𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖

Metropolis is a big city. Skyscrapers, museums, apartment buildings, cute little houses on the outskirts. Its sky is open and downpouring right now, and you hurry to move your body beneath an overhang on a nearby business. You look up into the roiling sky. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. 

Your gut feels heavy, and your heart aches. 

Your phone, which is on two percent from playing music in your earbuds, buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, and when you do, rain droplets dot the screen until you cover it with your hand. A text from Lois has flashed across the screen. 

Lois: Weather’s too cruddy to go to the lake. Do you wanna do something else?

You huff. You’re nearly forty minutes away from anyplace you know, having been on a walk before this angry, all-encompassing storm rolled in and overtook Metropolis. You go to respond, then decide that replying while in this frustrated mental state is a bad idea. 

Instead, you click your phone off and lean against the wall of the building you’re huddled beneath. Where can you go? Night is falling, and your phone is going to die. You suppose you could run to a coffee shop, but even then, it would surely be another ten minutes to the nearest one. You glance up. 

344 Clinton Street. 

The familiar street sign makes your heart leap into your throat. 

Clark’s apartment is close by. 

Clark is close by. 

You swallow harshly, then glance down at your phone, which is now at one percent. The thought of facing Clark after the way you shouted at him a few weeks ago makes you feel ill. You close your eyes, letting the memory slip over you. 

Images of you in your formal wear and him in his grimy Superman suit flash through your mind. It was the third time he’d missed a date in favor of fulfilling his Superman duties, duties that he had decided were his. 

You cringe inwardly when you think of the way you spoke to him, enraged and in-tears as you told him to get off your doorstep, which he’d shown up on three hours too late. And you can still see it, the pain in his eyes. The regret. The guilt. 

You recall the texts he’d sent later that night and into the following morning. Apologies. Professions of his love. Promises to change. 

Excuses. 

Or so you thought. 

You still catch him staring when you’re at The Daily Planet while you're hunched over your computer and focused on writing. You notice when he lingers by your desk, hoping you’ll speak to him. You recognize what he’s doing when he comes over to speak to Cat or ask her for advice – he just wants a reason to look at you. Just wants an excuse to be closeby. 

He misses you, that’s no secret. And you miss him too, which is arguably less noticeable. You don’t even know how many nights you’ve spent wishing he was with you – your shoulder to cry on, yours to have and hold and love. It’s pained you to do this. 

Maybe that’s why you’ve been so snippety. So uptight. So wishy-washy. You’re fragile because your kind-of boyfriend hasn’t been around.

You look up at the apartment building, then step towards the lobby doors. You open them, step inside, and start towards the elevator before you can stop yourself. Your heart thuds in your chest. What am I doing? you think to yourself as you press the 4th floor button, then let out a shaky breath. The doors close. The elevator makes you sway with its movement. You wipe a bit of sweat-mixed-with-rain off of your forehead and wipe it on your sweat pants instead. 

You look a mess. Hopefully he won’t mind. 

The elevator doors open, and you step down the hall to get to apartment 3-D. It’s freakishly familiar. His silly little welcome mat seems to beckon you. You step forward, your tennis shoes squeaking softly as you walk, and raise your hand to rap on the door. 

It opens before you can, and just like that, Clark is right here.

Your lips part. He looks…lost. Like a puppy that’s been out on the street looking for its owner. It crushes you. He’s wearing a t-shirt and joggers, which feels uncomfortably casual for a man like Clark who knows how to dress himself. His eyes are slightly wide, brows slightly raised. 

“It’s you,” he says. You nod. 

“It’s me.”

“I heard…I heard you coming,” he says, gesturing to his ears. Right. His super-hearing. He recognized your heartbeat. Well, he’s certainly listened to it enough…

“I was on a walk when the storm came in,” you explain. You hold up your phone. “Phone’s dead.”

Clark swallows harshly, looking you over. He says nothing, just takes in your slightly disheveled appearance. Just like that, there’s a lump in your throat. You’ve missed him so badly. 

Late nights working on articles together, cooking dinner together, running errands, going on dates, spending late evenings together between the sheets. All of it. All of him.

“I-I didn’t realize how close I was to your apartment, so I figured…I figured I’d come up and…”

Clark looks at you. You hate that he’s making you speak up for yourself. He’s looking at you with hopeful eyes, eyes that you’ve looked into countless times, eyes that you’ve always gotten lost in – and your bottom lip quivers. 

“...I just thought we could talk,” you say finally, nodding slightly. Clark nods, then opens the door wider to let you in. You wipe your feet before stepping inside and leaning down to take your shoes off. 

“I’ll get you a towel,” he says, starting through the apartment to get to the bathroom. You stand in the entryway, lingering as you wait for him. You look around at his place, the place you’ve been inside of countless times. It’s messier than usual.

“Here,” he says, handing you a bath towel. “I’ll get you some dry clothes, too.”

“Oh, that’s–”

“I know people can get sick from staying in wet clothes,” Clark calls, already having started back down the hallway to get some clothes from his bedroom. You sigh, then unzip your hoodie and slip it off. You drape it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. 

Clark returns moments later with a sleep shirt, some pajama pants, and a pair of boxers. He offers you a small smile. 

“It’s the best I can do,” he says. You nod, taking the clothes from him. 

“Thank you,” you say. You hesitate. “Clark, I–”

“You should really change before you get sick–”

“-- I’m sorry for everything.”

Clark pauses, lips parted as he looks you over. His eyes are wet. Your throat is tight. You think of all the nights you’ve spent alone since you kicked him out that day. All the times you’ve wished you could give him another chance. The stubbornness that got in the way. 

You swallow harshly. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”

“You had every right to be,” Clark says. You nod.

“I know I did,” you tell him. “Still. I wish I hadn’t been. It wasn’t your fault, not really.”

Clark says your name quietly. He shakes his head. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I’m sorry I was being hard-headed,” you admit, voice wavering. “I-It’s…Been really lonely without you.”

Clark smiles ever so slightly. 

“I meant what I said that night, you know,” he says, stepping forward. You follow him with your eyes as he gets closer. 

“You said a lot of things that night,” you whisper. 

“The part about me loving you,” Clark says. Your breath catches. It’s lingered with you since that night, but you were trying not to let it sit with you, trying not to let it touch you. 

It’s everywhere, now, all-encompassing and entire. You feel his love everywhere.

Your lip quivers again. Clark touches your cheek. 

“Don’t cry,” he says. You chuckle wetly. 

“I-I’m not,” you say, wrapping your arms around his middle and tugging him close. You breathe him in. “I love you, too.”

Clark exhales, relieved. He wraps his arms around you in return. He rests his chin atop your head. 

“Thank you for coming,” he says. You sniffle as you pull back and look up at him. His lips are pink and plush, and you lean up to kiss him firmly. He hums, slightly surprised but not at all offended. Your mouth works against Clark’s, and his hands find your hips. He tugs at your tank top. 

“Sorry I’m all sweaty and gross,” you say. Clark shakes his head. 

“You’re not gross,” he says. 

You smile, touching his cheek again as he pulls your tank top off, then removes your sports-bra, too. He lifts you up into his arms easily, and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, heat blooming between your thighs as he sets you on the kitchen island. You instantly spread your legs to make room for him to stand between them. You push your hands up under his t-shirt, feeling his firm stomach. 

“I missed you,” you tell him, even though you already said it when you first got here. He kisses you again as you tug his shirt up. You break apart long enough to give you enough time to toss his shirt aside before you’re on him again, wrapping your legs around his hips and tugging him forward against you. His cock is hard, you can see it through his joggers, and you let out a soft breath at the sight. 

“I missed you, too,” Clark sighs. “So much.”

He squeezes your breasts, then lowers his head to kiss along your chest. You run your fingers through his hair as he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and teases it with his tongue. Heat washes over you. 

“Oh, god,” you sigh. “Please…”

“Mm,” Clark hums, making his way over to your other breast. He holds you close, keeping your body flush against his as much as he can. You rut your hips forward and grind yourself against him. 

“Need you,” you breathe. He looks up at you, your nipple still in his mouth, and you bite your lip at the sight. He’s so pretty like this, with his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown wide. You caress his face. “Get in me, Clark.”

He pulls away from your breast, and you run your hands along his biceps as he pulls your sweatpants and underwear down. They bunch around your ankles, and you wrestle to get them off for a moment before you spread your legs wide for him. He pulls his cock out quickly and easily, and you bite your lip at the sight. His cock is hard and flushed and leaking at the tip, and it almost makes your mouth water. You look up at him as he tugs you to the edge of the island and presses his tip against your entrance. 

“Fuck, please,” you sigh. Clark touches the side of your face with his free hand. 

“I know,” he says softly, pressing in. “I’ve got you.”

You gasp at the feeling of him filling you up. Your nails dig into his shoulders, but Clark hardly notices. He presses in until he’s completely inside of you, and you look up at him with wide, wet eyes. 

“P-Please, I need this so bad,” you breathe. Clark nods. He kisses you as he begins to rock his hips. Your slick coats him, and the movements cause wet squelching sounds to fill the kitchen. You hold onto him tightly, moaning with each quick thrust.  “Oh gosh,” Clark sighs. You moan, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. 

“Fuck, I love you,” you breathe. Clark grins, meeting your eyes as he rocks his hips faster. 

“I love you, too,” he smiles. He kisses you again. You give his hair a tug and tilt your hips up. His tip rubs up against your g-spot, and you gasp, moaning loudly as he repeatedly hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. 

“Oh fuck!” you gasp. “Right there! Right there, baby!”

You’re holding onto his hair like your life depends on it, and he’s grunting against you, and oh god this must be heaven. 

Metropolis doesn’t exist when the two of you are like this. The bustle of the city, the thunder up above – it all fades away. Nothing matters, not when you’re here with Clark. You’re grateful that you closed the distance. You’re glad that Lois cancelled on you. 

The city is massive, yes, but it feels small when you’re here in Clark’s little apartment. You don’t care that the wind is whistling and the rain is pitter-pattering against the roof of the building. The only thing you can think of is how hot you feel, how tingly your body is as Clark slams into you and moans in your ear. 

You bring a hand down between your thighs and begin to rub your clit. You moan, tears filling your eyes at the sensitivity. Your insides clench around Clark’s cock, and he falters for just a moment. 

“You feel s-so good,” he sighs, resting his forehead against yours. You nod in agreement. 

“I-I’m close,” you breathe. “Fill me up.”

Clark grunts at this, and he grips your hips tighter as he chases his orgasm desperately. He kisses you sloppily, all teeth and tongue, and you let him. He needs this just as much as you do. How romantic. 

Your orgasm begins to swell, and you moan, your breathing uneven and ragged as he plows into you and works for his pleasure, for your pleasure. He presses his face against your shoulder and breathes you in. You touch the back of his head, holding him close as you continue to rub your clit. 

You teeter on the edge. Clark gasps suddenly, and you feel it – the wet heat deep inside of your core. He’s come. The realization makes you fall over the edge, and you groan as you rub your clit faster. Your core floods, absolutely dripping with both your arousal and his, and Clark’s thrusts slow as you squeeze his cock with your walls. 

“Fuck,” you breathe as your orgasm dies down, fizzles away. You lean against him, clinging to him as if letting go meant he’d disappear. You moan softly as he wraps his arms around you and hugs you. 

“Thank you,” Clark whispers. You kiss him. 

“For what?” 

“Everything.”

You pull back and smile up at him dreamily. You push the stray curls out of his face, then hold his face in your hands. 

“I love you,” you say simply. Clark nods. 

“I love you, too.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Taglist: @corens0ups @whydontyouputyourseatbelton @avastarred @supermanville @kryptidfiles @spookypersondinosaur

(Interested in joining my taglist? Fill out this anonymous Google form to ensure that you'll be tagged in whatever works you want!!)

rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.

The apartment was dark except for the lamp glowing softly on his side of the bedroom. It felt unbearably quiet.

You sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on your knees, staring at nothing. Your stomach twisted painfully beneath your ribs. It had become a familiar sensation, that constant knot of anxiety and exhaustion that seemed to follow you everywhere these days.

You couldn't remember when it had started. Weeks ago, maybe. Months. Long enough that the feeling had settled into your bones and become part of your daily life, impossible to separate from yourself. It followed you everywhere now, that constant knot in your stomach, that vague sense of wrongness you could never quite name. Some mornings you woke up convinced the feeling would finally be gone. Other mornings you lay there staring at the ceiling, already exhausted by the thought of carrying it through another day.

The bathroom door opened behind you.

Clark stepped into the room with a towel draped around his neck, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He paused almost immediately when he saw you sitting on the edge of the bed. For a moment he didn't say anything. He just watched you, and even without looking, you could feel it. His attention. His concern.

That was the thing about Clark.

He noticed everything when it came to you.

Not in an overbearing way. He wasn't watching for mistakes or signs of weakness. He simply cared. Deeply. Endlessly. Sometimes you thought he carried your emotions as carefully as he carried the weight of the world itself.

"Hey."

You glanced over your shoulder.

His voice was warm and familiar, soft enough that it blended into the quiet hum of the apartment. Once, that voice had been enough to settle every anxious thought in your head. Lately, it only made your chest ache.

"Hey."

Clark's eyes searched your face for a moment before he asked, "You okay?"

A small laugh escaped you, though there wasn't anything funny about the question. It sounded tired even to your own ears.

"No."

The answer was barely out of your mouth before his expression changed. His shoulders softened. The faint smile he'd walked into the room with disappeared completely. It wasn't dramatic. Clark never made your pain about himself. But he felt it. You could always see it in his eyes whenever you were hurting.

Without another word, he crossed the room and sat beside you. The mattress shifted beneath his weight, his shoulder brushing yours for a brief second before he settled. The familiar warmth of him should have been comforting. Instead, it made something twist painfully in your chest.

For a while neither of you spoke.

You stared down at your hands while Clark sat quietly beside you, giving you space while somehow still making it clear he was there. He had always been good at that. Being present without demanding anything in return.

Eventually, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

The confession sounded pathetic the moment it left your mouth.

Clark shook his head immediately.

"Nothing's wrong with you."

"There is."

Your voice cracked around the words.

"There has to be."

A year ago, he would've argued. He would've wrapped you in his arms and spent the next hour reminding you of every reason he loved you. He would've listed every good thing he saw in you until you rolled your eyes and told him to stop being ridiculous.

Now he only fell quiet.

Not because he agreed.

Because he'd learned that reassurance wasn't reaching you anymore.

And the fact that he knew that terrified him.

You felt tears threatening behind your eyes and immediately looked away. Crying in front of Clark had never embarrassed you. If anything, the opposite was true. Clark had always been the safest person you knew.

The problem was that he cared too much.

Every tear felt like another weight he immediately tried to carry for you. Every bad day became his bad day. Every hurt became something he wanted to fix, even when it couldn't be fixed.

His hand found yours where they rested in your lap.

The gesture was instinctive, so natural he probably didn't even think about it. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, tracing the same soothing pattern he had hundreds of times before.

"You don't have to figure everything out tonight."

You let out a slow breath.

"I've been saying that every night."

The words came out sharper than you intended.

The guilt followed immediately.

You saw it register in his expression, not as hurt or frustration, but as sadness. Clark simply lowered his gaze to your joined hands, and somehow that hurt more than if he'd argued back.

Once upon a time, moments like this had felt easier. One of you would've cracked a joke. The other would've laughed despite themselves. You would've ended up ordering food at midnight or falling asleep halfway through a movie with your feet tangled together under a blanket.

Back then, the hard moments felt temporary.

Now every conversation seemed to carry the weight of something larger beneath it. Every word felt carefully chosen. Every silence stretched too long. It was like both of you were walking across broken glass, trying desperately not to make things worse while knowing neither of you could remember what "better" was supposed to feel like anymore.

You shifted backward until your head rested against the headboard. Clark stayed where he was. Close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally, far enough that you noticed the distance.

Months ago, he would've pulled you against his chest without thinking. You would've stolen his shirt. He would've complained about it while secretly loving every second.

Now even affection felt delicate.

Not absent.

Never absent.

Just fragile.

Like something the two of you were handling with trembling hands, terrified of dropping.

The silence stretched between you again before you finally whispered, "I keep waiting to wake up feeling normal again."

Clark swallowed hard.

You saw the movement in his throat. Saw the way his jaw tightened as he stared at the floor.

"I know."

Your eyes burned.

"I keep thinking tomorrow will be different."

Tomorrow I'll feel better.

Tomorrow I'll feel like myself.

Tomorrow we'll find our way back to each other.

The thoughts stayed trapped inside your chest, but Clark seemed to hear them anyway.

"I know."

His voice was so quiet it nearly disappeared into the darkness.

And that was the problem.

He knew.

He knew you weren't happy. He knew how hard you were trying. He saw every effort, every forced smile, every attempt to recreate what the two of you used to have. He knew how desperately you wanted to fix whatever had gone wrong, and he knew that despite all of it, despite the love that still existed between you, nothing seemed to be changing.

You closed your eyes as his fingers tightened gently around yours.

Clark wasn't looking away because he was angry. He wasn't withdrawing because he cared less.

If anything, the opposite was true.

He was looking away because watching you suffer was breaking his heart right alongside yours. And somewhere deep down, beneath all the fear and denial, you wondered if he had already accepted something you still couldn't bring yourself to face.

That sometimes love wasn't what failed.

Sometimes love survived all the way to the end.

And that was what made saying goodbye so unbearable.

You tried anyway.

God, you both did.

Two weeks later, Clark came home with reservations for the tiny Italian restaurant where you'd had your first date. He was trying to sound casual when he told you, leaning against the kitchen counter while you made coffee, but you could see the hope written all over his face.

"The Italian place?" you asked.

He nodded. "I thought it might be nice."

And that was the thing. It wasn't some grand gesture. Clark had never been a grand gesture kind of person. He was thoughtful in a way that sometimes felt almost painful. He remembered things. Tiny things. The kind of details most people forgot.

He remembered that you'd ordered ravioli on your first date because you'd been too nervous to try anything unfamiliar. He remembered that you'd laughed so hard you snorted water through your nose when he knocked over his drink. He remembered that you'd stayed until closing because neither of you wanted the night to end.

He remembered everything.

So of course he remembered the restaurant.

The place hadn't changed much. The same red checkered tablecloths covered the tables. The same old Sinatra songs played softly through the speakers. Even the owner recognized you the second you walked through the door.

"Look at you two," the older man said with a grin. "Still asking for the same booth."

Clark laughed and glanced at you.

For a moment, it almost felt normal.

You smiled. The owner led you toward the back of the restaurant. Clark rested a hand against your lower back as you walked, a gesture so familiar he probably wasn't even aware he was doing it anymore.

A year ago, you wouldn't have noticed it.

Now you noticed everything.

The way he waited for you to sit first. The way he remembered to ask for the sparkling water you liked before you'd even opened the menu. The way he kept glancing at you throughout the evening, as though searching for some sign that this was working. Because that was what the night really was. An attempt. Another attempt. One more effort to find whatever it was the two of you had lost.

The problem was that neither of you had actually lost the important things.

Looking across the table at him, listening as he smiled through a story about work, you knew you still loved him. Clark loved you too. That wasn't the issue. The issue was that everything seemed to require effort now. Conversation used to flow so naturally between you that entire evenings disappeared without either of you noticing. Tonight, every topic felt carefully selected, every silence stretched a little too long before one of you rushed to fill it, and every laugh arrived half a second later than it should have.

At one point, Clark started telling a story about Jimmy. Something about a disastrous interview and a ruined cup of coffee. You remembered the version of yourself who would've been crying with laughter before he even reached the punchline, interrupting him three times because you couldn't stop giggling. Instead, you smiled and let out a soft laugh that faded almost as quickly as it came. Clark noticed. You saw it in the slight hesitation in his voice, in the way his smile faltered for the briefest moment before he continued. Neither of you acknowledged it.

What was there to say?

Sorry, I'm trying. Sorry, I miss us too. Sorry, I don't know how to get back to where we were.

The rest of dinner passed much the same way. Nothing went wrong. There was no argument, no harsh words, no dramatic moment either of you could point to and blame. If anything, that was what made it hurt. You were sitting in the exact booth where you'd fallen in love with Clark Kent. The food was good. The company was good. Clark was kind and attentive and trying so hard that it made your chest ache every time you looked at him. And somehow, despite all of that, something still felt missing.

The drive home was quiet, though not uncomfortably so. The silence had slowly become familiar over the last few months. City lights streaked across the passenger window while Clark drove, one hand resting on the steering wheel and the other lying between you on the center console, palm up, close enough that you could take it if you wanted to. You noticed it immediately. The invitation wasn't deliberate enough to be obvious, but you knew him too well not to recognize it. For years, you would've reached for him without thinking. At red lights. Walking down the street. Sitting side by side on the couch. It had always been as natural as breathing.

Now you found yourself staring at the space between your hands, wondering when something so effortless had become something you had to think about.

Clark left his hand there for several minutes. Long enough that you knew he was waiting. Long enough that you knew he was hoping. Eventually, without looking away from the road, he curled his fingers inward and returned his hand to the steering wheel. The movement was so small that anyone else would've missed it, but it settled heavily in your chest anyway. Neither of you spoke for the rest of the drive home. You watched the city pass by outside your window while Clark kept his eyes on the road, both of you pretending not to notice the growing realization that no amount of revisiting the past could recreate what had once come so easily.

Big Sur was supposed to save things.

At least, that was what you secretly hoped when Clark suggested it.

The idea had sounded so simple at the time. Leave Metropolis behind for a few days. Get away from work, from responsibilities, from the endless routine that seemed to have swallowed both of you whole. Maybe if you returned to the place where you'd once been happiest together, you could find whatever it was you'd lost along the way.

Big Sur had always felt like yours.

Not because you'd discovered it first or because it belonged to either of you, but because some of your happiest memories lived there. The winding roads hugging the coastline. The ocean stretching endlessly beyond the cliffs. The salty air that seemed to seep into everything. It was the place you escaped to whenever life became too loud, too complicated, too overwhelming.

The first time you'd come, you'd barely left each other's side. You remembered racing Clark down the beach despite knowing perfectly well that he could outrun you without trying. You remembered collapsing breathless into the sand afterward while he laughed so hard he could barely speak. You remembered staying up until two in the morning wrapped in blankets on the cabin porch, talking about everything and nothing while the waves crashed somewhere below. Back then, the future had felt impossibly large. Every conversation seemed to end with another plan, another dream, another reason to be excited about what came next.

So you rented the same cabin.

Walked the same trails.

Stopped at the same overlooks.

You even ordered from the same little café where Clark had once spent ten minutes trying to convince you to share a slice of pie before eating half of yours anyway.

You recreated everything.

And somehow, that was exactly what made it hurt.

Because every familiar place came with a memory attached to it. Every turn in the road reminded you of a different version of yourselves. Happier. Lighter. More certain. You found yourself constantly comparing the present to the past without meaning to. This is where we took that picture. This is where Clark slipped on the rocks and pretended he meant to do it. This is where we talked until sunrise.

The memories arrived so easily.

The feelings didn't.

On your final evening, you found yourselves sitting on a weathered wooden bench overlooking the ocean. The sky was awash in gold and orange, sunlight spilling across the water in shimmering ribbons. The view was breathtaking. The kind of view people traveled across the country to see.

Years ago, the two of you would've been talking over each other, pointing out shapes in the clouds or making ridiculous plans for the future. Clark would've had his arm around your shoulders. You would've been teasing him about something. There would've been laughter.

Now, neither of you seemed to know what to do with the silence.

You sat with your knees pulled to your chest while the wind tugged loose strands of hair across your face. Beside you, Clark rested his forearms on his thighs, staring out at the water. Every now and then you caught him glancing at you, only for him to quickly look away when you noticed.

The distance between you wasn't large. A few inches at most. If either of you leaned slightly to one side, your shoulders would touch. And yet it felt enormous. You sat beside each other watching the sun sink lower over the horizon, the ocean stretching endlessly below the cliffs, neither quite sure what to do with the silence that had settled between you. Eventually, you broke it.

"Do you remember our first trip here?"

Clark smiled faintly, the expression reaching his eyes for the first time all evening. "Of course."

"You said this was where you'd bring me if the world ever ended."

A soft laugh escaped him. "I did say that."

"You were so dramatic."

His smile widened slightly. "I still am."

For a moment, something almost felt normal. You could hear the familiar warmth in his voice, see traces of the man you'd fallen in love with sitting beside you. It reminded you of late nights on this same coastline years ago, when conversations seemed endless and every plan for the future felt exciting instead of uncertain. But the moment slipped away as quickly as it arrived. The silence returned, heavier this time, and neither of you rushed to fill it. You watched the waves break against the cliffs below, white foam disappearing into the darkening water, and before you could stop yourself, the question you'd been carrying for months finally escaped.

"Why doesn't it feel like that anymore?"

The words hung between you. You hadn't planned to say them. Maybe you hadn't even realized how badly you needed to. But once they were there, neither of you could pretend not to hear them.

Clark's smile slowly faded. Not dramatically, not all at once. It simply disappeared as he turned his gaze back toward the ocean. The wind moved through the grass around you. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried out over the water. You waited for an answer, for an explanation, for something tangible you could hold onto and fix. Maybe they'd stopped making time for each other. Maybe life had gotten in the way. Maybe they'd both become so focused on holding everything together that they'd forgotten how to simply be together. You wanted a reason because reasons could be solved.

But when Clark finally spoke, his voice was quiet and tired.

"I don't know."

The honesty of it settled heavily in your chest. There was no betrayal to point to, no anger, no secret resentment, no singular moment where everything had gone wrong. You still loved him. Looking at Clark, you could see that he still loved you too. It was there in the way he looked at you, in the way he still instinctively reached for you, in the way he'd spent months trying to save something neither of you fully understood. And yet here you were, sitting in the place that held some of your happiest memories, watching the last of the sunlight disappear beyond the horizon and realizing that neither of you knew how to get back there. Not to Big Sur. To each other.

As darkness slowly settled over the coastline, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You simply sat side by side, grieving something that was still alive and wondering when love had stopped feeling like enough.

The conversation happened three weeks later.

By then, neither of you were pretending it wasn't coming.

The signs had been there for months. In the silences that lasted a little too long. In the conversations that felt increasingly difficult to navigate. In the way both of you kept trying to recreate old versions of yourselves and old versions of your relationship, only to leave feeling more disappointed than before. Neither of you had said the words out loud, but they had settled between you anyway, an uninvited presence neither of you could ignore.

It was nearly midnight when it finally happened.

Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows, turning the city outside into a blur of lights and reflections. A movie played on the television, though neither of you had been paying attention for most of it. You sat curled into one end of the couch with a blanket draped over your lap while Clark occupied the opposite side, his arm resting along the back cushion.

Every so often, you caught him glancing toward you from the corner of your eye. Every time you looked back, he quickly returned his attention to the screen, but it didn't fool you. Your chest had been tight all evening, not because you knew exactly what was coming, but because you could feel him gathering the courage to say it. The same way you could feel a storm building before the first drop of rain ever touched the ground.

Finally, the television clicked silent.

The sound of the rain suddenly seemed much louder.

Your heart dropped as you slowly turned toward him. Clark was already looking at you.

"Hey."

It was only one word, but it carried enough weight to make your stomach twist. You had heard Clark speak your name in a thousand different ways over the years. Teasing. Sleepy. Happy. Frustrated. Laughing. This was different. This sounded like goodbye.

"Can we talk?"

The room blurred instantly. You hated how quickly your body understood what your mind was still trying to deny. For a moment all you could do was stare at him before finally nodding. Clark lowered his gaze and rubbed his palms against his jeans, and that was when you noticed his hands were shaking.

The sight nearly broke you.

This was Clark. A man who could stop trains with his bare hands. A man who could lift collapsed buildings, fly through hurricanes, and stand between entire cities and danger without hesitation. Yet his hands were shaking because of this conversation. Not because he was afraid of you, but because he was terrified of hurting you.

"I don't know how to do this."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

You felt your throat tighten.

Neither did you.

"I know."

A hollow laugh escaped him. He dragged a hand down his face before looking at you again, and this time you saw the tears already gathering in his eyes.

"I love you."

The words landed with enough force to knock the air from your lungs because there wasn't a single part of you that doubted them. You knew Clark loved you. You knew it every morning he woke up before you to make coffee exactly the way you liked it. Every time he instinctively reached for your hand while crossing a street. Every time he remembered some tiny detail you'd mentioned months ago and brought it up as though it were the most important thing in the world. Every time he looked at you as though you were the only person in the room.

You knew.

"I know."

His eyes closed briefly.

When they opened again, they were red.

"You know I do."

"I know."

"And that's the problem."

The tears came immediately because you understood exactly what he meant.

Clark closed his eyes like the sight physically hurt him. You stood so quickly the blanket slipped from your lap and fell to the floor.

"No."

Your voice sounded distant.

"You don't get to say that."

"I know."

"Then why are you saying it?"

"Because it's true."

His voice cracked completely this time.

"I love you so much."

The pain in his face was unbearable.

You turned away, pressing a hand over your mouth as tears spilled down your cheeks. Behind you, you heard Clark stand from the couch. When he spoke again, his voice was closer.

"You haven't been happy in a long time."

"That doesn't mean I don't love you."

"I know."

"Then stop saying that."

The tears were impossible to stop now.

"I know things haven't been perfect. I know we've been struggling. I know I've been distant and sad and exhausted all the time."

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. At the man you'd built a life with. The man you still loved. The man who was standing in front of you crying too.

"But can't we keep trying?"

The question seemed to physically wound him.

You saw it happen.

Hope and heartbreak and guilt colliding all at once behind his eyes. Because he wanted to. God, he wanted to. If love alone could've saved this, Clark would've spent the rest of his life trying.

But that wasn't what this was anymore.

"I think we've been trying," he said quietly. "For a long time."

The truth settled between you.

Neither of you spoke for several seconds. The rain continued tapping softly against the windows. The city carried on outside while everything inside the apartment seemed to stop.

Clark took a small step closer.

"You deserve to be happy."

A bitter laugh escaped you.

"You sound like a breakup cliché."

Fresh tears immediately filled his eyes because he knew exactly how pathetic it sounded. How unfair it sounded. How impossible it was to hear. Yet he said it anyway because he believed it.

"You deserve someone who doesn't make you feel trapped."

"You don't make me feel trapped."

The answer came instantly.

Without hesitation.

Because it was true.

Clark had never trapped you. Never controlled you. Never stopped loving you. If anything, he'd spent months trying to give you space to breathe, trying to carry your sadness alongside you, trying to save something he was slowly beginning to realize he couldn't save.

"Then why are you miserable?"

The question shattered whatever remained.

You started crying harder because neither of you had an answer. Not a real one. There was no villain here. No betrayal. No broken trust. No dramatic mistake that could be fixed with an apology. Just two people who loved each other desperately standing in the middle of a living room, trying to understand why that love no longer seemed capable of making either of them happy.

And maybe that was the answer.

Maybe that was the tragedy of it all.

Not that the love was gone, but that it was still there. Still alive. Still aching. Still refusing to die even as everything around it slowly fell apart.

The next morning arrived far too quickly.

Neither of you had slept much. At some point, you had both retreated to opposite sides of the apartment, giving each other space neither of you actually wanted. You'd spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain against the windows and trying not to think about the fact that this was the last time you would wake up here. The last time Clark would be in the next room. The last time this place would feel like yours.

By morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained stubbornly gray. Thick clouds hung over Metropolis, turning the city outside into a wash of muted colors and blurred outlines. Even the usual energy of the streets seemed quieter somehow. Or maybe that was just you. Maybe grief had a way of making everything else seem distant.

The apartment was almost empty now. The photographs had been taken down. The books you'd accumulated together over the years had been divided into uneven stacks. The small traces of your life together were disappearing piece by piece, leaving behind a space that already felt unfamiliar.

Clark carried your suitcase downstairs.

Of course he did.

You'd offered to take it yourself. He'd ignored you.

Neither of you spoke much during the elevator ride. What was left to say? The important conversation had already happened. Every argument, every attempt, every desperate plea to keep trying had already been laid bare the night before. All that remained now was the part neither of you had known how to prepare for.

Actually leaving.

The taxi was already waiting at the curb when you stepped outside.

The driver glanced at the two of you through the windshield before politely looking away again. You wondered what he saw. Maybe just another couple saying goodbye. Maybe nothing at all.

Your suitcase sat between you on the sidewalk.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Clark looked exhausted. His eyes were red. His shoulders seemed heavier somehow, as though he hadn't slept either.

You probably looked the same.

For several seconds, you simply stood there staring at each other.

Then Clark crossed the distance first.

Of course he did.

The second his arms wrapped around you, something inside you shattered.

You buried your face against his chest and immediately became aware of every familiar thing you were about to lose. The scent of his laundry detergent. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth of his body. The way his hand automatically settled against the back of your head.

For one terrible moment, everything felt normal.

Not fixed. Not healed. Just familiar.

Buried against Clark's chest, surrounded by his warmth, you could almost pretend none of the last few months had happened. It felt like coming home after a long day. Like Sunday mornings spent tangled together beneath blankets. Like movie nights on the couch and sleepy conversations in the kitchen while he made coffee before work. All the ordinary moments you'd once taken for granted suddenly felt precious now that you were losing them. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his jacket, and when Clark's arms tightened around you in return, you realized neither of you wanted to let go.

Then you felt it.

His shoulders were shaking.

The realization hit harder than anything that had happened the night before. Harder than the conversation. Harder than the decision. Harder than the sight of your packed suitcase sitting beside the curb. Clark was crying. Not quietly, not the restrained tears he'd tried so hard to hide in the apartment, but real, uncontrollable grief. His entire body trembled with it.

Because he loved you.

Still.

Enough to let you go. Enough to stand here and break his own heart because he genuinely believed it was what was best for you.

"I don't want this."

His voice was muffled against your hair, raw and broken in a way you'd never heard before.

"I know."

"I really don't."

The desperation in those three words nearly undid you.

"I know, baby."

For a long moment neither of you moved. Eventually, you forced yourself to pull back, and the sight of him almost shattered whatever composure you had left. His cheeks were wet, his eyes red and exhausted. There was no trace of Superman standing in front of you. No symbol. No invincible hero. Just Clark. Just the man you'd loved for years. The man who looked as though someone had reached into his chest and torn something vital away.

You'd seen him cry before. A funeral. A devastating loss. A few private moments he never allowed anyone else to witness. Never like this. Never so openly. Never so helplessly.

Your hands rose instinctively to his face. Your thumbs brushed across his cheeks as you tried to memorize every detail. The tiny scar near his eyebrow. The faint freckles scattered across his skin. The slight crook in his nose. The way his hair curled when it grew too long. Ridiculous things. Small things. Things that suddenly felt desperately important because you were terrified of forgetting them.

A broken laugh escaped through your tears.

Clark frowned softly.

"You know what's unfair?"

He swallowed hard.

"What?"

Your lips trembled.

"I wish you loved me less."

The reaction was immediate. His face crumpled completely, pain flashing across his features so quickly you almost regretted saying it.

"Don't."

"If you loved me less, maybe we'd still be together." Your voice cracked. "Or maybe this wouldn't hurt so much."

Because it was true.

If Clark had loved you less, maybe he would've ignored the unhappiness creeping into your lives. Maybe he would've convinced himself things were fine. Maybe he would've chosen comfort over honesty and held on because letting go was harder. But Clark Kent had never known how to love halfway. He loved completely, with every part of himself, and that was exactly why he couldn't stay. Loving you meant wanting more for you than a relationship that was slowly breaking both of you.

For a moment he simply stared at you. Then he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were shining.

"I don't think I know how."

Your breath caught.

"What?"

A sad smile appeared and disappeared almost instantly.

"Loving you less."

The words were simple. Honest. And somehow they hurt more than everything else combined.

Neither of you spoke after that. The city continued moving around you as though nothing had happened. People walked past. Cars drove by. Somewhere a siren sounded in the distance. The world remained stubbornly indifferent to the fact that yours was ending.

Then Clark leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

The same kiss he'd given you after nightmares. Before work. During lazy Sunday mornings. During arguments and celebrations and countless ordinary days in between. A thousand memories wrapped into one final gesture.

When he stepped back, he didn't reach for you again. He didn't ask you to stay. He didn't beg. He simply gave you room. The choice. The freedom. Even now. Especially now.

And standing there beside the taxi, watching the man who loved you enough to lose you, you finally understood the cruelest part of all. The relationship hadn't ended because there wasn't love. It had ended because there was. Enough love to recognize when holding on was hurting more than helping. Enough love to put your happiness above his own. Enough love to open the door even when every part of him wanted to keep it closed.

And somehow, impossibly, that hurt far more than if he had never loved you at all.