and Clark, and she doesn’t soften.

“Are you two okay?” she asks. Not just curious. Pointed. Like she’s catching you mid-thought. Mid-shift. Mid-undoing.

You go still. Clark doesn’t. He doesn’t even blink. “Always,” he says. Soft. Steady. Too smooth to be honest. Too practiced to be real.

You nod beside him. Your smile lands like a paper napkin in a rainstorm, folded. Thin. Useless. You take a sip of your wine to keep from answering. To keep from looking. To keep from saying the thing that’s been pressing against the back of your teeth for weeks.

It tastes dry. Too acidic. Heavy with something metallic you can’t name. Like a secret left out in the sun. Like something you forgot to swallow the last time he smiled at you.

You pull it together. You breathe. You fold your napkin across your lap, pick at the bread basket, and start asking Lux about his dissertation topic. You nod while he talks. Smile when Kara cuts him off. Chime in when Lois makes a crack about the state of Metropolis traffic and blames Clark personally.

You laugh at that one for real.

And when Richard, Dick as he started insisting everyone call him after he’s had a few drinks, leans over and murmurs something about how wild this all is, how glad he is that you invited him, how lucky he is, you smile. You reach for his hand under the table. His thumb brushes yours. You anchor yourself there.

He’s good, you think. Smart. Playful. Gentle. He knew how to get you to smile when your shoe broke in the rain last week. He leaves little cartoons in the margins of his notes. He flirts with you in a way that does make your heart flutter sometimes. He bought you a new toothbrush for his apartment without asking.

He isn’t Clark. But he’s good.

So you lean in. Let the night unfold. Let the light and the laughter soften the corners of everything that came before. For a while, it works.

The food arrives. You eat. You laugh more. Clark and Lois get into an absurd debate about sandwich alignment. Kara and Lux vanish briefly to the bar and come back with shots of something blue. The wind picks up around dessert and everyone huddles closer to the heating lamps, shoulders bumping, cheeks flushed from wine and warmth and the neon blur of city lights behind them.

It’s good. You make it good.

Eventually, the table disperses. Someone starts talking about after-party drinks, but the group is full of excuses. Busy days tomorrow. Papers to grade. Meetings to prep for. Someone mentions a looming fire inspection. Kara smirks. Clark groans. Lois just gives you a little wink and murmurs something about how she’s “tired of babysitting this lot.”

Coats are shrugged on. Bags lifted. Goodbyes start like gentle waves, casual but inevitable. Richard moves to help you into your coat, but Clark is already there, tugging it gently from the back of your chair and holding it out with both hands.

You stare. So does Richard. Clark doesn’t say anything, just waits.

You slip your arms through the sleeves, brushing his knuckles on the way. His hands are warm even through the fabric. The collar settles against your throat. Too soft. Too close.

“Thanks,” you murmur. He nods. Doesn’t look at you. Beside you, Lois is wrapping her scarf, already halfway into her own jacket. Clark turns toward her instinctively, reaches to smooth one side of the collar that caught on her hair. She swats at his hand, half-annoyed, half-fond, and says something low you don’t quite catch—but Clark laughs. Quiet. Easy.

And then Richard’s arm slips around your waist. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs you in gently, tilts his head and kisses you. It’s slow. Sweet. Familiar. A little practiced, but not unkind. Your hand lifts to his chest out of reflex. Not to push him away. Not to pull him closer. Just… to steady yourself. But your chest goes still. Not tight. Not aching. Just still. And when you open your eyes again, Kara is staring straight at you. Her expression is unreadable. Lips parted. Brows slightly drawn. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… watching.

You shift your weight. Swallow. She looks past you then to where Clark is standing frozen, still halfway turned from Lois. His hand is at his side now. Still. His eyes flicker once between your face and Richard’s, and then away again. No reaction. None that shows.

He just clears his throat, says something to Lois about the parking garage, and steps back into the breeze. But you feel it anyway. A ripple. A fracture in the air. Like the moment marked something. Even if no one says a word.

-

The morning after, the city is washed in pale gold. Dew climbs the sides of your window. The air smells like coffee and dust and leftover adrenaline.

You wake slow. No hangover, but there’s something thick in your chest. Not sharp, just present. A dull kind of too-much. Richard had left early. Something about a date with his Dad, Bruce. A train back to Gotham. He kissed your temple on the way out, whispered thanks for the night, for the dinner, for you.

You had smiled. Had meant it, even. But your body stayed curled in the same corner of your couch long after the door closed.

By noon, you still haven’t moved far. You’re in an old hoodie and mismatched socks, chewing dry cereal straight from the box with one leg tucked beneath you. Kara texts a meme. Lux sends you a youtube video to some weird video essay about aliens, trucks, and bears and says “this helped my post-date anxiety.”

You snort. Almost reply. Then your phone buzzes again.

Clark Kent: 1 attachment.

No caption. No context. Just a Spotify playlist titled: “for you (shut up, kara)”

You stare at it for a second too long. Then tap it open.

The first song is “Seventeen Again” by The Mighty Crabjoys—his favorite band. You’ve heard him talk about it with too much enthusiasm and absolutely no shame. Said they got him through high school. Said their lyrics were “corny in the exact right way.”

The next is a moody acoustic track, “Lullaby for the End of the World”, melancholy and strange. The kind of song you’d listen to with your forehead pressed to a cold train window.

Then comes “Satellite Heart", then “Nothing Arrived” by Villagers, then “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead.”

One mid-way track is just guitar and silence for almost a full minute before lyrics even start. You don’t know the name, but the ache in it is familiar.

There’s another one by The Mighty Crabjoys, of course. “Soft Armor.” It’s the one he used to hum when doing dishes. You remember teasing him about it once, and he said, “It’s about pretending things don’t hurt when they do.”

By the time “On Your Porch” plays, you’re still not sure what any of it means.

It’s a mess of genres. Pop punk and indie rock and old romantic standards and one Lana Del Rey song you’re pretty sure he meant to delete but forgot. It makes no sense. And every kind of sense.

You scroll through the list, fingertips slow, heart beating somewhere between too loud and not at all. There’s nothing clear. Nothing definitive. No love confession. No hidden message in the song titles.

Just a boy you love, who held your coat last night, and laughed at Lois’ teasing, and didn’t react when Richard kissed you, sending you songs that sound like feeling too much and never saying it.

You don’t ask him about it. You don’t text back. You just tuck the playlist into your likes. Download it to your offline library. Make it your background noise as you do the dishes, as you clean the apartment, as you try and fail not to play every lyric like a tape recorder against the inside of your ribs.

By nightfall, you’ve memorized track three. By morning, it’s the only thing playing in your head. And still, you don’t know what it means. Not really. But you hold it close to your heart anyway.

Like it might mean everything because every song feels chosen. Tender. Devastatingly so. Like someone making space where words can’t go.

Like someone trying to say I see you. I remember. I still care, without daring to say anything at all.

-

You and Dick break up on a Thursday three months later. It’s quiet. It’s civil. It still guts you.

You’re sitting across from him on a park bench, shivering against the early spring wind while he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. There’s no shouting. No betrayal. Just the quiet, tired truth that sometimes good things don’t bloom the way they should.

“I think we’re both holding back,” he says. “I think maybe we’ve been doing that the whole time.”

You want to argue. But your throat is full of glass. So you nod. Once. He kisses your forehead before he goes.

It’s sweet. And final. And not for you.

Clark shows up just after dusk. You don’t call him. You don’t text. But when you open the door, there he is—hood up, hair wet from the light drizzle that started twenty minutes ago, rain dotting his shoulders in dark patches like bruises. Like he knew you needed someone. He always seems to know exactly when you don’t want to be alone.

He holds up a crumpled brown grocery bag, soft with moisture. “I brought soup.”

There’s a six-pack of ginger ale under his arm. Paper towels jammed against his hip. He looks sheepish, like he’s not sure if this is too much or not enough.

You step aside without speaking.

The apartment is too quiet but Clark moves through it like he’s been here a thousand times. In truth, he has.

He doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Just sets the bag on the counter, finds the chipped mugs in the wrong cabinet (you had mindlessly put them away while doing dishes and crying earlier), and pours the soup into one like it’s coffee. He hands it to you without meeting your eyes and sits beside you on the living room floor, his long legs stretched out, knees brushing yours.

You sip without tasting.

The TV hums in the background, low and forgettable. Some sitcom rerun with laugh tracks that ring hollow. Your cheek is sticky with salt where tears dried earlier, and you forgot to wash your face. Clark doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just… stays.

At some point, your foot grazes his. Neither of you move.

Later, you’re curled into the corner of the couch like you’re trying to fold into yourself. Clark sits on the rug, elbows on his knees, watching the shadows shift across your wall. The cocoa he made for you both has gone cold on the coffee table. His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles white.

The silence is heavy. Fragile. Sacred.

“Do you think I’m broken?” you whisper, voice frayed and thin, like the end of a thread.

He turns to look at you—too fast. Like the question hurt him. “No,” he says, with a softness that aches. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The breath you take is sharp. Unsteady. You press your face into the throw pillow and will yourself not to cry again.

He doesn’t tell you not to.

-

Your phone buzzes near midnight.

KARA: i’ll come home right now. say the word. i will fly back and snap his spine like a glowstick.

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you send back: please don’t. he didn’t do anything wrong.

KARA: fine. but only bc clark is there. and only bc you’re the one who asked. i love you, dummy.

You love her too. So much it hurts.

-

Clark makes up the couch without being asked. You try to stop him, softly, not because you want him to go, but because it feels like the right thing to say. The polite thing. The careful thing.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur, standing awkward in the kitchen doorway as he shakes out the old throw blanket. “I’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t look up. Just folds the blanket over one arm and grabs a pillow from the end of the couch. “I know.”

You hesitate. “Lois might want…”

“She understands,” he says, too quickly, stopping you from finishing your sentence. Then, quieter, like the words aren’t meant to be picked apart, he adds, “She knows how much you mean to me.”

You don’t answer, because suddenly, there’s that ache again. The one that lives between your ribs and behind your throat. The one that sounds like I wish you didn’t mean this much.

Clark tucks the pillow behind his head and lowers himself onto the couch with a wince. It’s always too small for him. His socked feet hang off one side, one arm draped over his chest like he’s holding himself in place.

“Clark…” You try again.

“I’m not leaving you alone tonight,” he says gently, like it’s just a fact. Like gravity. “Not after this.”

The air between you stills. You nod. Swallow hard. He tugs the blanket up to his chest and exhales long through his nose, eyes already drifting shut.

“Goodnight,” he says, voice low, the kind of rumble you feel before you hear.

You linger in the doorway, arms crossed tight like they’re holding in everything you want to say. He’s beautiful in the dark, half-lit by the glow of the streetlamp beyond the curtains, shoulders rising and falling, brow still faintly pinched like even in rest he’s trying not to feel too much.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, barely audible.

You go to bed. You don’t sleep well. Not really. But you sleep better knowing he’s here.

And that’s what terrifies you most.

You lie in bed until late into the night, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might finally tell you what to do. The room is too quiet. The bed too big. The ache too familiar.

She made me promise not to love him. You don’t even think she remembers.

But you do.

You remember every inch of it. The summer humidity. The way Kara looked at you. The way her voice had sharpened just enough to make your stomach twist.

You remember the way Clark looked the first time you met him. You remember the curve of his smile and the slight furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. You remember how he didn’t leave tonight, even when you gave him an out.

You bury your face in your pillow and think, I wish I didn’t remember either.

-

The next morning, Kara texts you.

KARA: you okay?

You stare at it for a long time. Then you write back.

YOU: getting there.

She sends back a string of emojis that don’t quite match 💪🥲🍜🪐 and tells you to come over later. And just like that, she’s still your best friend.

The one you’d never, ever hurt. Even if part of you is already doing it just by breathing too hard when he is near.

-

It’s raining again, months and months later, when it ends. Not dramatically, no thunder, no cinematic flashes of lightning, just a slow, steady mist that clings to the Metropolis skyline like the city itself is holding its breath.

You don’t hear it from Clark. You hear it from Kara. The call comes just before dusk.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she says, without preamble. “But he and Lois… it’s done.”

You sit up straighter, hand still wrapped around the tea you haven’t touched. “What do you mean it’s done?”

“I mean they ended it. Talked. Cried. Hugged it out. He packed a bag and left. He’s back at his apartment now.” A beat of silence. “He’s not okay.” She finally adds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “Is he hurt?”

“Not like that.” Kara sighs. “It was mutual. Honest. But you know him. He’s holding it like a dying star inside his chest and pretending it doesn’t burn.”

You close your eyes. It feels like when you open them, you’re already there, knocking on his door twenty minutes later. Kara’s already there, curled up on his couch in sweats and a hoodie that says “Krypto Made Me Do It,” that Clark got her for Christmas last year, balancing a takeout container on her knees. She waves a dumpling in your direction.

“He’s on the roof,” she says, mouth full.

You nod and take the stairs two at a time.

-

You’ve seen Clark heartbroken before.

You were there after the girl in college who said she loved him, but not enough to stay in Kansas. You and Kara brought him takeout after the journalism student who cheated, Kara threatening to go beat her up. You watched him cry once, silently, stubbornly, when a summer fling ghosted him right after Pa Kent’s birthday.

But this? This is different.

You feel it the second you step onto the roof. He’s still in that same beat-up flannel. The same jeans with the frayed pocket. But he’s standing like someone’s rewound him too many times, shoulders bent, head low, arms folded tight against the chill that has nothing to do with the wind. Like he’s trying to hold in the silence before it spills.

The city glows beneath him, golden and soft around the edges. It smells like wet concrete and ozone and the faint sweetness of a corner bakery somewhere down the block.

You’ve never seen him this still. He always moves, pacing, shifting, tapping his fingers against whatever surface is near. Even in grief, he’s kinetic. Quiet, but always doing something. But now, he’s just… here. Heavy. Suspended. And somehow smaller for it.

You hesitate at the stairwell door, your hand still curled around the railing, like you’ve stepped into a moment you were never supposed to witness. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to. You know he knows it’s you. He always does. You're not sure if it's because of his enhanced senses, or if it's something else. The same something that always tells you when he's near.

You walk toward him anyway. Carefully. Each step feels too loud in your own body. Your boots squeak just barely on the damp concrete. When you stop beside him, the silence bends around you both like it’s been waiting. He exhales, long and soft. His breath curls in the cool air between you.

“She said I never fully gave myself to her.” His voice is raw when he finally speaks. Not broken, no, not Clark, but worn, like a page turned too many times.

You swallow. “Did you?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts his weight like the question tugged something loose. Then, almost too quietly, he says, “I thought I had.”

You glance sideways. His jaw is clenched. His curls are wet from the mist, flattened over his temple. There’s a tremble in his fingers where they press against his arm, like he’s holding back more than he knows how to carry.

Your chest tightens. “You loved her.”

“I did.” A beat. “I do.”

“But?”

“But I couldn’t give her what she needed. I didn’t even know I was holding back until she said it.”

You nod. It’s all you can do. The truth tastes like metal on your tongue.

“She deserved more than half my heart,” he adds.

“And you deserve to be loved by someone who didn’t need to ask for the rest.” You say, not unkindly. Just gentle but firm.

He flinches, not from hurt. From recognition. There’s ink on his forearm, you notice. A smear of something that might’ve once been a signature or a note. His sleeves are still rolled. He hasn’t changed since the conversation. Since he left her apartment. That much is painfully clear.

You want to touch him, but you don’t. Instead, you say, softly, “I thought you two were endgame.”

He turns to you then, just barely, and your breath catches. “I think we both did,” he says.

You nod again, your throat too tight to answer. You look out at the skyline instead. Let the lights of the city blur behind unshed tears.

“I wasn’t going to call you,” he says, sudden in the quiet.

You blink. “Why?”

His hand finds your wrist, not holding, just there. Anchoring. Then, finally he shrugs, like it costs him something to bring it up. “Didn’t want to make it worse.”

Your brow furrows. “Worse how?”

A beat. His eyes stay forward. “Just… figured if I saw you tonight, I’d feel things I don’t know what to do with.”

The silence that follows is dense. Not uncomfortable. Just… full. Like there’s too much unsaid suspended between your shoulders. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t press.

He lets go.

And you let him.

You walk back downstairs together, feet barely making a sound. When you step inside, Kara looks up from the couch. Her hair’s a mess. She’s already wrapped Krypto in one of Clark’s blankets and is halfway through a box of cheezits.

She doesn’t ask about your conversation. Just nods toward the seat beside her and gestures with her hands like nothing in the world has changed.

You sit. Clark drops beside you a few minutes later. The couch is too small. Your thighs touch. He doesn’t shift away. Kara starts a movie. Something loud and dumb. You can’t follow the plot. Because Clark’s elbow brushes yours every few seconds. Because your pinkies are almost touching.

Because you’re here, in the quiet that follows a storm you didn’t think you’d live to see. Sitting beside the boy who’s been part of your world for so long it hurts to remember a time he wasn’t. And now, for the first time in years, he isn’t holding someone else’s heart in his hands.

You don’t know what that means. Not yet. But you feel it. The shift. The hush. The space that opens and doesn’t immediately close.

Neither of you says a word but something lingers. Unnamed.

And staying.

-

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