coffee with cal

You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.

You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.

That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."

Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.

Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.

Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.

And that was when you discovered it.

The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.

"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."

And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.

And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.

Literally.

Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.

One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.

"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.

The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.

Then his eyes met yours.

You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.

Superman's cheeks turned red.

You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.

It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.

He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.

"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.

Everyone looked at him strangely.

It was normal for Superman to speak.

It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.

His nervousness did not go unnoticed.

He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.

Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.

"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.

You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.

Superman turned even redder than an apple.

"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.

"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.

He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.

"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."

"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."

And that wasn't all.

He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.

Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.

Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.

And of course, that couldn't happen.

Clark knew that.

But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.

Weak.

Weak.

Weak.

Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.

Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.

Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.

Very heroic.

Very professional.

People applauded.

Reporters took pictures.

And then he saw you in the crowd.

You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.

But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.

Literally.

Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.

One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"

And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."

There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.

It was a completely clear day.

He slowly floated down.

Far too slowly.

As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.

His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.

He tripped.

Yes.

Superman tripped over a hose.

A hose.

The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.

A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"

And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."

"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"

"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.

"Good," he said.

And then he just stared at you.

Without saying anything.

Just staring.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.

Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.

That was how he gave himself away.

Because you didn't look at Superman.

To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.

No matter how tight the suit was.

No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.

No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.

You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.

He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.

But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.

That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.

It wasn't the first time, of course.

But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.

The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.

You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.

"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.

But it wasn't Clark's voice.

It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.

Like he was auditioning for an action movie.

You turned around, pausing your cooking.

You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.

You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.

His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.

His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.

It was quite a show.

"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.

Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.

He was trying.

He really was.

His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.

But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.

You could see it perfectly.

He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.

"I... the window... I can fly," he said.

And his voice cracked a little at the end.

You laughed.

You couldn't help it.

It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.

"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.

He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.

You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.

"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.

His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.

And he smelled like the sky, as always.

Like that clean air above the clouds.

You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.

Fast.

Very fast.

As if he had just finished running a marathon.

"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.

Clark immediately became nervous.

He ran a hand through his hair.

His hands went to his hips.

Then behind his back.

Then back to his hips.

He had no idea what to do with them.

Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.

He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.

He pressed his lips together.

Furrowed his brow.

Hardened his gaze.

But his eyes couldn't stay still.

Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.

"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.

He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.

He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.

"And men who..." he continued.

Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.

He was turning red as a tomato.

He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.

"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."

He practically whispered the last word.

The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.

His ears.

His ears had turned red.

You didn't even know ears could get that red.

He tried to recover his composure.

He straightened his back.

Lifted his chin.

Put his hands on his hips again.

But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.

When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.

He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.

Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.

He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.

Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.

When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.

Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.

He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.

"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.

You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.

You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.

"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.

One foot slid backward.

The other moved forward.

It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.

He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.

"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."

He attempted a serious smile.

Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.

He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.

Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.

"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.

Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."

Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.

He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.

The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.

And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.

He tried once more to look serious.

He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.

Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.

But then you smiled.

Just a little.

And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.

His entire face softened.

His eyes turned gentle again.

With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.

"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.

And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.

"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.

You stepped a little closer.

He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.

"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.

Bread.

Lettuce.

Cheese.

Everything was there.

Except for one thing.

"I don't get nervous," he said.

His voice came out high-pitched.

Almost squeaky.

He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.

He touched it with a finger to stop it.

Then the other eyebrow started twitching.

It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.

You looked at him.

His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.

"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.

He smiled.

A huge, awkward smile.

The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.

Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.

His entire face lit up.

His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.

"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.

You laughed and nodded.

Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.

"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Okay," Clark said.

His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.

"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.

Literally.

"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.

"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."

"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.

"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."

You said it completely seriously.

Very seriously.

Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.

He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.

When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.

Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:

"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."

"Okay," Clark said.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

It was a soft kiss.

Quick.

Nervous.

He smiled against your lips and whispered,

"I promise I won't buy two boxes."

You smiled and nodded.

His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.

But you still liked hearing him say it.

When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.

He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.

His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.

And the smile never left his face.

He was so nervous.

So excited about going to buy the mochi.

His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.

"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.

Clark took three steps outside the apartment.

Then four.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked down at himself.

Touched his chest.

Looked at his cape.

Looked at his boots.

As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.

His eyes widened.

"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.

At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.

He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.

Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.

"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.

"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.

You laughed.

A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.

"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.

"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.

A loud thud echoed through the apartment.

Something hit the floor.

Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.

A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.

His jeans were slightly crooked.

His shirt was buttoned wrong.

And his hair was a complete mess.

He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.

"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.

He took one step.

Then turned around again.

"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.

"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.

"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.

"That's what you said last time."

"This time I mean it," he replied.

And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.

Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.

You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.

And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.

Not even if he came with a cape and all.

Your little Marcy (Marcela, for your aunt) was a surprise. A product of the heated session after Clark had proposed in which you two forgot about everything and anything outside each other and just made love (if you would ever call sex that, it would be for this time). You were petrified and ghosted Clark for a full day, easy since you didn’t live together yet. You were having a hard time moving out from your sister’s house, since you’d lived with her forever and your mom was two blocks away. Your sister stayed with you that day, you both called in sick and spent the day in an awkward silence while you avoided the three positive pregnancy tests on the bathroom counter. You finally talked about it in the afternoon, sitting together on your couch and she let you cry about being scared.

Clark came over at 8 pm, worried sick you hadn’t returned any of his texts even though he could still feel your heartbeat from far away, so he knew you were safe. You showed him the three positive sticks and he stayed quiet for a minute, as if you would suddenly say it was a prank.

“How do you feel about it?” He asked, careful and poignant with his reaction as you sat on your bed, chewing on your nails. You shrugged and he kneeled in front of you, taking your hands into his. “Well what are you leaning on? Give me percentages.” You two always did that when you were unsure, took it towards statistics and even created pie charts between laughing about taking a weekend trip or even lunch. “Uh twenty percent no. Thirty percent yes. And fifty percent scared shitless.” Clark laughed, kissing your hands. “We can work with that.” “What about you?” Clark hummed as if he was once again thinking of the right thing to say. “My love, you’re what matters right now. It’s your body.” You smiled, you knew that. “But like, how do you feel about the- uh the pregnancy?” “Uh… let’s say, fifty percent worried about you, fifty percent yes.” You whined, hugging him into your chest. You had talked about having kids, but you had agreed you wouldn’t even consider it until you finished your PhD. Well, you had just finished it and were weeks away from starting a new job at Metropolis University. Your dream job. Fuck, will they take back the offer? Will they throw you out once you have it? “Really? You’re not even mildly scared about parenthood?” “I mean, maybe but if it’s with you then I know we’ll figure it out. We always do when we’re together.” You started crying, so intensely overwhelmed you had forgotten Clark was perfect with his words and would be the voice of reason when you couldn’t be. He cooed at you, his hands finding your back as he rubbed circles on your skin. “Let it out, princess. I got you, I’m here.” You laughed suddenly, pulling away to look at him and press your hands on his cheeks. He was oddly serene, like he had already seen the future and it looked fine. “I’m fine, it’s fine. You’re right. We’ll figure it out. God, you’re gonna be such a great father, baby.” He laughed, kissing your lips. “So, we’re having a baby?” He whispered and you nodded, a big smile taking over his face. He kissed your lips once more, before a few tears started to pour down his face. He wiped them quickly before pulling you into his arms again, a small nervous laughter on both your mouths. “We’re having a baby!” Your sister yelled, barging into the room with sparkling grape juice and a face that showed no remorse for spying on your very important private conversation.

Clark gave up his apartment and you two moved in a block between your sister and your mother. Your pregnancy was easier than expected, not that it was easy but since the fetus growing inside you was half Kryptonian, you really thought you’d have at it like Bella in Twilight and would have to drink blood or get flown to another planet. It wasn’t particularly weird, besides the fact that the only way your baby would find relief and stop kicking and giving you a hard time was when you placed her under the sun. When the sun got rarer during winter, you bought an incubator light for reptiles and hatching eggs and placed it over your belly.

And there was your baby girl, feeding off the sun like some sort of cuter Timothy Green and just like her daddy, growing stronger everyday.

“So, your pa went home already?”

“Yes, couple weeks ago. Couldn’t really take off from work longer.” You answered, Jonathan nodding.

“Clark’s being good, right? He’s been helping and taking care of the baby?” You smiled at the question, it was so humane and sweet that he worried if his son was acting like the man he was raised to be.

“He is, he’s great. He takes most nights since he doesn’t need much sleep. I take care of it when he has something to do.” You responded, even though you always stayed awake too, Clark was the one that cradled the baby and fed her when you couldn’t. He was Superman, for God’s sake. You were wondering if she preferred him, if she knew he was the superhero of Metropolis.

“And with you? He’s taking care of you too, right?” Your mouth went dry, not expecting the question. Besides your mother, everyone in your life only thought about the baby. Baby this, baby that. Your mother was the one who had been helping you, specially with all the hard parts. She helped you wash your sheets when they were bloodied from your postpartum discharge, she made you superfood soups from home that were full of vitamins and protein and needed to be pressure cooked for a whole afternoon. So Jon, being as sweet as he was, he was still a man. It was a surprise he thought of it

“Y’know Ma didn’t go through the whole physical part of having Clark, but my mother’s pregnancies were always hard and lonely and she had some… y’know, problems. I just want to make sure he ain’t leaving you alone, still being your partner. When he’s not superman and super dad.” You could cry. You always realized why Clark came out the way he did when you talked to his father, he was quiet but so thoughtful. You still didn’t answer though, because Clark was so dead set on being a parent he kind of had been neglected you. You knew you’d probably been neglecting him too, so you’d never complain.

“Y’know, he ain’t too old for a good smack.” That made you laugh, the idea of his father laying a hand on Clark was so unbelievable you could only giggle.

“He’s been good, yeah.”

“Sure?” You took the cup of sweet tea you had been sipping on and hid back the fact that you were a terrible liar.

“Mhm.”

“That’s it, princess. Nice and sweet.” You mumbled as she slowly tried to pet a cow, your dog jumping up and down to try and get a rise of the cow. The cow remained completely unamused. Marcy giggled at Beetle’s antics and you couldn’t help but giggle too.

“Okay, c’mon, Jane Goodall. Let’s look for shade because I do not want to discover if you sunburn.” You carried her softly through the field, kissing her small cheeks. Beetle started running back to the house like he understood the assignment. You had caved at the Saturday sun and put on a white summer dress on, the heat being too much. It wasn’t much, mostly a medieval milk maiden-like look your grandmother got you a couple years ago since she was sure Metropolis was a beach town for some unknown reason.

You couldn’t hear Clark like he could hear you, so you couldn’t notice how his leg hadn’t stopped bouncing for the last ten minutes and how he was breathing like he’d just been on a marathon. He couldn’t help himself, really. He’d been so controlled the last year or so, but something about seeing you here, so maternal and ethereal under the sun of his childhood house, being so nice to his parents even when they were borderline intense and kept calling the baby Marcelline, being so sweet to the animals, being so you, it was like lightning straight through his body.

And that dress, that gosh darned dress, it could probably stop a war. You looked like a dream, he could see your figure underneath the fabric with the help of the midday sun; the curves that had always been able to make him submissive and lovesick had been intensified, your breasts enlarged and full of milk and the marks of the miracle that your body had performed now adorned your stomach and thighs and Clark wanted to kiss every single stretch. You looked beautiful, you were beautiful and you had worn the pregnancy and motherhood so, so gracefully. Glowing and sweet.

You two had been intimate a couple of times since Marcy was born and your body had the time to heal, but it was a quickie while your mother took her to the park or real slow on the couch when she napped in the other room. He hadn’t been able to treat you like you deserved, like he used to before when you’d spend hours tangled in sheets that had to be washed after, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it since the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel like you needed to take care of him too. He was petrified of pressuring you, of making you feel overwhelmed or tired. He wanted to leave everything at your speed, your rules. He’d rather die than make you feel uncomfortable and you looked so relaxed right now, so serene.

Clark could feel the intense pressure of his erection against the denim on his jeans and he knew if he didn’t take care of it soon, he’d have a horribly uncomfortable moment with his parents when they came to call him for lunch.

“Gonna shower!” Clark yelled, running into the house fast and flying up the stairs, literally, to get into his room his quickly enough. He gave you one last look from his window, your baby on the floor on top a checkered blanket while you braided your hair. Have you always looked so divine while doing that?

He got into the shower, should’ve been cold but he was a wimp so it was actually lukewarm. He rested his forehead against the cold tiles as he immediately wrapped his hand around his cock. He closed his eyes, his eyes playing the image of you like the prettiest movie not even Chloe Zhao could concoct.

His thumb rubbed over the precum dripping from him before starting to rub himself up and down. He was fast, desperate because he didn’t want to leave you while he fooled around in the shower thinking up some porno for the ages with you as the star. You pulling that dress up and letting him dip his head under the skirt and push your panties to the side, licking you so well you’d let out that little mewl he loved. You laying on that field with him over you making all the corn around shake because he was giving it to you that good. You behind that big tree next to the barn, your ass shaking with your front pressed to the tree and his hands around your hips, well, one hand because the other needed to protect your beautiful face from the hard bark of the tree.

He didn’t notice he left the door semi open and didn’t notice you had waltzed into the room to get your hair oil so your hair that was just now recovering from pregnancy looked lively. You saw him, his hand furiously fisting his cock as the water fell on his hair and his mouth open.

Your heart skipped a beat for all the wrong reasons. Your man liked to take his sweet time with everything and here he was, working at himself like he couldn’t resist it any longer. What had gotten him like this? And why weren’t you worth a comment? A look. To even try and flirt with you, get you alone just for a second.

You knew things had changed; your relationship had changed, your body had changed, you had changed. But you didn’t know that that meant that the father of your child would rather get himself off roughly than… talk to you. Touch you. Ask you. The man who asked you to marry him and got you pregnant in the spam of the same four hours, wouldn’t even fuck you now. You bit your cheek to stop the tears because the rational part of you knew you were probably being dramatic. But you were emotional and overwhelmed and somehow also lonely. And your beautiful boyfriend who you would be more than happy to get off didn’t even consider you. You quickly walked back down the stairs and joined Martha in the kitchen.

“You okay, darlin’?” She noticed your evident frown and red flushed cheeks because even if it had made you confused and hurt, seeing Clark like that still bothered you in more intimate ways.

“Yeah, fine. Just hot. Can I help you with anything?”

“Sure, you wanna take the biscuits?”

“You made biscuits?” You asked lowly, because it was your hyper fixation during the pregnancy and you mostly liked how Martha did them. You tried biscuits with just about anything, jam, chocolate, butter, curry, stew, a big pot of Bosch, with some spicy peanut sauce, you thought it worked particularly well with cheese and guava inside it warmed up. The nice woman from the soul food restaurant three blocks down indulged you every week and gave you other things that were supposed to help you, however you suspect the chess pie she snuck into your orders was just for your soul. Your village was composed of women, your mother, your sister, Martha, your best friend, the lady who fed you, your obgyn. Even Lois, who you always suspected behind all the banter had a thing for Clark, had focused on you. She helped you put on a belly band and helped you send work emails while she told you about her dating life as a way to make you feel like a friend rather than a mom.

“Of course, sweetie. You love them; I made them. You are family, you know that.” You nodded and hugged her, a surprised laugh coming from her mouth as she hugged you back. You found comfort in the fact that she still liked you even if Clark maybe didn’t anymore.

“C’mon, get Marcy and let’s eat!”

“Ma and Pa took Marcy on a walk. Think they wanna show her off to all the neighbors so they’ll probably be back… Monday?” Clark said as he sat next to you on the porch swing, you gave him a short, amused huff and pushed your reading glasses up your face.

“Where did they-“

“Back door. They know not to let anyone pick her up or kiss her. Don’t worry.” You nodded then, giving him a closed lip smile and going back to the manuscript in your hands. Clark placed one hand on your thigh tentatively, keeping it there as he looked out at the afternoon sun that only looked this good in country side. You softly crossed your legs closer to you, his hand falling off your body as you curled into yourself. Okay, there was something wrong. He thought he may have been crazy but you avoided his kiss after lunch and had told him to care for Marcy while you worked for a little while even though you loved reading to the baby and called her your editor-in-chief. So, he knew it was code for ‘leave me alone’.

You were reading a student’s manuscript she was debating on sending into a publishing house and trusted you, her favorite teacher, to give her the go ahead. As a literature teacher you were always being asked to read students’ work and you always did, you loved your students and reading; what could be more wonderful than that?

“Any good?” Clark asked, turning to look at you finally.

“Yeah, needs some editing but it’s beautiful, it’s a beautiful portrait of womanhood and loneliness. She’s great.” You answered, trying not to sound cold or mean because you didn’t want to. You didn’t get why your mind had been racing or why you suddenly felt like a shell of yourself.

“That’s nice.” You hummed in response wrote something at the footnotes of the page- ‘this is beautiful. Explore this thought further.’

“Are- are you upset? Did I make you mad? Were my parents-“

“Your parents are lovely, Clark.” You responded, he visibly winced at you use of ‘Clark’. Not like you always called him, with tenderness and love. No pet names.

“Do you still want to get married?” You suddenly asked, Clark’s eyebrows immediately raised as he fully turned his body towards you.

“What? Of course I do.”

“Well, you’ve barely mentioned it since Marcy was born.”

“You said you wanted to wait a little until everything’s settled! I was looking at venues, I even took that Superman sponsorship to save more money.” He defended himself, because if there was something that got him on edge was you doubting his love for you. You put the manuscript on the table as Beetle, your little bodyguard, jumped up on you and looked at Clark with warning.

“I’m so, so in. I would marry you right now, my love. We can go down to the courthouse on Monday, look for a pastor tomorrow. I love you, I love everything about you, I love your crazy dog, the way you hum in your sleep, I love the life we have created together. C’mon. Tell me you know that, that you’re still in this too.” Clark begged, begged you to believe him even though he was confused as to where this was coming from. Had he given any signs of not loving you anymore? Had he been neglecting you? It terrified him to his core.

“I’m still in. I just- I don’t know. It kind of feels like you’re more a father than you’re my boyfriend right now, which is crazy, I know, because the biggest gift you can give me is loving our child. I just- I feel like you don’t necessarily want me. Like you’re in because I’m the mother of your child and this is the life you wanted. Not because it’s me.” You tried to articulate your feelings, petting your dog’s soft fur that you now noticed was wet so he was surely doing something he shouldn’t be down at the pond. Clark’s face softened, one hand on your face as he pet your cheek.

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry if I made you feel that way. Gosh, honey, I feel horrible. Why do you think that?” Clark needed to know what he was doing and you looked like he had just put a gun to your head. You looked into his eyes and saw he didn’t look annoyed, he was mostly worried, so you digressed.

“I-I just, I don’t know. I was just thinking and we’ve not really paid attention to us. Like no dates and we’ve barely had sex and I know I may not be attractive but-“

“What?” It was high pitched and came out of a confused face, like it was personally offensive to him you thought that.

“Let me finish-“ he motioned for you to continue, “but I’m still here and I just feel like I’m worth some attention. And you won’t even touch me or kiss me like you want to take it further so I feel like an ugly ogre that’s just a mom now. I’m sorry I know I sound crazy because we’re both tired and busy. I just- I don’t know.” You finally breathed out what you wanted to say and Clark came closer to you when Beetle ran off to chase a bug. He put his hands on your legs, licking his lips as he watched you with careful eyes.

“Baby, I want you. So bad. All the time. We’re just so busy and I don’t want to like ask or start anything because I don’t want you to feel like you need to deal with me being horny on top of everything else. I don’t want you to feel pressured, so I’ve just been waiting for you to initiate. But, darling, my God do I want you.” Clark ranted as he tried to explain his feelings, pushing a hair that had fell loose from your braid away from your face. He came up to kiss you, giving you a second to pull away but you didn’t, so he continued and finally pressed his lips to yours, soft at first but soon opened your mouth with the help of his tongue, pushing your legs apart so he could scooch even closer. He kissed you like he had been waiting to do this, which he had, like you were water in the driest desert that housed his unrestrained desires. You kissed as the final minutes of sun kissed your skins, your body warm and tingly all over from the mixture of your man finally being unafraid. You two pulled away for a breath, you catched yours as he kissed your face around your lips, his body trying to trap you closer to his.

“So why wouldn’t you ask me, y’know, earlier?”

“Ask you what?” He mumbled as he kissed down to your neck.

“I saw you in the shower.” Clark’s mouth fell open, a little red blush taking over at the revelation. He didn’t mind, of course, but he just realized anyone else could have seen him. So thank god it was you. He looked up at you and sighed.

“Oh, baby, it’s just I got really heated and I didn’t want to bother you.” You frowned a little but nodded, kissing him again.

“But what got you so worked up?”

“Well, you.”

“Pf, why?” Clark shrunk his eyes at you to try and figure out if you actually didn’t know what you were doing to him. You actually seemed clueless and amused as if Clark was being ridiculous for being attracted to you.

“My love, I’d have you in a garbage bag but this dress and you under the sun… Fuck. You’re the mother of my child, you’re gonna marry me. And you’re gorgeous and you’ve worn all of this so well and you glow, honey. You’re glowing and I want to do everything to you. I’m so lucky, darling.” Clark said as he kept his eyes trained on your face as you took in his words, suddenly becoming a little shy as if it hadn’t occurred to you that he may want you.

“Really, this dress?” You mumbled as you looked down at the attire and Clark chuckled.

“Yes. You look… like the flashback of a dead wife in some movie. Just so, so beautiful.” You giggled, looking back at him and kissing his cheek.

“My parents will be gone for a while. Let me show you how much I like it.” He muttered suddenly and you took longer nodding than Clark picking you up bridal style, making you yelp, Clark running up into the house starting to go up the stairs, thinking about throwing you onto the bed of his room. He had a king sized bed, he worked all summer for it and c’mon, he’s huge, his parents didn’t need much convincing. However, he knew what he wanted, so he took you to the back out to the field by the pond, grabbing the checkered blanket and placing it down before guiding you to lay down on it. It was a mess of tongues and kisses when he leaned down over you, only stopping to take off his t shirt and throw it far away, hearing Beetle run towards it out of nowhere.

You giggled as he came back down, his smile taking over as he heard you before starting to kiss down your body too.

“Can I take it off?” He asked, peering at you with those eyes all hungry and full of need. You nodded and kneeled on the floor to remove the dress, Clark’s breath hitching. You were wearing a normal bra with some boy shorts but God, thank whoever was up there blessing him with you. The wildflowers growing around the place made you a Monet painting, so damn beautiful among the nature with everything you had went through the last year, you only seemed one with the planet. So human, so divine. His mouth followed a line down your body, soft and humid as his hands pressed the sides of your waist, so gentle you could almost miss it if you weren’t so far gone.

“Beautiful, darlin’. I want all of you.”

“Then have me. What are you waiting for, baby?”

“We’re in a field, I haven’t been able to take my time with you in a long time.” He refused, continuing his slow torture of worship. Clark was a lover, he liked paying attention to everything he could. His mouth was getting needier though as he came up to your breasts, so full and sweet, he brought one hand up to take them out of the cups of your bra, a new one since breastfeeding had swollen your chest, leaving kisses all over them. He suckled one of your nipples into his mouth, a soft sigh leaving your mouth as if you were relieved at the feeling of his wet tongue doing small, soft licks on the bud. One hand came up to the back of his head, petting him softly to encourage him to go further, go harder. Clark bit, making you gasp a little and get distracted to the point that his hands pressed pushing into your underwear was a full surprise.

“Oh, you’re so wet, baby. Jesus. Got you all hot watching me in the shower, right?” Clark asked as he let go of your tit and looked up at you, his middle finger rubbing soft, not nearly enough, circles on your clit.

“Yeah, you looked so hot. You’re so handsome.” You responded as you looked up at the trees, the last bit of sun of the day peeking through the leaves while your body loosened and gave itself into Clark. He smiled and brought his lips to your other breast, adding another finger to the mix of his slow torture.

“Harder.” You pleaded, looking down at his brown locks and pulling slightly, making him groan onto your skin but he complied, applying more pressure on her.

“Fuck me, please.” You whined, trying to push on his pants eagerly.

“So crass.”

“Clark, I swear to fucking-“ He cut you off by kissing you with a laugh at your unashamed state, so horny you couldn’t care about anything else. Clark kept at his pace as you undid your bra, letting it fall down behind you. He moaned at the sight and started pushing you back down the blanket without breaking contact. He finally did to take off his jeans, fumbling for a while with the zipper over his hard cock before pulling down his boxers down in the same movement. He was barefoot, even though he knew better and there were many things flowing around that could pinch him and bite him.

“C’mon, lemme take those panties off.” He said as he motioned your hips up to pull them down, hissing at the sight of your wet flesh all red and puffy, mouth immediately watering. He put the fabric to side and mover a little weeds that were beside you m threatening to tickle you.

“Want you inside.” You moaned, using those big blown eyes that Clark adored so bad and could make him do anything. He smiled but instead of pushing his dick into you, he pulsed to fingers inside your tight hole. You were going to complain but Clark tickled immediately that specific spot with the easy only fingers could get, getting you jumbled up and confused.

“Give me one and I’ll stuff you, honey. Cum for me.” You shut your eyes and let your nose fall back, letting Clark touch you so good, so special that all you felt was the buzz of the animals and the smell of flowing water while your body received all it was getting, his fingers fucking in and out of you hard, his thumb stimulating your clit like he wanted it fast, he wanted it now. And he really, really could get it. He could get anything he wanted out of you.

His movements were fast and precise, two fingers making way for three fingers which was necessary if he even thought of getting his dick inside you. You responded, hell, your hole responded so wonderfully trying to trap him inside you as the sticky coating covered up to his knuckles, making him know you were horny and you were close. The tell tale signs were there, eyes shut and focusing, hands balling up into themselves and your mouth in a perfect ‘o’ shape.

Your high came with squeeze of your thighs together, but Clark pushed them back apart with ease and watched between your blissed out face and the hot, abused flesh between your thighs that he loved so much.

You whined a little as he kept at his pace while he pumped himself, hands both full in the best way.

“Gonna get in here now. You want that?”

“Yes, please, baby. Want you so bad.” He smiled, so pleased to know that you needed him every time you gave the opportunity to get inside you like this. Clark finally kneeled between you and lined himself up, pushing in one long thrust until he pressed against your cervix.

“You feel amazing, as always.” Clark whispered, leaning down slightly to kiss you as his hips started to give thrusts that removed himself between your walls slowly, but shoved back into you hard. It was heavenly. The smack of his hips against your thighs was delicious, tapping with every move he took as he fucked you like he’d been imagining it all day, which he actually had.

“Gosh, I won’t be long. Feel so darn good, baby. This pussy’s mine right?” Clark punctuated his words with his tip pressing into your cervix.

“Mine to stuff” thrust; “mine to touch” thrust; “mine to eat” thrust, “tell me you’re mine.”

“‘M yours, Clark, please. I’m yours.” You let yourself moan as loud as you wanted, no one could hear you here; the sound of the creek’s water running drowned out everything, along with the chirping of birds and the sound of Beetle prancing around the farm looking for something to play. It all faded into one beautiful symphony being set to the rhythm of your man fucking into you.

“Show me that ring, yeah.” Clark said as he brought your left hand to his mouth and sucked your left finger into the warm confines, licking up around your ring in a consumed way you hadn’t ever seen before, it was so, so hot.

“Gonna make me your wife?” You asked, resting on your forearms and letting your braid fall off your shoulders.

“I am, gonna make me the happiest when I see you in a dress. Like today, you look perfect in white. Gosh, I could marry you right now.” Clark was fully lost in it, eyes closed with his head pulled upwards, his hand still holding yours and pressing his thumb around your ring. He was drunk, off your pussy and how much he adored you and how content he was with your little family. He just needed the big celebration of your love for complete fulfillment.

“I’m close, baby.” Clark grabbed your ring finger and used it to rub mean tight circles on your clit, making you come undone for the second time, the trees in the sky fading to white for a second while you whimpered at the feeling, soon enough Clark was coming too and fucking that cum spurring out right back into you, his thighs shaking slightly from the shear intensity of his long-awaited orgasm. He slowed down and finally stopped after a moment, pulling himself out and watching the white slick pour out of you. You sat up to reach him, one hand sneaking to the crook of his neck and rubbing slow circles just like he liked.

“We fucked in the woods.” You laughed, opening your eyes to see his lovesick look that drank you in like the most exquisite Boticcelli.

“See why being a hick has its advantages?” Clark laughed at his own joke, kissing down the arm that was resting close to him as you laughed too.

“So, we gonna look at venues when we go home?” You smiled but shook your head.

“Let’s get married here. ‘S perfect, your parents will love it, we’ll save money.” Clark couldn’t help but let out a satisfied, loved up chuckle at the thought and wondered how it hadn’t occurred to him before. It was perfect.

“Can you wear this dress for it?”

“You’ll try to fuck me during the ceremony if I do.”

“Good point, save it for the honeymoon. I’m thinking Wichita for it?” You burst out laughing, shaking your head at your husband to be.

“Don’t you dare.”

You became part of the plan, he hadn’t lived a single day not loving you only, never not eager to be with you or see you, always keen to learn you inside out. So this moments, where everything felt soft and right and fun, it was all he could ask from this life. That’s who was now, Clark Kent, yours. Superman, yours.

“I- what song should we pick, Clarkson?” You asked, one hand coming to the side of his face to get his attention. He smiled at the nickname; you once jokingly asked if Clark was short for something and when he asked what could it possibly be short for, you responded “Well, I don’t know. Clarkson?”

“Don’t know, darling. Me and you?”

“No, me and her. God! You’re always trying to intrude in our moments.” Lois corrected, giving him a dirty look which Clark could not be offended at, he was only delighted that everyone loved you too. You giggled as you ran your finger down the list, looking for the correct song you two would belt out.

“Let’s do… Cowboy take me away! I loved this song secretly in high school.”

“Yeah! You’re a cowboy, baby. ‘S for you.” You said and looked up at him, winking at him and he rolled his eyes. He helped you down the chair, letting you run towards the stage and leaving him alone with Jimmy and the girl who was flirting with him, the rest of the group elsewhere in the bar. He watched you get a microphone and clear your throat, whispering something into Lois’ ear which the two of you laughed at.

The song started playing and Lois took the first verse, not terrible but not good. However, someone cheered at her which only made her get more excited and louder. Clark looked down at his phone, checking the time and weather to make sure no one got out of here too late, when he was distracted by a melodic voice taking over the chorus. He looked up, and sure enough it was coming from his girl. His beautiful, silly, sincere girl. It was like a choir of angels in your voice; he wondered if your spawn would get the same talent.

“Dude! How had you never mentioned she can sing?”

“I didn’t know!” Clark defended himself from Jimmy, looking back at you whose cheeks were red from the attention, but you were looking at him, singing right into his eyes before looking back at Lois. Clark couldn’t help but crack a smile at the fact that after three years together, he was still far from knowing you completely. There was still so much to go and, Jesus, was he excited for it. He still hadn’t found anything he didn’t like. When the song was over, you two waltzed back to the group hand in hand like you’d just finished a sold-out show, all giggly and sweaty.

“How’d we do, cowboy?” You asked as you came towards Clark and immediately grabbed your face between his hands, pulling you towards his own face and kissing your lips tenderly. A smile threatened to break the kiss on both your mouths so you pulled away and looked at him.

“Why were you hiding that from me?” He teased and you shrugged, not giving any answers to something you didn’t know. It hadn’t come up, and it’s not like you were Whitney Houston. You were just slightly better than average. It wasn’t much of a lie either; you’d never lie to him, scheme or hide. He’d never do it either. You two were already on the peeing with door open stage, the ‘look at this pimple’ stage, the ‘I talk to your mother just because’ stage.

“Gonna take me away now?” You asked and he nodded, one hand on your hip as the whole group moved towards the exit. Behind you, at the stage, a group of girls started to belt out Wedding Bell Blues and you looked back at them as Clark led you away, words starting to pour out like vomit from your mouth.

“Clark, are you ever going to marry me?” Clark’s eyes nearly fell out of the sockets when he heard the words, you looked at him first like you’d were embarrassed you even brought it up but then it turned into a quiet, alcoholic confidence because, hey, just like Laura Nyro wonders, when were you going to see your wedding day?

“Okay, you two… be safe. Bye!” Lois pulled Jimmy away from you and walked towards the other direction, eyes wide and amused at your sudden question. You kept looking up at Clark, waiting for an answer from his suddenly dry mouth.

“No comments? Want me to make my own conclusions?”

“No! I mean, baby, of course I want to! I love you.” Clark walked fast, as if he needed to get home and run from the conversation. Well, jokes on him, you live together.

“Want to what? Say it.”

“I- I want to, marry you I mean.”

“You almost barfed, Clark.” Clark laughed now, because surely you knew you were exaggerating. He loved you; you knew that more surely than anything else in the world. He stopped your steps next to a streetlight and made you look up at him, your silhouettes reflecting the image of love onto a white wall behind you. Picture perfect, exquisite, all that made up you two.

“Honey, I love you so. I always will. C’mon, you know I see my future with you.” He tried to reason but you still groaned at him, wrapping your arms around yourself as the alcohol wore off and so did your body heat. Clark sighed and placed his jacket on your shoulders; you didn’t fight it because deep down you knew he was right. You did know it was you and him for good. You just… wanted it on paper. With a picture, a dress, a vow reassured. Soon enough you got home and said nothing more, you took off your shoes and grabbed a glass of water as Clark went into your bedroom immediately. You sat on the couch and sighed, feeling a little ridiculous now for cornering him like that.

“Clark! I’m sorry, okay? It’s fine if you’re not ready. I know we’re committed, you’re my person, you’re always there for me.” You said as you walked into the room, pulling off his jacket before turning around to see him kneeling next to your window. You laughed, thinking he was being silly before he took his glasses off, putting them on the bed and pulling open a red velvet box. You dropped the jacket in shock, moving closer to see if he was just playing a sick joke on your poor heart. But no, there it was cushioned between mountains of superman blue you were sure was on purpose. It was a ring. A perfect, lovely ring. Perfect size, perfect color, perfect cut. God, did your man know you.

“You, my impatient, beautiful woman, are the love of my life. You’ve been on my side whether I’m winning or loosing, whether I’m Clark or Superman. It’s you, my girl. Will you marry me?” Your mouth let out a huff before you kneeled in front of him, kissing him quick. His mouth tasted different, like the relief of not having to hide that damn box all over the house, having to fly home to get to it before you did and check the ring again and again to make sure you’d like it. Like excitement of giving you a new title, his fiancee, his bride. His.

“So yes?”

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes. I’m sorry I was so annoying-“

“No, you’re not annoying. We were on the same page, I was planning to do it next week. But it’s as good a time as any, ain’t it?” Clark smirked and you nodded, watching him take the ring out of the box and place it softly on your ring finger. Like it had always belonged there. Your smile was surely sweet and sickly, looking down at your hand as Clark maneuvered you into his arms.

“Can I take you to bed, my bride?” He whispered, a kiss on your cheek and you looked at him. In his eyes, his ridiculous blue eyes, there was nothing but wide pupils and passion and love. Yours hopefully matched that, but by the way he looked at you right now, you were sure they did.

“So, here’s the plan we’re gonna take with this diagnosis, okay? Not the boyfriend, you wanna get this information down so you can have it when you’re ready?” Clark nodded, taking out his small notebook and pen from his work bag since he’d come straight from the office to be with you, or at least wait outside to not be overbearing. You watched him press the notebook to the doctor’s desk so he could take notes without letting go of your hand, and he nodded every so often while writing at a speed that was just shy of being suspiciously fast.

The doctor was sweet and thorough, talking about the treatment plan to follow and the following appointments that would come. It was full of scary, big words that you barely understood but she was trying to make it sound less scary, Multiple Sclerosis was a scary name either way.

“Darling, listen to me. We take it one step at a time; we follow treatment and we’re consistent on exams. MS doesn’t need to ruin everything; it’s not going to. We’re not going to let it happen, right, friend?” Clark turned to look at you and nodded with that dopey, but firm closed mouth smile he always had when trying to be serious but sweet. You nodded, snapping out of your haze and shaking your head to let loose.

You set the date for the next blood work before starting treatment before leaving, Clark holding your hand tight and not saying anything until you stepped out of the hospital, where he turned to you. You usually let him hold your hand when needed, crowded rooms and when you felt too ill to stand up straight. This was just for comfort, and you would be lying if you didn’t want it. Your little crush on your friend had been growing in an uncomfortable amount since he just ran to your side when your boyfriend bailed at the first sign of weakness. Clark had been there, to wipe the tears and help you up every day. He acted as if he actually cared, was there for you every day. It didn’t help he was built like a god and had a smile that could stop wars.

“You okay, honey? You wanna do something? Go to a rage room? Wanna go get that soup you like in Chinatown?” Clark asked, one hand petting at your cheek softly to get your attention. It helped distract.

“I- I’m really fucking tired. Hey! Look, another symptom! Great, that’s just peachy.” You finally spoke, now realizing that was another warning sign. Clark nodded, pulling you closer.

“That’s fine. Let’s go to yours and get into bed early. I’m tired too.” He tried to sound convincing as if the man wasn’t a literal meta human that seemed to never stop spinning or speaking. You didn’t fight back though, letting him get you a cab and take you home, holding you steady through the small flight of steps to your building since your constant dizziness was making it harder to. Clark unlocked the door to your apartment when you handed him the keys, one arm still steady holding you. Your house seemed to be blocking out the loud noise of the street and your brain, finally clearing the buzzing sound in your ears.

You walked to your bed, kicked off your shoes and laid down, head between your pillows and trying not to cry. You could hear Clark pacing around your living room, on the phone probably with his mother since she’d been the one who recommended you see the doctor to follow up on your symptoms. You hated thinking about telling your friends, your family, your coworkers. It all dawned on you so fast; that’d you’d become that person that had to be careful, at the doctors, at therapy.

“Darling, y’want some tea? Oh, you must be freezing. I’m gonna get you a warm blanket.” Clark peaked into your room and answered himself, making you almost crack a smile. He came back with a fuzzy blanket he got you for valentine’s day along with other disgustingly cheesy and nice presents. He said it was a ‘friend’ basket just like when girls did ‘galentines’ which, sure, whatever. You took it gladly.

You weren’t freezing, you were fine, but you knew he needed to move and do things to feel useful when there wasn’t anything good to say. Putting a tea down next to you on the bedside table, he sat at the foot of the bed. His hand found your leg and rubbed it up and down, with the perfect amount of pressure to relieve your sore muscles.

“Can I move in with you?” He asked suddenly, making you lift your head out from the pillow.

“What?”

“Your place is closer to the hospital, and I just looked into the gym down the block and it has a pool and swimming is supposed to be great for MS so it just makes sense to be here. I love your apartment, too. I basically already live here. You have two rooms.” He started reasoning, his mind running as he looked at you trying to sound convincing. You sat up and looked back, shrinking your eyes at him. There wasn’t a single malicious bone in his body, you knew that from the moment you met him.

“Clark, I don’t need you to become my caregiver.”

“That’s not what this is. I just want to be here for you, always. I already am, aren’t I? Just makes sense for us to live together.” You gulped and rubbed at your temple, trying to take it as it was. It was the perfect opportunity for you to live together, you’d been together long enough, and you’d already talked about it. It just felt like pity.

“I- I want to be here, with you. Every day and every night. You’re my best friend.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave now? I’ll und-“

“No, c’mon. Don’t do that. I’m here, no matter what. So, there’s gonna be a change in routine and you’ll need more care. Whatever, I love taking care of you! I live for it. I love you. I wanna be here for the good nights and the bad ones and I wanna help. I know you want me here too.” Clark was convincing, really. He made you believe every word he said. And it is true; you wanted him here. You wanted to cuddle him and his help to move around, and you wanted his stupid pick me ups now more than ever.

“Okay.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I love you.” It was a confession. Clark smiled, probably didn’t understand.

“I know, darling."

“Clark, can you get her glasses?” Martha shouted as she grabbed your arms and led you up the couch. You rolled your eyes at the fact that she had Clark running around doing everything but said nothing, not to the sweet lady who was using all her strength to help you in therapy. Clark peered into your bag, very clear to you he was using his x-ray vision but didn’t find anything.

“No clue where you left them?” You scrunched your face trying to think terribly hard to where they were, but you could not remember. Hell, you could barely remember where you were.

“No. It’s fine, I’ll just… y’know, I can get by.” Clark frowned and muttered something about the car before leaving out the door, making you sigh. Martha was still holding you while you waited for the therapist to come back.

“Y’know, you raised that boy terribly well. He’s… an amazing friend. He’s still here.”

“Well, yeah, pumpkin. Of course. But it’s not me, it’s because he loves you.”

“Sometimes that's not enough. Usually. He’s still here though.”

“Darling, don’t do that to yourself. You’re not a burden; this isn’t a great sacrifice.” Martha said, giving you a side eye that would make you feel weird if it didn’t come from intense love. She’d loved you from the start, the first time she met you, you two spent the afternoon laughing with a pitcher of sweet tea and getting to know each other. Clark had taken you with him to the farm, saying wide open spaces and all that country songs were right about fresh air, it would make you feel better. He was always right, always careful, even before the diagnosis.

“Okay.” You mumbled and she smiled, petting your back in a soothing manner. You jawed hard suddenly, tired and dizzy from the therapy that wasn’t even midway finished. Clark suddenly sauntered in, holding your glasses case in his hands with a proud smile.

“In the car.” He smiled, taking them out and giving them a quick wipe before placing them on your nose.

“They look so good on you. You look like a sexy librarian.” Clark complimented your looks often, saying things like that to spark a shy smile from you or a teasing roll of the eyes. He meant them though, he really hoped you knew that.

“Clark!” Martha responded at his comment, giving him a scowl and he smirked, looking at you giggle softly meaning he had done what he wanted, made you smile. Martha ended up giggling too.

“You still up for your friends after, right?” Clark asked as he watched your therapist walk back into the room and you nodded. He smiled and kissed your cheek before stepping back, his mom letting you go too into the hands of the nurse. Clark sat back with his mother and pulled out his computer, pretending to be busy or else you’d chew his head off for wasting time here with you. However, he looked up constantly to see how you were doing.

“She’s doing good, right?”

“Great, Ma. She’s… perfect. Taking it like a champ.” He answered and his mother nodded. She’d come to visit and see how the apartment was now that they lived together and see how everything was settling in. She also brought a bunch of home remedies, herbs and farm knowledge that she wanted to apply.

“She’s gonna be okay. She has to.”

“You scared?”

“Ma.”

“It’s okay if you are, baby. You haven’t even told her you love her.”

“I tell her I love her.”

“Well, not like love love.”

“I- I don’t-“

“Clark. Son. I know you. You love her.” Clark looked at you to see if you were hearing the conversation, you weren’t, so he looked back at his mother.

“Well, I don’t think it’s the right time to say anything about it. Kinda think she knows though.”

“There won’t be a right time.”

“Clark! I brought her back in one piece!” Your friend yelled in the front door, smiling at him as he walked out of his room and caught up to you. You seemed to be fine though, and he didn’t want to be overbearing.

“How’d she behave?”

“Oh, she was animal all night! Had to pull her from dance floor, so much dancing. She wasn’t falling asleep in the booth.” Your friend said teasingly, giving you a small smile as she helped you take off your kitten heels, the only thing slightly high thing you’d wear now. Clark laughed and looked at you, all dolled up and so pretty as always. Your glasses were the final touch.

“Well, I’ll be going. You two behave.” Your friend winked at you, she knew Clark had been the object of your affection for long. She also respected and never said anything about it. Your cheeks went red, but you smiled either way, a hug following before she closed the door behind herself. Clark locked the front door and walked back to pick you up, without a word taking you to your room.

“I was fine.”

“Okay, then indulge me. I like having a pretty girl in my arms.” He responded, winking at you. You rolled your eyes but said nothing back, still thankful when he helped you move. Clark started pacing around the bathroom and getting ready the space for you to do your nighttime routine.

“I made muffins so we can take to the nurses tomorrow. Need to be on their good side, y’know?”

“The raspberries and chocolate ones?”

“Mhm.”

“We’re gonna rule that wing.” He laughed; glasses still perched on his eyes as he shook his head at you. You stood up and joined him in the bathroom.

“Your mom’s asleep?”

“Out like a light.”

“You can sleep here, with me again. If you’d like. You’re too big for the couch.” He’d obviously given his room for his mom to stay in, so he’d taken the couch last night and you stood up at midnight and saw him struggling to get comfortable. You stared for a few seconds more before it got creepy but still woke him up and led him to your queen-sized bed. He was too sleepy to fight it off, so he let you tuck him in and pulled you into his chest, one hand securely on your back for the rest of the night.

“You trynna get into my pants? My mom’s right there!” He teased as he saw you put the cotton pad down, squinting at his words. You started laughing but felt nervous he’d caught you.

“Fine, I can be quiet.” He said as he came up to you and you laughed again, he pushed your hair to the back of your ear.

“You look so pretty today. I like what you did with your hair.” He whispered now, more serious as he stared at you while you removed your make up.

“Clark. Stop pity flirting”. Clark’s face dropped at your comment, horrified at the fact that you could even consider he was saying that out of feeling sorry for you.

“It’s not- what? Pity? Look at you. You’re beautiful.” He said and held your face to the mirror, making you stare at yourself. You were looking at him though, his beautiful blue eyes and how his sleep shirt was practically clinging to his skin.

“So bossy.” You teased and he smiled again, moving away to give you privacy while you got ready for bed, checked your medication and settled into the bed. You were sneezing your head off, alright on the verge of another flu. Clark came back in with a tea that smelled strong of honey and ginger, just what you needed. You smiled at him in appreciation before he sat on the other side of your bed. It was quiet for a while, you flicked through your tv looking for something good to watch but you could hear the churns of Clark’s brain moving, hands nervously picking at your comforter as he stayed at a respectable distance from you.

“What’s cooking in that head of yours?” Clark shook his head, saying nothing and you wanted to let it go, truly, but Clark was a talker. He was honest and chatty and him having nothing to say was weird.

“Sure?”

“You know I’d have you anytime, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, like... all my compliments and all, they are true. I mean them. I want you. Like, all of you.” You choked on the tea, looking at the boy next to you who was pouring his heart out to you after years of intense friendship. You put the drink down and turned to him, he turned to you too. You could barely believe what you were hearing, thinking all this time Clark was just being kind and you were just those friends who flirted and lived with each other and spent most of your time together and... oh.

“Like, romantically?” You threaded slowly. Clark smiled softly, looking down and gulping before nodding.

“Yes, honey. I mean you had that boyfriend and then all this happened and I didn’t want to spring it on you, but I love you. All I have is yours. You can take it, whenever you like.” Clark had never been so sure of anything in his life as he was right now. His mom was right, as per usual, there would never be a perfect time to confess. He just needed to put it out there, offer himself up and hope she takes it when she wants. You gulped, the last year was a whirlwind, all appointments and healing and trying to do right by yourself and Clark hadn’t faltered a single time, he was there when Superman let him and made sure everything was taken care of when he wasn’t. You didn’t need all that though, you liked him before.

“Oh. I didn’t know. Well, I’ll take it. Right now. Please. I love you too.” You said and Clark looked up from his hands, a big smile taking over his face. He took a hold of your face, gentle as always.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked and you responded by kneeling and kissing him first. It was stiff at first, both of you confused at what to do with this new advancement. But it worked, it worked soon when you both relaxed into each other, mouths opening to breathe each other in. He was as tender as he was with everything, as mindful and sweet as always. You felt like everything started to melt together, he slowly led you down to the bed and leaned over you, not once separating your lips. When you finally stopped for air, you smiled so impossibly big he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Have some things to catch up on, huh?” You teased, opening your legs to let him settle on his knees between them. He smirked and nodded, kissing you once more before following down your neck.

“Gonna kiss me?” She asked and Clark really didn’t need to be told twice, pulling her close to finally get the taste he’d been craving. His mouth was hot and needy, as if he had been trying to hold back since he came home and saw her so busy. Tongues came quickly into play, tingling down her body straight to her core while he brought his hands down to grab big, needy handfuls of her ass, enjoying themselves but also asking her to move, to give him some friction, some relief.

“You look so hot in your suit. You know what it does to me.” She mumbled as their lips separated for a breather, but his mouth kept kissing what he could reach, her cheek, the fat under her chin, the sensitive spot just below the neck.

“You were- Fuck.” She interrupted herself when she heard her phone ringing on the coffee table, the usual call from her dad to comment on the game was coming through.

“Wha- don’t answer it!” Clark asked, his voice high and slightly perplexed at the fact that she grabbed her phone.

“It’s my dad! Shut up.” She responded, knowing Clark would never ignore a call from his Pa, so it was highly hypocritical of him to ask. She answered, immediately laughing and cheery to talk to her father and although he couldn’t understand much, his hearing was detecting the whole conversation so he could know when to keep going. His mouth went back to skin, open mouthed kisses with thick licks that spiralled down to her collarbones and left a glimmer of saliva whenever he left the spot. Everything about her was addictive, she tasted salty and like the cocoa butter she rubbed on her skin and Clark swore he couldn’t help himself.

“Behave.” She whispered, pressing her hand to the microphone as her dad ranted and gave Clark a look of warning. Clark was debating whether he cared. A few minutes passed of back and forth giggles before she hung up, Clark was still possibly bruising her buttocks with constant squeezing and smelling the wetness growing between her legs with every kiss, a small smirk growing on his face.

“Sorry, you know he calls and tells me what his uncle said then his cousins then asks me than undermines me.” She explained even though he knew how the little ritual went every time there was a game they both cared about.

“‘S fine, I got you now.” Clark answered while starting to grind up to her, making her grab onto his shoulders for balance. He was finally getting what he wanted- her attention. His hands finally left her ass to start bringing them under her shirt, softly caressing and reaching her breasts, no bra, obviously since she was mean and teasing. His brusque thumbs, skin so rough from fighting and aggressive pen holding, found her nipples. He rubbed over them as they grew harder with his attention. She whimpered a little at the feeling of the roughness present to her nubs, giving into Clark’s loving when-

“Oh, the games back on. Time’s up.” She looked to the tv when the whistle blew.

“Are you kidding?”

“Not. Been looking forward to this all week and I may write about it.” Clark looked at his girlfriend as she turned around to face the tv. He couldn’t believe her sometimes. His beloved, take home to his mother, stepfather her dog, get on Duolingo for girlfriend simply couldn’t be pulled away from soccer- not soccer, football- match. Not for the promise of sex, not for his appreciation. Well.

“I’m gonna shower.” He said as she moved aside and let him stand up.

“Don’t be mad, honey. Just 45 minutes! Well, probably 50 ish.” Clark huffed as he walked into the bedroom, finally getting rid of the suit and throwing it in the hamper. He tried to cool off in the shower, he really did but every time he merely closed his eyes, flashes on her showed up on his iris. He could still taste her on his tongue. He was going insane. He wanted to convince her, wanted to taste her, touch her, anything really.

As he came out of the shower and got dressed, he peered into the living room and saw he had been too fast and the game still had 30 minutes to go. Clark could almost whimper. He thought about getting himself off but he wanted his girl, not just release. He wanted her.

He walked into the living room, determined to distract her and stood in front of her, who immediately frowned and looked up at him. He was trying to decipher her, see what would make her crack. Or what he could do without pissing her off right away.

“Clark! The tv’s on! They may be fighting and I can’t see.” She whined, leaning to the left to look behind the hunk of a man that basically covered the whole tv with those hips.

“C’mon, baby. You can do whatever you want just, move away from the tv, my love.” She whispered the last part, as if she didn’t want to sound too annoying about the game. Whatever he wanted away from the tv, okay, he could work with that. Clark slipped down to his knees in front of the tv, taking off his shirt and throwing it far, which made her look at him and laugh slightly.

“I love you, okay?” She whispered, placing her hands around his head and hoping he wasn’t actually upset or bothered at the fact that she was paying attention to the game and not to him when clearly wanted some.

“I love you more, honey, lift your hips for me?” She gave him a shy smile as her cheeks grew slightly red but she agreed, standing up in front of him, legs separated to fit him in the middle.

“Yeah, that’s it, lift your leg? Perfect, you can get comfortable again. Just sit on the edge.” She followed his orders to a T, letting him lift one foot to get her leg folded on the couch. He could see her even with the fabric still separating; she was wet, enough to make a dark patch on her simple cotton underwear. So, it had worked even a little. He brought his index and middle finger to her centre, rubbing slow circles on her clit of the fabric and seeing her body jump a little at the contact. He could hear her heartbeat, it was fast with expectation like it always was when they started up something like this, which, to be fair, was daily. She didn’t look down; still focused on her game (or at least pretending to be).

So Clark pushed the dampened underwear aside, holding her hips and pulling her closer to where his mouth could reach. He teased her, his hot breath so, so close to her wet flesh but not touching, no contact. He blew ice cold air on her, a magic trick brought to you by Krypton, making her jump a little and end up pressed to his mouth so it could warm her right back up. Clark smiled before taking out his tongue and doing soft, teasing licks on her clit that felt warm and nice, but did nothing other than get her wetter.

“Clark.”

“What? You’re busy.” She rolled her eyes with a smirk at her childish, beautiful boyfriend. She knew they would both crack soon enough; she’d forget the game and he would give her what she needed. She stayed perfectly still, eyes back on the tv as a free kick took place and fuck, she didn’t even see the foul. She frowned a little and looked for the remote but Clark suddenly enveloped her clit into his lips, sucking firm while the tip of his tongue drew small lines on her. He could feel her body losen, the hold over his head got a little tighter but she fell back, instinctively moving away from his abuse on her sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Nu-uh, where you going? Told me I could do what I wanted.” She whined a little, the shock of how good Clark could be with his mouth hadn’t worn out. He was simply really passionate about playing her body like a beautiful church organ that demanded care and tenderness and the perfect amount of roughness. That was so expertly shown when he went down, his tongue carved the ridges of her clit so precise, he would larp and suck at her labia, push the tip of his tongue into her opening to taste her right from the source. It was his favorite workout.

“C’mere, darling. Don’t be a brat.”

“I’m not- not being a brat.” She fought as Clark brought her back to his face and kissed her soft clit before diving right back in, tongue pressing against and following every ridge of her and taking the hood into his just to tease and see how it pulled on her clit and made her whine.

“You’re being mean.”

“‘M not, baby. I’m letting you watch your game.” She huffed when he responded that, as if his hot breath against her pussy wasn’t making her dizzy. He was being so mean and she was so into it. Clark proceeded to once again collect the wetness pooling at the bottom with tongue flat against her, licking all the way up to her inflamed clit and starting to draw small circles with the tip. It wasn’t enough, he knew that, but he had gained the right to tease her when she basically turned him down for a game. So he kept going and tuned into the sounds from her mouth she was trying to hide, whimpering and gasping whenever he pressed a little harder. The game was loud behind him, whistles and chants but he couldn’t care, he didn’t care.

“Clark, please, baby. I’m sorry.” He smiled, as he watched her look down at him with a pout he hadn’t seen before, her pupils were blown and he could see it. She was desperate. He separated from her and sat up straight to face her, pulling her loose hair behind her ear and noticing her upper lip was sweaty and her lips were quivering.

“Are ya?” She nodded, hands around his neck to pull him closer.

“I am, I should’ve been paying attention to you, Superstar.” She was telling him what he wanted to hear, and Clark was smirking at her like he had won the lottery with just his wits. Her mouth found his desperately, lips moving fast and eager, her legs tingling when she could taste herself on his tongue. Clark's hand found the small of her back to push her closer, popping one eye open to see her eyes were closed and she was actually giving him her full attention. He could jump in glee. He broke away from the kiss, looking at her red lips from his assault and wanting to drown in them.

“Alright, pretty girl. You win. Let me eat you good now.”

“No, no, please fuck me.” Clark laughed slightly at her flustered state but it wasn’t mocking, more like a happy surprise she was already begging for him even when he usually needed some time to get her ready for his dick.

“You want it that bad, huh? Can’t wait?” He wanted to make sure she didn’t want him to at least make her cum once with his mouth, which he wanted to do from the start, but it seemed like his teasing had lit something within her that was desperate.

“C’mon, I know you wanna be inside me. You’ve been rock hard since you got here.” Clark looked down to himself and sure enough, the print of his cock was visible through the sweats. He started pulling them down as he stood up, revealing he had no underwear on. Slut.

“Yeah, you’re just so beautiful. I love that shirt on you. C’mon, darling, bend over the couch.” Clark kissed her once before she happily obliged, laying herself on the back of the couch for his access. Clark placed a knee between her legs and pressed her open, leaning down to kiss her ass cheek once before lining up to her pussy.

“You want this? Don’t wanna watch the game?” He teased one last time, only pressing the head of his dick into her which to be fair already was a stretch, making her groan and pull back at his neck.

“Clark, please, I want it so bad.” She whined and grinned down on him, her ass slapping against his hips at the contact and god, he loved that sound. He didn’t need more convincing, grabbing onto her hips and guiding her down onto his dick slowly, moans leaving both of their mouths because the stretch was that good.

“Oh, honey, you feel like heaven.” Clark mumbled, mostly to himself as his head hung back for a second taking in the pressure of finally being inside her, and it was warm and tight as always.

“Fuck, you’re so big, baby.” She whined as she straightened herself up, placing her head on his chest and Clark kissed her forehead softly, she nodded to let him know it was okay to move, so Clark pulled back and slammed into her again, hard and making her groan as she fell back over the couch. Clark put forward a rhythm that was genuinely shocking sometimes, so steady and constant and he pulled almost all the way out before fucking back in, all without losing his breathe.

“Yeah, baby. You wanted to play hard to get when I know you crumble to get me inside you.” She nodded, mouth open as her nails squeezed into the back of the couch to catch every move and not fall over, even though she knew Clark was so careful he’d never let that happened. That had enabled many interesting positions that would’ve usually not been a possibility.

“You’re so deep, Clark. I feel you everywhere.” She confessed and Clark smirked, making his thrusts more potent and strong because he knew she liked it like that. Every thrust came with a gasp as if they were shocked it could go that deep inside her, all covered snd comfortable cushioned on her insides squeezing on him just right.

“Gonna cum for you, sweetheart, you’re so sweet to me. I love you.” Clark muttered into his breath, one hand letting go of her hip to grab onto her ass and smack with a little too much intensity, probably leaving hand print on her ass cheek. She loved seeing the marks he left on her body, her strong, careful man loving her all over and making her remember it.

“Yeah- God, Cum in me, Clark. I love you.” She answered, her orgasm soon impending too with the hard smack of his cock against her g-spot and unintentional grinding of her clit against the couch cushions. The dual stimulation was drowning out the tv. Her thighs clenched together as she came, her blood running hotter and giving her a lovely headache. She moaned when he kept going but followed real soon after her, cock twitching and filling her up with his sticky cum.

“Oh, golly, honey. So good. Needed you.” Clark whispered as he pulled her waist up to press her against his chest, pulling the shirt up to feel her bare skin against his hands. She regained her breath as she felt him kiss her sweaty forehead. One of her hands came up to rub the back of his neck in soothing presses. After a minute, Clark kissed her cheek once more before pulling away, removing himself from her insides with a shiver. It was cold, so cold outside her. Clark grabbed a couple of tissues from the coffee table and helped her wipe away the mixture of cum that rested between her thighs. A whistle from the tv caught her attention, turning around and resting her arms over his shoulder to look at the tv. The game was over, 5-3 with two red cards, her mouth dropping. Clark snorted out a laugh as she looked at the tv, finally finishing cleaning and turning around to see what she was staring at.

“Think it’s time for Beetle’s afternoon walk.” Beetle perked up at the mention of his name, she motioned to the door and the dog jumped eagerly off his chest and started shaking his tail. Clark sat up, stretching too as she stood up. She immediately winced and placed her hands under her stomach, feeling the pain return. Clark noticed, watching her walk in real short steps towards her crocs. He could see she felt like she was dripping everywhere by the way she was waddling like a toddler, he would find it adorable if she wasn´t in pain.

“Baby, let me take him out. You stay here.” As if Beetle understood, he started barking. She smiled nervously as she looked between them.

“Uhm, I don’t-“

“We’ll get by without you. I know the route to the park. Let me take care of it.” She closed her mouth and nodded, deciding Beetle could be trusted with Clark, giving him the leash and crouching down to give the dog a kiss and click on his collar. She said something to the dog in her native language, probably reassuring him that she’d miss him. She could tell it was important to Clark she was trusting him with her dog, and he always wanted to do more.

“Oh, I think everything poured out of me. Take some treats! Thank you, baby! Love you! Give him a few on the way so he’ll listen.” She yelled as she waddled to the bathroom, Clark smiling and placing a couple cookie into his pocket. He connected the leash and walked out the door, Beetle shaking his tail at the doorman and barking as if he wanted to say hi. The walk to the park went by without a hitch, Beetle sniffing and wagging happily. He let him off his leash inside the dog park two blocks away, she had chosen the apartment strategically close to it. His eyes didn’t leave the little guy, following his every move as he moved around like owned the place, he was so cute he understood why she adored him so much. He was just like her, cheery, gossipy, sweet and protective.

“Is that one yours?” A woman asked, motioning to him.

“Uh, my girlfriend’s but yes.” The woman nodded, her three Pomeranians running around barking loudly at all other dogs.

“Never seen anything like it. Is it a mutt?”

“Yep, he’s a rescue.”

“And you’ve had him checked before bringing him here, right? For flees, diseases, you never know with those types. Mimi, come here. Stay away.” Clark turned to look at the woman, middle aged and fuchsia lipstick adorned her mouth she had surely used to verbally abuse a minimum wage worker daily. She frowned as her precious Mimi came up to Beetle.

“Of course, he’s perfectly well taken care of.” He responded, trying to control his offended face from scowling too hard at what he was hearing.

“Sure, but those street animals- “

“Dog, he is a dog and he’s good and well taken care of and not a threat.” Clark responded, goosebumps on his skin as the lady looked offended at the fact that Clark so much as answered. He couldn’t believe she was speaking about the dog like he was some sort of wild hyena unworthy of being in the park. His girl had lathered him with love and care, and he was just as mischievous and loyal as any other dog.

“There was no need for that tone, young man.”

“Did you see what Superman did the other day? More like Supershit.” He heard another person say at the other end of the park, making the tension in his neck get stronger.

“I wasn’t being rude, m’am.” He responded to the lady and turned his head to listen to the couple on the other side making fun of Superman, his brain turning to mush. He tried to listen into the conversation before he looked back at Beetle, noticing he wasn’t where he last saw him by a tree. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere in the park, he could not identify him nearby. Clark started calling him, looking around to with his x-ray view to try and spot him hiding.

“Has anyone seen a dog about yay tall, white with brown spots?” He yelled, placing his hand bellow his knee to clarify the height of the canine and using his Superman voice to really project to everyone in the vicinity of the dog park.

“I saw him leave behind a Labrador, I thought they were together.” A man responded, Clark shrieking at the revelation. He took his eyes off him for two minutes; how far could the dog have gone?

Clark ran out the park and looked around to see if he could see the Labrador or Beetle prancing around looking for food near a bin. He was nowhere to be seen and the ache on his neck became an all-consuming headache. She was going to kill him, hell, he’d help her. Beetle was her son, her baby. He was the only thing she brought from home, her only constant protection and company. And the thought of something happening to the dog was chilling. He supposed he could find Kara and Krypto could help find him, he patted around for his phone before realizing he left it charging at her house. God, he’d have to go home without her dog. He could imagine the look of panic and heartbreak in her eyes, how she’d detest him for breaking her trust. Clark paced around the park for another couple of minutes to check if he was maybe roaming around here still.

He realized if anyone could find him it would be her, so he jogged back to her building rehearsing what he would say and how to stop his heart from jumping out of his chest.

The doorman smiled at him as he walked back into the building, guiding him back to the elevator as if he knew something. Clark murmured ‘thanks’ and pressed the button, breathing in and out carefully, seeing the door open to Beetle standing there wagging his tail as if he was glad to see Clark.

“What? What the hay?” He said, crouching down to feel the dog was actually there and he wasn’t imagining him.

“Hey! Took you long.” She said as she stood by the door frame, hands crossed to her chest as she looked at him.

“Baby, I- I stopped looking at him for two minutes and he ran I was- I was searching. Did you- did you like see him outside or? "He asked, explaining himself out of breath and walking up to her, who tried to frown to mess with him, but it turned into a smile.

“He does that, honestly. He came straight here; doorman got him and let me know. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault.” She said, pulling him into a hug and kissing his chest. Clark breathed out, hugging her back.

“Gosh, baby. I thought you were going to kill me.” She laughed, shaking her head and breathing in his nervous sweat. She led him back into the apartment and saw Beetle on the couch already, spent like he was the scared one.

“I’m realizing he’s only good for me and the lady from the daycare. Sorry, should’ve warned you.” She said, rubbing his back in a soothing manner, biting the smile from her lips. She should’ve known Beetle would pull someone like this, like he was testing Clark to see if he would be a good fit in their life.

“‘S fine. Just glad he’s here and he’s okay.” Clark responded, sitting down next to him and petting his head, the dog looking up at him with innocent eyes. He sighed, and they watched each other as if they were having a heart to heart.

“You’re such a dad, gosh. You’re giving the dog a talking to with your eyes. He used to live in the street, give him some credit.” She teased, looking at them. Clark laughed, moving back to look at her.

“Scared me to death.”

“I’m sorry, baby. He’s a riot. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” She said, moving into his lap. He opened his arms and enveloped her, hugging her close to his lap.

“Kiss and make up?”

“Who, me or him?” Clark chuckled and pecked her lips, her responding with a deep settling kiss that faded the pain on his neck. He moved his hands up to her face, smushing her cheeks between them. He couldn't be annoyed at her sweet eyes and mischievous look, just like her dog. They were one and the same, brought here to test him and cuddle him. Clark was so happy about it.

“You're lucky I love you.”

“You as in me or you as in us?”

“Both of you.”

“Wait here!” She yelled, turning around as she stepped into the changing room and gave pointed her finger to tell him to stay put. Clark nodded, sitting down on the waiting room next to what seemed to be someone’s mom and someone’s friends.

He looked around the store, admittedly never been here before, it smelled like lavender and looked clean, every edge of it meticulously curated for the perfect shopping experience. She picked up a few skirts to try on and make sure they fit the way she liked.

“Uhm, Clark? Can you help me?” She popped her head out of the of the door, giving him a nervous smile. Clark fumbled with himself standing up but walked up to her, closing the door safely behind him before turning to her.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, just missed you.” Clark’s face visibly softened, so awfully charmed by her gesture. She smirked and he noticed she was wearing the skirt. That darned skirt that made his heart stop that week in July. He couldn’t see much from his angle in the small dressing room, but it was perfect. She was perfect.

“Darling, yes. It’s even better than I remember.” He complimented, lifting her purse from the stool in the room and sitting down on it, to be able to look at her clearer. He ran a hand down her waist and pulled her closer when he got to her hip, finally feeling the material of the skirt. He knew it, it was soft corduroy that would give him a little stretch to pull it up and shove his head beneath it. Her cheeks were rosy and she looked at herself in the mirror, turning and watching from behind.

“Yeah? Not too short? Feel like it looks shorter from behind.” She said, smoothing it down at the sides and pursing her lips together. Clark sighed, grabbing her hand to catch her attention.

“Well, baby, it does look shorter from behind because you have a ridiculous ass-“

“Okay, Jesus.” She interrupted him, an amused smile spreading her lips as she pushed him away, overwhelmed by his compliment. If it was a compliment. Well, yeah, it was.

“Get it, darling. Get it in black too. That dark green’s pretty too.”

“I don’t need three. That’s what corporations want you to think. Don’t be a victim of capitalism.” She responded, looking at him from the mirror with a careful look, like she didn’t want to be ungrateful, but it was final.

“Fine, just one. Can I get you anything else? Shirt, shoes? Oh! You know, we can get those nice teacups you liked.” She finally put her pants back on, folding the skirt neatly and giving it to him. She then cupped his cheeks, kissing the tip of his nose.

“I don’t need you to buy me things, you know that, right? I think we make the same amount of money.” She reminded him, she was okay. Could splurge sometimes on fancy treats for Beetle and imported goods from back home.

“Yeah, but you take care of Beetle and I- I don’t know. Just wanna spoil you.” He finally shrugged, admitted he just wanted to buy her things. It wasn’t like he wanted to feel like a provider or have the upper hand. He just wanted to do more, be more, make her feel more. He wanted her all. She sighed, touched and giving him the most loving look.

“You spoil me so much, what are you talking about? You get me my morning coffee, buy me lunch, buy Beetle silly toys he doesn’t even look at. You cook for me, you’re always nice about what I cook. You’re so good to me, baby.” She explained, trying to make him see that spoiling her wasn’t about buying her clothes, it was about everything else he already did. He smiled, kissing her wrist before pulling her closer, kissing her cheek.

“People are gonna think we’re doing it.”

“Oh, we’re not?” She teased, making Clark gulp. He had thought about it for a second before when she was changing and he could see the light blue lace underwear she was wearing. But it was busy and crammed and he’d have so much more fun with her at home. Clark’s train of thought was interrupted by her dropping to the floor and pressing his knees open so she could settle between. He was immediately betrayed by his body, because the expectation, the simple promise was enough to get him erect.

“Angel.”

“Superstar.” She responded in the same tone, pulling her hair back as she pressed the button of his jeans, looking up at him with the most hungry, intense eyes. Clark was weak, he was just a man with a beautiful girlfriend. She was fun and oh so nice to him, of course she wanted him in a dressing room.

“Baby, are you sure?” He asked, even though he was already twitching in his pants and looking around to see if any people were somehow paying attention to what was going on in here.

“I am, but I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Clark bit his lips together, thinking of the possibilities of getting caught and if he actually cared that much. He nodded, a smirk spreading her face as she unbuttoned his pants and pulled them slightly down, enough to pull him out of his confines. He was so enchanting to look at, even if she gagged and cried, she couldn’t wait to have him in her mouth. The man who wanted to spoil her deserved some spoiling of his own too.

“You’ll be quiet, I’ll be quick, yeah?” Clark nodded as he grabbed onto his knees, hands pressing hard as she wrapped her lips around his tip, licking at the precum already pouring out of him. Her mouth quickly enveloped him as much as she could, which granted wasn’t too much because he was eight inches and thick, so she used her hand to wrap around what she couldn’t reach. Clark gasped, looking up at the ceiling to focus on the feeling and not making any incriminating noises. Her mouth was perfectly warm and soft, and she sucked with the perfect amount of pressure.

“Baby, so good.” He whispered, high enough so she would hear as they both looked at each other. Clark was a little sweaty and his mouth was open, a dream of lust and vulnerability that would for sure haunt her eyes every time she went to bed for the following week. And her, well. She was watery eyes and a mouthful of cock, his dick was disappearing behind her lips every few seconds. He didn’t know if it was the adrenaline of being in public or her beautiful mouth looking so sensual around him or the fact that she simply wanted him so much she was sucking his dick in the dressing room of a Nordstrom, but he was close already.

“Just like that, good girl. You- you take my cock so well.” Clark whimpered, one hand resting on her head softly to guide her movement, careful not to ruin her hair. He was a sight for sore eyes but she was determined on not just staring at him but get him shuddering and exploding into her mouth soon. So, she got to work: tongue swirling his tip before taking him the furthest she could go with deep breathes and Clark petting her head softly, no pushing or roughness.

“Gonna cum. You gonna take it, right? My beautiful girl.” He mumbled, eyes lost as she looked up at him and winked, giving him the go ahead to finish in her mouth. Clark brought his other hand to his mouth, fisted so he could bite on it. After a couple more deep sucks, his dick twitched and started pouring the hot salty substance down her throat. She gagged a little in shock, since it was a lot, but she took it like a champ, waiting until he finished completely to release him from the confines of her mouth.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cleared her throat, knowing she would have a raspy voice now. Clark pulled her face into hers and kissed her, tasting the tinge of his own dick in her mouth and that was almost enough to get him hard again. She pulled away first, breathless and checked on her hair, pulling out her lip balm and reapplying in the mirror.

Clark shoved himself back into his pants and stood up, grabbing the skirt and her bag. He placed a hand on her waist and leaned down to kiss her forehead, staying pressed to her.

“You’re a dream, angel.” He whispered, her smiling and motioning him to exit the room that was now humid and sinful. No one was outside when they walked out, Clark jogging to the front to pay. She didn’t complain or fight, got there just in time to watch him thank the cashier and grab the bag.

“C’mon, love.” He smiled and grabbed her hand, leading her out of the store. There was no time for ‘thank you’s’ between them, it wasn’t necessary. They knew they were thankful to have each other. She stretched her neck and finally spoke up.

“Do you- oh, Jesus- do you want something to eat?” She was shocked by the dry sound of her throat and how low her voice sounded from the tip of his big cock making it sore. She kind of liked it. Clark smiled and brought her hand to his lips.

“I’m sorry, darling. Does it hurt?” He asked, slightly concerned that she was in pain from his intrusion in her mouth. She smiled as he kissed her hand then used it to push his glasses back up his nose.

“Nope. So, you gonna buy me a pretzel? I’m split between cinnamon sugar and the ones with pepperoni.” She said, continuing to walk to the Auntie Anne’s she could recognize by smell, that all-American butter baked goodness smell. Clark glanced at the William Sonoma that had the beautiful teacups she liked and wondered how she would react if they appeared in her kitchen next week. He’d have to find out.

“Let’s get both. And a normal one.” They walked hand in hand, got the pretzels and started leaving the mall before Clark stopped dead in his tracks looking at the window of a shop for the Metropolis Meteors, almost letting go of the pretzel he was holding.

“I need to get Beetle that toy! It’s a bat! A baseball bat! Fits him so much.” He said, pointing at a part of the display that had pet stuff. T-shirts, collars, bandanas and yes, a fluffy baseball bat toy. She tried to bite back the smile that was forming, he had become a dog dad in the matter of months. Spoiled him rotten even if Beetle still barked at him sometimes.

“Baby, Beetle doesn’t really play with toys. He has like twenty.” She tried to fight but knew Clark had made his mind up. He looked at her with an offended expression.

“Darling, it’s a baseball bat. It’s so cute. Look at that! He needs it. I don’t care what you say. You both get spoiled today. We all got spoiled today. Yay!” He yelled dramatically the last part, making her giggle finally and give up. She shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the entrance of the store, leading him in.

“Finish what?” You teased, laughing as you wrapped one hand over his neck and tickled at the hairs at the nape, all curly and slightly humid from the sex still.

“Like, did you cum? Orgasm?” Your smile dropped a little, like you didn’t expect him to actually ask or notice that you didn’t. Or care.

“I- uhm, I don’t wanna lie to you. So, no, not really.” You accepted it, you wouldn’t lie to make him feel better. Clark’s expression dropped to confusion and offense, at himself for being so stupid and selfish. How could he not make you cum? On your first time together? This wasn’t only the time to prove how serious he was about you, but to keep you coming back for more. To make you feel like you made him feel.

“But- it’s not like, a big deal. You were great, it was great, you were so nice and considerate, baby. It was wonderful.” Clark shook his head, his eyes dropping between the two of you when he realized he hadn’t even gotten you fully naked, you wore an oversized sweater that covered everything from the hips up. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or assume you needed to give him full nudity to be with him. Now it just feels like he wasn’t thorough enough, special enough. Like letting you take the lead wasn’t about your comfort but about him not doing much.

“How could I- if I didn’t-“

“Clark, people don’t make me cum. It’s just not something that like- happens. I don’t know why but it’s still fine and I want the intimacy more than I want release, y’know? I don’t want you to feel bad, because it’s honestly not you. I don’t want you to overthink it or feel like you’re not enough.” You explained, a little scared that we would not believe you or think you were too complicated or weird. Or that you were lying to make him feel better. Clark sighed but nodded, dropping his hands from your arms and letting you climb off him. He didn’t deserve you being on his lap if he couldn’t make you cum.

“We okay?” You asked low and soft, like you were afraid it had turned him off you or made him mad.

“Yeah, of course, darling. You’re- I believe you. Don’t wanna push or make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Promise?” Oh God, now he made you feel bad about the fact that he couldn’t make you cum. Who let him near you? He sucked.

“Yes, swear to God, honey. Come here.” He said as you got under the covers and he did too, pulling you closer to him as he wrapped one arm around you waist and kissed your cheek. He passed you your tea and you rested it in his firm chest knowing he wouldn’t even feel the heat.

“Can we keep watching my silly romance hockey show?” You asked and Clark smiled and nodded, handing you the remote so you could play the young adult romance novel turned into a tv show everyone was talking about online. He wasn’t going to lie, it was a weirdly interesting and captivating. So he didn’t mind it as a bed time show to get his mind thinking about anything else that was pure and utter embarrassment for himself and his lacking in the sexual department.

Turns out, it did not help. You fell asleep probably fifteen minutes in, he took your cup, covered your back and held you tight as you drifted with your mouth pressed against the bare skin of his sides. The show took a turn, some healthy talks about consent being represented much to Clark’s surprise. But he was mostly impacted about the conversation that seemed to tease at his situation, even if your lack of orgasm didn’t stem from the same thing. She needs to be comfortable. Note taken.

“Cat, can I ask for some advice?” Clark said as he grabbed a chair and sat next to her, Cat putting down her nail file and sitting up straight. Clark never asked her for advice. It was always you, then Lois, sometimes Jimmy and he’d call his parents. So, this was about something he could talk about with any of them.

“Sure, what about?”

“So, you know I’ve been dating-“

“Yes, oh my goodness. Cute! I love her, look at her.” You were sat up straight having a conversation with Steve about something sports related. Clark looked at you and smiled too, because you were cute. He was glad other people saw it too.

“Yeah, thanks. Well, I just have been wondering how true it is- or like- we uhm, were intimate and it was great! But it seems like it was only great for me.” Clark didn’t know how to explain this, he wasn’t one to talk about his sex life, especially with co-workers. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it and google was no help, Cat wrote a relationship advice column. Surely, she was the one to ask.

“Oh- okay. Did you like- try?” Cat’s lips pressed together.

“Yes! Obviously! I just let her take the lead and she kind of focused on me so- I don’t know. She looked like she was enjoying it. And she said she did! She said it was good.” Clark was now flustered and loosening his tie a little.

“Then what was the problem?”

“She didn’t finish.”

“Clark, are you just bad in bed?” She asked in a whisper and looked at him with pity, lips pouting as if she actually felt bad for him.

“Who’s bad in bed?” Lois said as she came near them, a couple pages shuffling in her hands as she glanced at the pair.

“Clark.”

“What? No! I’m not- I don’t think that’s the issue.” Lois laughed at his red cheeks and silly defensive words, he looked around to check if there was someone else maybe listening too.

“Well, what did she say?”

“God, please don’t- I don’t want to break her trust.” He hesitated on his words, looking between the two girls and he put his hands up in a prayer.

“What? That she doesn’t cum? We know.” Lois said with a confused look, like she didn’t know why he was acting like it was something that needed government clearance to know.

“What? You know?”

“Yeah. We talked about it like three months ago at lunch. I was telling them about a night with the finance guy where I came like-“

“Please, don’t, Cat.” Clark squeezed his eyes shut like it would somehow help him not know the intimacies of Cat’s rendezvous. She rolled her eyes, Lois sat against the desk and grabbed an open packet of peanuts, leaving her documents aside.

“Fine. Whatever. She told us- we said maybe she hadn’t met the right guy. She said it wasn’t that.”

“Right, that’s what she said to me. But I don’t know if it’s true or not. She said it was good and she did it for the intimacy, not the pleasure.” Lois laughed and almost coughed up the peanuts that were in her mouth.

“Smallville, she’s too good for you.” Lois said as she shook her head amused.

“I know.” He said with a sigh. It was his first real relationship after all.

Clark had been… a late bloomer for love. He thought he’d find the girl in high school, they’d be together forever and that’d be that. No more first dates, rejections, no more feeling used. It wasn’t like that, though. His kryptonian DNA had been more of a problem than he’d anticipated. It was hard to keep secrets but even harder to know who he could trust with them. It was hard to explain his physique and his sudden need to go help someone on the other edge of town. Clark found himself without a serious relationship when most people already had 3.

That’s when you came in. When he met you, time shifted. Clark was late to meeting you and you just gave him an understanding smile and shrugged it off. You were a simple girl by all means, liked long walks and petting dogs. Liked having girls nights with wine and gossip and liked when he put his hand on the small of your back to guide you somewhere. You were always so normal, in the middle. Never the best, never the worst. Never caught too much attention or too shy.

Clark thinking the world of you was a big surprise to you, you never thought he’d pay attention to you. Lois was smarter, Cat was classier. Jenna from the reception was nicer and his blonde neighbor was better at flirting. Everyone was prettier too. Clark couldn’t see much of that, though. He appreciated women, of course, but you were a warm light. He felt like a lizard under a warm lamp every time you looked at him. Like your attention was giving him a reason to be better, try harder, make you smile. It was making him stronger; just like the sun did.

“Poor girl. She’s so noble, she thinks she’s the problem. She thinks her pleasure isn’t important and she’s not worth the trouble.” Cat said as she looked at you with a pout, Lois and Clark turning to set their eyesight on you too and you felt the attention redden your ears, both you and Steve turning to them. They all waved innocently and Steve waved back, flattered. You didn’t even consider they were looking at you.

“Do you think she was lying to me? Is it my fault?” Clark said as he turned back around and Cat sighed, clicking her heels onto the ground as she found the right words.

“I don’t think she’s lying. I don’t know- Lois, is he good in bed?” Lois choked on her snack once again, Clark couldn’t be redder. They had a one month fling- slept together twice before they both realized the attraction was mostly out of respect for each other’s work and great writing chemistry, not physical or emotional. Lois gulped and looked at you, as if she felt guilty about having even kissed Clark when you were such a better match. If only you had gotten here earlier. She looked back at Clark and saw him fiddling and nervous. She knew how much he liked you, she probably knew before he even did. He wanted help, that took guts to ask.

“Jesus- I mean, yeah. Sure. I finished. You were nice. And she likes you much more than I ever did, that helps. I don’t think it’s particularly you.” Clark nodded like he was thankful for the answer, knowing one of the only other three woman he had slept with had faked it would have done irreparable damage to his confidence.

“Good! So it’s not you.”

“Maybe she’s not comfortable with me- or with herself. Maybe it’s that.” He repeated the speech he heard on your show last night.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s true- doesn’t mean you can’t try though. Try, pull out all the tricks, focus on her. Ask her. She’s an over sharer; she’ll love that shit.”

“Yeah, do everything. Do all the things.” He whispered to himself, both girls frowning at his weird self assurance.

“Honey bee, can I ask you something?” Clark asked the following day, over lunch on the roof of the daily planet as you tried to shovel your spaghetti into your mouth without making a mess.

“That one’s new.” You said at the nickname, smiling at him and nodding for him to go on.

“It’s about you, you know- what you said about not being able to cum.” You shrunk your eyes at him as you chewed, like you were upset he was bringing it up.

“Clark, I told you it’s not your fault-“

“I know! I know, I get that. It’s just- like, never?” He asked, one hand coming to your knee as he sat in front of you and you rolled your eyes.

“Not never. Sometimes, when I’m on top. Or when I masturbate. That’s why I said no one can make me cum, I can make myself cum.” Good, so there was hope. You had finished during sex, even if it was from your own doing.

“And do you think it’s because you’re not comfortable enough?” Clark said and you seemed to actually thinking about it, putting your fork inside your tupperware.

“No. I was with my ex, my first boyfriend, for almost four years, I’d think I was pretty comfortable with him.”

“Well, I didn’t know that. Four years? Wow.” He mumbled the last part. You had two relationships before Clark, you said. A long one and shorter one, the most recent that ended with cheating after 4 months. He never thought to ask about the first one. You were with some asshole who couldn’t make you cum for four years. He had convinced you it was definitely a you problem- meaning surely he was very convincing or you had tried many, many times. Who was this dude? Batman? Wait. What if he actually was?

“And he did try. Sometimes. And you made me feel good, I felt safe and loved and wanted, Clark. I’m not lying to you.” You pleaded, feeling a scared that you were honestly hurting his confidence or taking too much of his head space with this.

“And have you ever squirted?”

“What’s that?” You feigned innocence, batting your eyelashes at him to get him to turn into a nervous mess.

“It’s when you, um- when women-“

“I was kidding, Clark. I know what it is. I don’t know? Maybe? I think so but maybe it was just pee.” Clark laughed finally, head falling down as he heard you laugh too and put your hand over his, squeezing it.

“I’m still gonna try, though.” Clark admitted as he looked back up at you and you smiled, blushing when you thought about it.

“Sure, Superman.”

He was being creepy, of course he was. He was jealous and obsessed. Whatever. He just wanted to know. Know more about your past, who you were before you two met and the people who had stolen your heart before he got the chance. He knew the last one, some sleazy dude named Michael that was in a band and had been cheating on you for most of the time. You got over him fast and deleted his contact the same day. He wasn’t the object of his obsession. It was the first one.

That’s why Clark opened the yearbook that was in your bookshelf. You only had two, the first and the last one and he wouldn’t be able to tell anything from the first one. He knew you were together from 17 to 20 and you met at school. So, he had to be there, right? Clark looked through the pictures that would have you in them, and there you were, a closed lipped smile that wasn’t like the one he saw nowadays, teethy and real. You were still so precious. He flipped through the pages of the graduating class as he tried to identify the culprit, but there were no compromising pictures. Nothing that told him anything. He finally he went through the personal pages, where each person had a space to put any pictures and dedications they wanted. He found you in some, people complimenting your sense of humor and kindness. He’d wholeheartedly agree.

Finally, he reached what he was looking for. Some dude, Dean (not Batman), admittedly good looking, had a picture with you where he was kissing your cheek. You weren’t smiling, Clark knew you hated those types of pictures that looked planned and with people all over you. He would never make you pose like that. Point for Clark. Clark browsed fast to look for your name in his words, and there he found it. The words that followed were sickeningly sweet; about how much he appreciated you and how he’d never regret you being the first woman he loved. Oh, point for Dean. Well, sort of. You were definitely the first woman he felt this strongly for, an actual requited and real love. Not his longing for girls who never worked out. But Clark wasn’t the first man you loved. It was Dean. Dean who made typos like they paid him for it. Dean who had you for so long, not him. He quickly flipped through pages, skimming the messages until he found your page. It was so you, organized and sweet. Funny when you could, touching all the time. You had no pictures with Dean, just your friends and family. Smart.

“Hey, did you find the recipe?” You asked as you walked out of your room, having changed out of your work attire and into a big shirt and shorts. You looked at was in his hands and smiled nervously.

“Ah, you pulled out the big guns.” You said and walked over to Clark, who led you to his lap and you let your legs hang beside his perpendicular, looking down at the page. His arm immediately went to your waist to keep you steady, the other still holding the heavy book that contained the glimpses of your life before Clark.

“Oh, gosh. Cringe. Ew, ew.” Clark laughed, shaking his head and kissing your cheek.

“No, it’s so sweet. You look so pretty, baby. I looked like a mess as a senior, barely into my body. You look like you.” He said and watched your expression change, opening your eyes and looking at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. And you have such a way with words, look at this one. So beautiful.” He pointed at the words you had dedicated to Dean, poetic and not too romantic. You laughed a little, glancing at Clark who you know wanted to see how you’d react. To see if there was still emotion there.

“I’d love to take credit for that, but I didn’t come up with that. That’s an Ariana Grande song. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life, it’d be so sour. I’m hoping that everybody can experience what we have.” You sang along to the rythmn of the song, Clark’s smile growing.

“Cheeky. That would be a journalistic crime.” He shook you in his legs, making you gasp and hug him closer. He saw your hair fall besides your face and frame it perfectly, practically making him moan and put the yearbook aside because it didn’t matter once you were here.

“I just didn’t know what to write, nothing was coming up but it felt too mean to not say anything so… I just quoted Sweetener. People cooed and said I was so nice. Nobody noticed.” You confessed between laughs, wrapping your hands around his face cheeks and pulling him closer.

“Secret’s safe with me.” He whispered before pressing his lips to yours, kissing you and bringing the bitter taste of seeing your past self to a halt. You kissed for a couple of minutes, nothing but the slow sounds of Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together. You finally put an end to it when you ran out of breath, licking your lips to get every single drop of his love. You looked to your library and located the recipe book you were searching for.

“Aha! Get ready for the best nachos of your life.” You said and picked it up, leaving his lap and leading him to the kitchen.

“So… how’s the whole orgasm situation been?” Lois asked as she leaned next to Clark, a beer in hand and at the bar as she took a break from flirting with the bartender for free drinks. Clark looked around the crowded room, as if someone was hearing what he felt was a difficult situation.

“Not really going. Tried once last week and it’s like she got bored after a while, I don’t think she finds sex… fun. And I’ve been really busy with patrols this week.”

“Yeah, she said it was ‘okay’, like she just liked watching the other person feel good and that was enough.” Lois responded, making Clark turn to look at her with an open mouth.

“What? She’s an over-sharer, add a glass of wine and bam! I know the details of her first period. It’s a really funny story, actually, it was Halloween and-“

“I know that story. I’ve been with her drunk and she just told me she thought my hair smelled like lavender and she liked my calfs.” Was he not asking the right questions? He knew it would be more complicated to talk about it with him than with her, though.

“Jeez, she really likes you. You smell like… boy. Sweat and ego.” Clark rolled his eyes, tired of this pointless conversation with his coworker that honestly just made him feel worse. The bar wasn’t too crowded; they went for drinks today because Perry decided to give everyone half day on Friday because he needed to go do ‘something’. Creepy. It was barely 7 pm now, just gotten in and he’d left with you a kiss while you were talking to Cat about something you wanted to do with your hair and he accompanied Jimmy to get another drink. They stood side by side as the music changed and Jimmy came up to them with Cat.

“Brother, someone is all up in your turf.” Jimmy slapped Clark’s back, pointing to the furthest part of the bar where you were standing while someone talked to you. You looked a little overwhelmed, he could tell as you chipped at your nail polish and barely looked up.

“Yeah, I think they know each other. There’s some weird tension.” Cat added, her fruity drink in her hands as Clark shrunk his eyes and noticed your heart was beating fast and your hands were shaking a bit. This wasn’t someone you wanted to see. The man raised his hand, and you glanced at it, heart skipping a beat.

“Wow- you’re getting married?” You asked, interrupting him. He nodded and Clark took it as his cue to reach you, squeezing between the people before finally getting to you, your eyes seemingly softer and relieved as you saw him.

“Clark! Hi.” You said and the man turned to look at him, eyebrows slightly raised at shear statue and build of him. Clark put on hand on your hips, squeezing comfortably and he immediately felt your body relax, no more shaking or discomfort. He finally looked up at the man and even if he had changed throughout the years, he knew who it was. Oh, Clark knew exactly who he was. It was the doomed ex. The long term relationship you had while Clark couldn’t do a second date.

“Uhm, Clark, this is Dean. We know each other from- way back.” You said and Dean nodded, also seemingly uncomfortable now that Clark was intimidating him without even trying.

“High school and college. Well, we went to school together since Pre-K.” Your whole life, basically. Jesus. Point for Dean.

“Clark Kent. Nice to meet you.” Clark offered his free hand and Dean took it, shocked at the force of his shake.

“Oh, Clark Kent. You’re the one who interviews Superman. Yeah, I’ve read them. Really good.” Dean said, impressed as if he never thought he’d meet someone who’s words he has read, someone who knows Superman and is somehow in proximity to his high school sweetheart who went crazy after he left her.

“Thanks, dude.” He mumbles, glancing down at you while you seemingly had went into a shell of yourself again. Like he made you feel small and invisible just by being here.

“Is he cool? I’d think he was a little intimidating, right?”

“What do you think, honey? Is he intimidating?” Clark asked and you looked up, like you didn’t expect to be included in the conversation.

“Uh- not really. He’s tall and strong and all but his underwear makes him less… almighty.” Clark chuckled, he would agree. Dean laughed in shock, he’d never imagine you would know a superhero.

“Would you look at that, the girl who wouldn’t go with me to parties because she was intimidated by everyone now hangs out with Superman. Has writer friends. You’ve changed.” You bit on your tongue, you refused to let Clark see how easy it was for him to get a rise out of you, even after all these years. He was being catty, maybe even baiting Clark to see the real you. The insecure girl who’d avoid him for days when you saw him texting some other girl.

“Whatever, Dean. Nice to see you. I wish you the best with Ellie. You two are meant to be.” You said, sure and certain that would not win this time. He couldn’t keep winning.

“I don’t think you mean that.” He said with a smirk, like he knew it still bothered you. Clark was concerned to say the least. This man had you for 4 years? Your formative years? In college, where people slept around and had fun, you were in bed crying about this sleaze? How was he worthy of all your firsts, of all your tears and your devotion? Why couldn’t you meet Clark first? How did this dumbass convince you of your inability to enjoy sex?

“Right, we have to go back to our friends. C’mon, baby.” Clark cut the tension and pulled you closer to him, Dean’s face dropping like it had occurred to him you were dating.

“Nice to meet you, Clark.” He said, Clark looking down at the man and saying nothing as he led you away from him, the hand on your hip traveling down to your ass as you walked away. You smiled, looking up at him when that gesture made you giddy and warm, like it meant something that he wanted to claim you. He smiled back down to you, one kiss on your forehead.

“Hey, pretty lady. All good? You seemed upset.” Lois said, reaching out a hand to you and hugging you into her chest.

“Fine, just someone I didn’t want to see.” You mumbled against Lois and her really fancy smelling perfume, happy to be back here. Point for Clark. To have found people who seem to like you no matter what, to have a big hunk of a man, a Super man nonetheless, who cares so much about you.

“Okay! New bar?”

You and Clark decided to finish the night early, 11 pm and you were heading to his apartment hand in hand while the streets were still alive and windy. The cold wind had made your cheeks warmer in color and your nose was frozen, making you scrunch it every so often to feel it back to life. Clark would have gotten a cab so you wouldn’t be cold, but you’d said many times you loved the cold breeze

“Do you- do you wanna talk about it?” You said as you waited at a traffic light, looking up at him with a wandering eyes. You knew Clark was very interested in your dating life, particularly since he had little to none and that made him feel nervous. Like he still had so much to learn and experience when you already had. You had assured him it didn’t matter, you felt lucky to be there for him while he figured it out and promised eternal patience and understanding. That’s the thing though, he wanted to get it right. He didn’t want you to be forgiving and teach him, he wanted to be the man you needed.

“Uh- I mean, if you want to.”

“Yeah. Do you want to… know like the story?”

“Yes.” You nodded and crossed the street, squeezing his hand tighter as you looked down.

“Uh- so we started dating junior year. It was a little on and off. A couple of friends told me they had seen him with a girl over the summer, which was fine because there wasn’t anything going on with us. I asked him and he said it was nothing, just friends. And then we became official and it was good, mostly.” Clark nodded, following your tracks and how you were being honest and detailed as always. You kept walking, steps in sync.

“Went to college, same one. He kept being friends with that girl. Never met her or anything but I started noticing he was weird about it sometimes and we had a couple fights about her. And then things just… started to go bad for me. I just became like this really insecure person and … a mess. He didn’t help. We kept trying to make it work but eventually he broke up with me. We ended on good terms but the following week, he was already dating her. I was really mad that I was right, y’know? Either way, they are still together and getting married, apparently.” Clark nodded again, not saying anything like he was waiting for her to say anything else

“But I’ve gotten over it, I’ve changed! Like, you spend more time with Lois than me at work and I don’t say anything!” Well, now you did. You physically cringed, mouth shut close like you had just seen a horribly accident unfold. Clark cleared his throat; he had been so absorbed in his own jealousy that he hadn’t even considered you may feel similar seeing him with Lois every day.

“Oh, honey. I never judged you. I’m just- gosh. I am sad we didn’t meet earlier.” Clark said as he stopped by the front door of the building where his apartment was. You laughed, leaning towards him as he grabbed you by the waist and hugged you.

“Whatever. It led me to you.” You responded, muffled by his jacket and how you rested against his neck. Clark could feel the burden alleviate, of feeling intimidated by your past lovers and his lack of. It was as if every wrong turn and pain led you guys to each other. Clark leaned down to kiss you, you responded with ease, at first soft and loving before it turned hungrier, too much saliva and smacking sounds for being outside. He wouldn’t forget the image of you being surprised that he wasn’t leaving you out, ignoring you. He was different and he had all the eagerness to show you.

“Mmm, let’s go inside, baby.” You breathed out when he finally let you go, mouth placing hot, wet kisses along your jaw like there was a magnetic pull from his face to yours. He nodded and let you go for a minute, guiding you inside the building and leaving you alone for a whole two seconds in the elevator before pouncing on you again like a rubber band. You giggled, letting him pin you to the walls and thread his hands from your ass all the way down your thighs, squeezing your knees as his body basically twisted over you, head looking up, asking you without words to wrap your legs around him and let him carry you. You didn’t, stayed on with your legs straight like it didn’t even occur to you. That’s when Clark saw it. No one had ever swept you off your feet, let you be the receiver, the taker. You were always in control, and you thought it was your duty to give and give. That changed tonight.

“Honey girl, I want you to just let me… do everything today, okay?”

“Why? I like taking care of you. I said I’d make us hot chocolate.” Clark sighed, smiling at your sweet disposition.

“Because you always take care of me. I wanna take care of you, in every way. Okay?” You gulped, Clark never didn’t talk to you like you were the boss, like you had him at your disposal. Because he was, he was weak under your mouth and even the mention of your name, like a little kid getting told Santa Claus would know what he did wrong. But sometimes he needed to be a little firmer with you to get you let loose, and fuck, he already had you needing him all night. This was making you into a fountain.

“Yeah, okay.” The elevator opened and walked out with his hands around you as if you’d fall without him and honestly, you might just melt into the ground if he lets you go. He was quick to open the door around you, guiding you inside before picking you up with an arm under your knees and the other around your back, making you laugh. You dropped your purse and kicked off your shoes on the way, helping him start to get you undressed. He dropped you down with a thud that would have made you afraid if it wasn’t into his expensive mattress that felt like a cloud. He fixed himself on top of you, combing away the hair that fell on your face before kissing you again, like you tasted like honey and he wanted to discover if you tasted like this everywhere. Your lipstick had long faded against his face and your clothes suddenly felt heavy, too heavy on your body and you wanted your jeans off, your blouse was useless when it made a barrier between you and him.

“You were so hot back there.” You looked at him out of breath when your mouths separated as he worked on kicking his shoes off.

“When?”

“When you were mean to Dean. I’ve never seen you be mean.” He smiled as he kissed down your neck, smiling against your skin as his hands travelled below your blouse. He was really a multitasker.

“He was being mean to you.” He said like it was a fact that he would not stand for that. And you knew.

“Didn’t really care, I was kind of just working on not jumping your bones.” As soon as Clark looked down at you like he knew you didn’t want to be there and he wanted to make it clear you were his, Dean’s offensive goodbye faded.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” Clark responded, making you smirk. Clothes quickly started flying off, carefully taken off your body in between kisses and rugged hands making soft touches. You were so winded from his attention, there was no reaction other than basically purring in delight.

Your bra was being pulled from your chest when you reacted again, Clark groaning at the sight even if he had already seen them a couple of times. His hands were squeezing them like it was his duty, softly needing before ending at the tip, rolling your nipples between his fingers. His tongue quickly followed, swirling around your sensitive buds and biting it, your back arching against him begging for more.

“Fuck.” You breathed, mostly to yourself.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” You said as he switched to the other, licking like he was testing his tongue was working right. It really fucking was.

“Honey, are you comfortable?” Like it was checklist, Clark was going to get it right. You shrunk your eyes, nodding.

“Obviously.”

“Not nervous or anything?”

“I mean, a little now.” Clark shook his head, mumbling 'sorry' as you tried not to giggle at him.

“Do you want to try like touching yourself? You can cum like that so-“

“Clark, are you Off Campus-ing me?” His mouth dropped, confused since you’d been asleep when all that happened and he thought you wouldn’t know.

“You were asleep.” You finally giggled, hands wrapped around his arms that had stayed still at the sides of your hips, ready to get rid of your underwear.

“I caught up. It’s sweet, baby, but I think I’d be too self aware.” He nodded, you reached his face to be able to kiss his neck, distracting him for a second as you nibbled on his skin.

“Okay. Can I- can I try again? With my mouth this time?” Clark asked, the last time he had tried with only his fingers where he thought you’d get the most stimulation and even though you withered and got his hand soaking, after a while you asked to stop and just have sex, which again didn’t make you cum.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” You gave him a small smile, like you didn’t mind but weren’t convinced it would work.

“Get naked first. Wanna see you.” He stepped away fast, stumbling on his own shoes as he tried to get rid of his t-shirt and got stuck with the fabric over his arms.

“Jesus- are you okay?” You laughed, sitting up as you watched him struggle to get it off and keep his balance. He finally stood up straight and got it off, jeans flying off and his underwear fell with relief. He had been straining since downstairs, his cock jumped up against his stomach and it distracted you as you saw it twitch begging for attention. You lifted a hand as he came back close, but he smacked it away and kneeled on the bed, pushing you against the headrest and opening your legs. His mouth basically watered at the sight, saliva threatening to spill from his mouth as he lifted your thighs and gave himself a better look, all the folds and skin between your legs being perfect and begging him to come closer.

“If you get tired or anything, don’t worry about it.” You said, resting on your forearms as you looked at him and gave the most forgiving look you could as if you were expecting it.

“I won’t."

“But if you do.” He licked his lips and glanced up at you with a squint, warning you to stop underestimating him.

“I won’t. Just relax and tell me what feels good.” You were going to respond before he dipped his head at the apex of your legs and used his thumbs to spread you apart, blowing ice cold on your wetness.

“You’re so wet. This all for me?”

“I told you it was hot, you were hot all day. When you licked ketchup off your thumb at lunch I almost fanned myself.” He laughed, looking at you cheeky smirk and shaking his head. His thumb rubbed sure circles on your clit, gaining a shudder. Your wetness was dripping from you, you smelled like pheromones and delight to the point it was making him dizzy. He licked up from below your opening up to your clit, collecting everything he could and let it dance on his tongue before removing his thumb and replacing it.

He licked soft at first, rhythmic, firm strokes. Up and down, left and right, in circles. He tried it all on your puffy bundle of nerves, enjoying the pressure the stiffness brought to his muscle. You hummed, head falling back and tried to focus on the feeling and relax. On contrary to popular belief, you did want someone to make you orgasm. You were just resentful and carried low expectations to avoid being let down. And if anyone deserved it, it would be Clark and his complete devotion to making you swoon. He liked you. He loved you. He wanted you.

“Feels good, but I think I need more.” Clark smiled, nodding. It was good that you were helping him instead of being too inactive to give feedback. He once again pressed your lips open, looking at your pulsating pussy begging for his attention. He rubbed your hole, spreading the wetness before shoving the thumb inside and twisting it upwards to press into the spongy spot inside you which he could do because his fingers were huge. You nodded in encouragement, lifting your hips to meet his movements and rolling them back and forth.

“So pretty, baby. That’s it. Take what you need. We’ll get there.” It was we now. This was about you two, not a you problem. Hot. Really fucking hot. He took your labia into his mouth, playing with it and pulling on it softly, making the stretch of the skin show how excited you were for him to prove you wrong. Clark wrapped his lips around your clit, licking up with tiny strokes before he sucked on it real sweet. You let out a surprised gasp, looking down at him like he preforming some sort of Kryptonian sorcery you never thought was possible. Oh sweet, innocent princess. Seems like you had also saved some firsts for him.

"Oh, shit. That-" You squeezed your eyes in shock as the waves of pleasure flowed through your body, the dual stimulation making your hands clench in fists. Clark glanced up at you every so often, hungry for your reactions and moans. It was making you feel like never before, so on the edge and relaxed at the same time you were almost becoming sure Clark was going to land his goal. His mouth became a machine for you, sucking hard in intervals where he flicked quickly with the tip of his tongue. You whined and clenched on his thumb, that pressed upwards when he could.

"Baby, I think it's working. It's almost there- there, there. Fuck, don't stop." You encouraged, opening your eyes to see your boy giving you the dirtiest, most lovesick look. He was hoping for reward and compliments, telling him he was doing good by you. He was making his girl doubt her own beliefs with his skills and love.

"Fuck, Clark, yes, please- Gonna-" Your mouth fell open and a low moan spilled at the orgasm overtook you. It was fast, came without much warning as the band snapped in your belly and it flooded your senses with the most indescribable release. Clark kept going with his fingers, replacing with mouth in a millisecond to breathe out praises.

"So sweet, baby. Good girl, you're so good. There we go, I knew you could do it." His fingers gave no rest as they pet you inside and out, your clit being stimulated without hesitance to drag out the orgasm.

"Clark, I think it's gonna happen again. I feel- it's so much. God, what is that?" You clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer to you and holding him desperately like you didn't know what was happening and needed shelter. He laughed in delight against your cheek, switching his fingers inside you to put the longest ones inside you and fuck against your g-spot with no mercy, thumb replacing the flicking of your clit.

"That's it, hun. Make a mess, show me how good you are for me. Show me I'm different from the others. I can make you scream." And scream you did. It was high pitched and wretched, your body betraying what you thought you knew about yourself. Your nails pushed into the skin on his back as your exhilarated pussy gushed around his hand. Clark dropped his head to look at the meeting of your bodies and how his hand was working restlessly to pull every drop, every moan, every smile from you. You looked like a dream cumming on him, face so blissed out it was lost and your pussy clenching, legs twitching in reaction.

"That's so beautiful, you're gorgeous. So creamy and wet." His words were ridiculous in your mind; you couldn't look good right now moving like you're possessed. You tapped out when the second high finally started to fade, Clark pulling fully away and starting to kiss your face with delight. You were trying to catch your breath when he led you onto your back to regain forces, chest going up and down. His hands, both wet and not, caressed your still shaking thighs with velvety touches.

"I didn't think my body could do that." Clark laughed, so in love with the moment and you. At how you were discovering new things about yourself because he helped you.

"See? Wait till you cum on my cock too." He teased, making you look down at how he was still rock hard, even harder than before, and dripping like it would take him three strokes inside you to spill.

"Yeah? Show me." Clark didn't need further instructions when he spread your legs again and led himself into your wet, relaxed walls. It was heaven, a groan leaving him mouth with how much your body was agreeing with him. Like you were made for each other.

"Sweetheart, you're so perfect. I love you."

"I love you." He started moving with ease, hips synchronized with his heartbeat. The squelch of the wetness, the heat from your pussy. The sheer smell of sex, fluids and sweat, his sheets drenched and filled with you. Your soft whines as you grabbed onto his arms and whispered 'I love you's. It was all creating the perfect moment in his mind. It would replace the insecurities, the past life and the other man he thought he couldn't compete with. Because it wasn't a competition, fuck a point system. It was about love and lust and helping each other come into the perfect pair.

"I didn't think I'd ever know this comfort, this love. It's divine." You were already feeling close again, the fullness of his dick was so unbelievably wonderful you forgot about everything else. He smiled, leaning down to kiss you and picking up his pace with his mouth against yours, tasting yourself on his tongue. You were melting into one, you thought. You could never part from this moment. You would, because there was work and he needed to save the world and you needed to feed the squirrel from the tree outside your apartment. But right now, the moment was infinite and celestial.

"That better not be an Ariana Grande song."

.

December in Metropolis MetroGen ER blew in like a blizzard.

By late morning, the board was packed, the waiting room was standing room only, and the registration desk had a line that wrapped past the poinsettias by the door. Flu, black ice, men in Santa suits deciding to have cardiac events all on the same day, too much eggnog and not enough common sense—if it could go wrong,it had found its way here.

"I promise the ice looked smoother from far away."

"My kids… they’re at home. I was just running out to get stocking stuffers and my car spun out—

"Thought it was just heartburn, but this chest pain’s something else. Damn it! Was supposed to play Santa today at the mall. I really needed the money!"

You moved through the chaos on autopilot— vitals assessed, IVs started, labs drawn, explanations and comfort given. Your sneakers squeaked on scuffed linoleum, compression socks digging into your calves. Your scrub top stretched snug over the curve of your belly now—no more pretending it was just a big lunch. 

You’d fought hard for every skill, every instinct, and you were proud. Proud of knowing where every piece of equipment lived and which doctor you could count on in a pinch. Proud of the way people calmed down when you spoke to them, of the way anxious spouses unclenched their fists when you laid out a plan.

All the while, you were doing it carrying another little life inside you—your precious Viola. Your Star. 

Between patients, you finally stole a glance at your phone. Two missed texts from Clark sat on the lockscreen, his contact name bracketed with a tiny sun emojis.

Clark: Missing you, sweetheart. How are my favorite girls doing?

You opened the camera app and flipped it to front-facing. The image that stared back at you was… accurate. Dark circles under your eyes, messy ponytail, and a smear of something dark along your collar—not blood, thank God, probably a drop of chocolate from a quick pick-me-up earlier. You wrinkled your nose, lifted your free hand to rest on your bump, and gave the camera a little thumbs-up.

You: Is this still beautiful to you? One of us is kicking a bladder, and it's not me.

His reply came less than a minute later.

Clark: Yes. My beautiful, stunning girls! Please tell my wife she’s doing an incredible job, And allowed to rest sometimes.

You smiled despite yourself, leaning briefly against your mobile work cart outside of the medication room.

You: Wife says she’ll consider it. And you’re one to talk. You need rest too. How’s your day, Mr. Planet?

You pictured him at his desk—tie crooked, shirtsleeves rolled, glasses perched low on his nose as he typed one-handed over a mountain of notes and a half-eaten Christmas cookie. Lois leaning over his shoulder, arguing about the tone of his next article, Jimmy chiming in to rile either of them up.

Clark: Nothing I can’t handle, honey. Working on a piece, and out on assignment later.I'll try to take it easy today, cross my heart.

"Sure you will, baby," you murmured under your breath with a laugh.

Then:

What sounds good for dinner tonight? I can cook. Or we can finally give in and order from that place you like with the too-salty fries.

You and your stomach, apparently unbothered by the chaos around you, perked up at the idea of fries.

You: Fries! Always fries. Come home safe, Clark. See you later. We love you.

Clark: Gotcha. Always. I love you more. Both of you. I’ll see you later, sweetheart.

You smiled to yourself as you slipped the phone back into your scrub pocket, the little glow from his messages settling in your heart.

For a moment, you pictured being back at the apartment, warm and cozy under the Christmas tree lights, sipping on hot chocolate, and savoring the faint smell of whatever Clark decided to throw together for dinner plus fries. You pictured his big hand spread over your stomach as he talked to Viola later that night, about how the city looked from up high, how Ma made fudge, how there’s already a stocking waiting for her.

You ducked into the medication room with your work cart, and the weight started to settle heavier on your shoulders as you leaned against the Pyxis. Your back ached. Your ankles were starting to swell inside your shoes. Your bladder always felt full.

Mostly, you just missed seeing Clark—not just the streak of red and blue or a flashing news alert, but the man who warmed your cold feet on the couch, talked over Christmas movies with you, and burned the first batch of Christmas cookies every year as a ritual. 

These days it was mostly quick kisses at the door as you both parted for work, interrupted hugs in the kitchen as his phone buzzed. Hurried, apologetic smiles and "I’ll make it up to you, baby" threaded between sirens and headlines and late editions.

You never resented this lifestyle. You knew who you married. You were the one who’d wrapped your arms around him on that Smallville porch half a lifetime ago and told him the world was better with him in it, that you believed in him, over and over. But that didn't change how badly you missed him.

"Hey, Vi," you exhaled slowly and rested both hands on the swell of your stomach. "Lots of sick people here today, huh…"

She answered with a little thump against your palm. 

"I know, I know," you soothed, thumb stroking absent circles over the fabric. "I’d rather I be at home eating fries and letting your daddy fuss over us. He’d have us in front of the tree listening to old Pa and Ma stories. But soon," you promised, eyes stinging a little. "We’ll see daddy tonight."

.

By the time the clock edged toward your lunch hour, you’d worked your way through your patient load to a brief, fragile lull. Your stomach growled loud enough that Jamal glanced over from the nurses’ station.

"All right, mama," he said, hand landing on your shoulder as he passed. He nodded at your belly, then the clock. "I’m covering you. Take your lunch before that kid files a noise complaint."

"Bless you," you sighed, dragging your lunch bag out from under the desk and dropping your work phone into his outstretched hand.

You had a plan: ride the elevator up to the second-floor lounge with the big windows and lumpy couches. Sit in the patch of sunlight like a lizard on a rock, let the half-Kryptonian renting out your uterus soak up whatever yellow rays made it through the December clouds. Eat, breathe, stare at the gray Metropolis sky and distant rooftops strung in Christmas lights, pretend the world was small for an hour.

You’d just turned away from the station when the overhead intercom chimed.

"Attention staff," the operator’s calm voice announced. "Between thirteen hundred and thirteen fifteen, elevators B and C will be reserved for a scheduled VIP guest traveling to the pediatric unit. During that time, please use alternate elevators when possible and avoid crowding the pediatric hallway. Staff already assigned to Pediatrics, or on approved break, may proceed as usual. Thank you, and happy holidays."

The station went quiet for a moment.

"VIP guest?" Maya, one of the aides, echoed, looking up from her screen with brows drawn. "In Peds?"

"Probably some politician wanting a photo-op," Jamal shrugged, sliding a chart back into the rack. "Or one of those billionaire donors. Maybe Bruce Wayne decided to slum it with us?"

"Oh, please let it not be a politician," Maya prayed. "I don’t have the strength to pretend I’m not dying inside when they talk about ‘supporting healthcare workers’ with a conveniently timed pizza party."

Your nurse manager, Denise, walked up then, a stack of papers in her hand and her hair slightly frazzled. A teenager on a gurney trailed behind her, clearly having been redirected mid-transit to another set of elevators.

"All right, team," she addressed whoever she could capture, holding each person’s gaze above her glasses. "You heard the announcement. Between one and one-fifteen, use elevators A or D if you’re not Peds. If you’re not assigned up there, stay out of the hallway unless you’re transporting. If you’re going up on break to see a patient or family, fine, but you behave. No selfies, no crowding, no fainting in front of cameras. Clear?"

There were nods, a few smothered smiles. Maya leaned forward over the counter. "Who is it, Dee?" she pressed, eyes bright. "You can’t just drop ‘VIP’ and walk away."

Denise bit down on a smile like she was physically holding it in. "Just be professional if they pass by here," she settled on with tight lips. "And maybe brush your hair if you’re going anywhere near that floor. That’s all I’m saying."

"Hm, it doesn’t seem like that’s all you’re saying," Jamal muttered as she walked off.

You shook your head, amused despite the bone-deep fatigue, and checked the time. Officially lunch. Your stomach nudged you. So did your baby girl—one firm little kick against your ribs that felt suspiciously like impatience. You headed toward the bank of elevators that included A and D, the ones still fair game. 

Behind you, the gossip picked up immediately, their voices echoing.

"Bet it’s a singer," Maya snapped her fingers. "Or that local actress from that holiday movie they keep playing in the waiting room."

"Nah," Jamal countered. "It’s gotta be somebody on the Board. Admin only goes this had for people who write checks."

X-Ray technician Lena chimed in as she passed with her portable unit. "Actually, you know who would make those kids’ year by dropping by?" she asked, waving finger around for any guesser. "Superman." 

You kept your expression neutral as your finger hovered over the elevator button, even as your heartbeat did a little skip.

"Can you imagine?" she went on. "He shows up, does that cute smile, carries one of them around… the unit would explode. They’d be talking about it for months."

I would explode, you thought. Right along with them.

You’d seen Clark in the suit more than anyone in this building ever would. You’d watched him hover six inches off the ground because you kissed him a little longer. You'd smoothed your hands over muscle and bruise and stubborn tension nightly. You’d also watched him fall asleep on the couch with his cape bunched under his head like a sad pillow and drool on your favorite Christmas blanket.

The idea of him walking these halls in that same cape, boots, and symbol, with nurses and kids and cameras around—

No. Clark would’ve told you. He was incapable of keeping a joyful surprise longer than a day unless the fate of the world depended on it! He’d texted you about tonight’s dinner plans like he was glued to his desk at the Planet until the evening. The man barely remembered to drink water when he was on a deadline; there was no way he was juggling a hospital visit on top of that and whatever fires the city threw at him.

There was just no way.

The elevator dinged. You stepped aside as the doors slid open and a flurry of scrubs and visitors spilled out, nearly colliding with you.

"Dee, Dee!" the nurse at the front called, rushing past you. You recognized Kayla—brief time in ER post-graduation, now full-time Pediatrics. Her badge swung wildly as she practically beelined for your manager, eyes bright.

You hesitated by the elevator bank, thumb hovering over the "up" button, and turned just enough to watch. Kayla pulled up short beside Denise near another nurses’ station.

"What are you do—" Denise started.

"He’s here!" Kayla cut in, barely containing herself. "I just saw security escort him off the service elevator. It’s really him. Superman is actually in Peds."

Your breath caught in a sharp inhale. Your head snapped toward her voice before you could stop yourself, neck muscles tightening, eyes going wide for half a second. The world seemed to narrow.

Superman?! Clark?!

You forced your gaze back to the elevator panel, jabbing the "door open" button like you were just impatient, willing your face to stay neutral while your pulse jumped. Denise looked around like the walls might be wired. When you risked another quick glance, she was already pinching the bridge of her nose over her glasses.

"Ah, geez, Kayla," she bemoaned. "Keep it down, would you? We’re trying not to start a stampede."

"You don’t think the other nurses aren’t already texting everyone else?" Kayla bounced on the balls of her feet, then inched back toward the elevators. "Fine, fine, I’m going. I just—oh my God, Dee, he smiled at the front desk. I think Beth from security forgot how to breathe. She’s normally about as exciting as a rock."

Denise huffed out a laugh, exasperated but fond. "Go," she shooed her with the edge of her clipboard. "Get back to your unit, do your job, and appreciate Superman for the both of us.I am tragically chained here."

Kayla snapped a two-finger salute and spun back toward the elevators—toward you.

"Hey!" she greeted, saying your name as she slid into the car beside you, slightly out of breath. Her gaze dropped to your stomach and lit up. "Whoa, look at you! Congrats on the baby!"

"Hey, Kayla," you grinned, one hand going automatically to your belly. "Thanks."

"Where you headed?" she asked as you lifted your lunch bag in answer.

"Second-floor lounge," you said. "Trying to catch some sunlight before it disappears."

Kayla nodded, then leaned past you and pressed the button for Pediatrics, practically vibrating in place. "Good timing," she sang. "You should come up with me. See Superman. Watching the kids’ faces?" She pressed a hand to her chest. "Priceless. Best Christmas present this place has had in years."

The doors started to close. You looked at the button glowing for the lounge, then at the one glowing for Peds.

You thought of the kids upstairs, stuck in beds too stiff, too cold. Of parents marking time in plastic chairs instead of wrapping presents at home. Of your daughter growing within you. Of Clark’s last text about "working on a piece and out on assignment later, cross my heart I’ll take it easy."

"I’ll see you later, sweetheart."

That sneaky, sneaky man!

Sunlight could wait. Your husband, in your hospital, spending time making patients smile?

You reached out, tapped the lit ‘2’ again until the light blinked off, and left Pediatrics glowing. Kayla didn’t even notice the switch, too busy adjusting her ponytail in the metal doors.

"Okay," you murmured, more to the bump than to her as the elevator began to rise. "Change of plans, Little Miss."

You hitched your lunch bag higher on your shoulder. Viola kicked once, firm and sure, like she was already ready for the ride.

.

The elevator doors slid open onto Pediatrics and the sound hit you first.

Not the usual low beeps and cartoon noise you were used to hearing from this floor, but something brighter—high voices, quick laughter, the shuffle of too many feet in the hallway. 

The floor was dressed for December: paper snowflakes taped crooked on the walls, construction paper stockings with names scrawled in marker, a small fake tree glowing at the nurses’ station, garland looped around the handrails. Kids in gowns and fuzzy socks clustered near doorframes and windows, faces pressed to glass where isolation rules kept them back. Parents hovered close, one hand on small shoulders, the other clutching phones.

The air buzzed with anticipation and no dread. Then you heard it as you walked further into the unit beside Kayla.

"Superman! Superman!"

The shout came from halfway down the hall, then again from another room, echoing off the tile and wallpaper. You felt the sound in your chest.

Your free hand drifted to your stomach as if your baby girl might hear it too. You tucked yourself near the nurses’ station next to Kayla, unslung your lunch bag, and claimed a little sliver of counter space like it might make this feel closer to an actual break.

And then he turned the corner.

Clark. Moving slower than you were used to seeing. Cape swooshing in an easy sway behind him, boots thudding steadily on the linoleum. The suit was bright against hospital beige and pale-blue chairs, but somehow it made the space feel less drab.

The kids saw the cape first and then the symbol, and that was all it took. A little boy leaning on a walker gasped so hard you thought he’d topple. A teenager with an IV pole straightened, fingers tightening on the handle, eyes suddenly too bright.

"Hey there," Superman greeted, cheeks dimpling with a grin as he looked up and down the hall, taking the little faces in. "I heard there were some very brave patients up here."

His voice was the same one everyone knew from shaky phone videos and news clips—warm, sure, big enough to carry down the corridor. But you heard the way he softened it a little for this space, how he let the edges round off for the kids.

Your eyes didn’t stay on the cape or the symbol or the perfect, practiced posture.

It stayed on his shoulders, stiffened for one heartbeat when he took in the gowns, monitors, and tiny bodies attached to too many wires—and how he forced them to relax a second later so the kids wouldn’t see that flash of pain or sadness. It stayed on the kindness in his eyes before the smile returned, that familiar focus when he put all of himself into one person at a time. It stayed on the tilt to his mouth that meant he was feeling more than he could show.

Under the symbol, your Clark was there. The man who’d texted you about fries and promised he’d "try to take it easy today", now adding "being a living symbol of hope for sick kids" on top of deadlines and emergencies anyways.

Of course he did, you thought, a little dazed and helpless.

You could picture the way this had come together: him caught post-rescue, approached by some admin asking if there was any chance he could spare time for a holiday visit. Him agreeing, already aware of his already crammed schedule. Him planning the timing between rescues, deadlines, and you so he could give these kids real time instead of a drive-by. Him not saying a word to you.

Your heart split down clean lines between awe and pride and that specific kind of exasperation he’d earned by being both the love of your life and his chronic inabilty to put himself first.

He stopped at the first open door.

A small girl sat propped up in bed, bald under a knit hat with cat ears. Her IV pump hummed steadily at her side. She clutched a stuffed bear so tightly the fur was worn flat.

"Hi," he said, voice dialing down soft. "Is it okay if I come in?"

She froze, then bobbed her head. Her mom’s hand flew to her mouth, speechless. He stepped in, waved to the mother, and crouched down so he and the girl were eye to eye. You couldn’t hear the first line over the hallway noise, but you saw it land. The girl’s shoulders loosened, fingers easing on the bear. She tugged shyly at his cape, and whatever he said back made her grin, sudden and stunned. He smiled like she was the only person in the hospital.

He moved on, one room at a time. He waved through glass at kids on precautions. He made sure he never blocked a nurse from a monitor or an aide from a bedside. He shook hands with every parent who reached for him, thanking them for letting him visit their children.

When a young boy in a wheelchair struggled to roll himself closer, Superman reached down without fanfare, one gentle tug helping the chair glide forward. The boy’s face lit up as if he’d just flown.

You stayed near the nurses’ station and watched, rooted in place. You should have been upstairs with your feet up and your lunch open; instead you dug out your Tupperware, and peeled the lid back of last night’s leftovers one-handed without looking away from him, knowing down in your bones this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

He was halfway down the hall when he turned toward another room and, as he shifted, his line of sight skimmed past the doorway and over toward the station. He glanced toward the cluster of staff, his gaze slid just far enough past the monitors and computer screens to find you where you stood off to the side, half-hidden behind a rolling chart rack.

Your eyes met in that narrow slice of space between an IV pole and the edge of the counter.

To anyone else, it was nothing. Superman giving the nurses’ station a quick, professional once-over. To you, it landed like a hand pressed gently at the center of your chest.

His expression barely changed. It couldn’t, not here. But you saw it: the small flicker of warmth that softened his profile when he clocked you; the fraction of a second his gaze dipped toward the bit of your belly visible over the counter before coming back up; the slower, deeper breath he took, like he’d been searching the floor for you and finally let himself breathe once he’d confirmed you were there somehow.

You’re here, that look said, from the corner of his eye. My beautiful wife. My daughter. My girls.

A child tugged on his cape, and he had to angle back toward the room, attention redirecting to the crayon skyline being proudly presented to him. His dimple cut in as he laughed, rich and easy for them, but you still felt that earlier look like a warm palm between your shoulder blades.

.

From your corner of the nurses’ station, you had a surprisingly good view of the hallway. Doors open at angles, reflections in the glass of framed posters, Clark’s cape flashing in and out of sight as he moved room to room. 

He made himself small in every doorway—big frame folding in, cape tucked carefully out of the way so it didn’t snag on IV poles or knock into anxious parents. Even over the murmur of the unit, his voice carried in pieces back to you:

"Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared…"

"It means you do the hard thing anyway, even when you are…"

"Helps when you’ve got good people on your team."

You took another bite of your food, eyes following the red-and-blue blur as it paused, shifted, knelt.

"Tell you what," you heard from halfway down the hall. "You squeeze my hand as hard as you can while they poke you, and if you’re still stronger than me afterward, I’ll have to go back to superhero school for extra training. Deal?"

There was a small cheer from inside that room, the phlebotomist’s quick laugh, the father’s muffled sniff. You swallowed around a sudden ache and chased it with a sip of water.

Elsewhere, you watched toddlers pat the edge of his cape, siblings clamber up beside him for photos while a nurse snapped pictures on shaking phones. Every time a kid asked if he could really fly, or if he ever got scared, he answered the same way he answered you at your kitchen table—honest, careful, never talking down.

"Yes, I get scared sometimes." "No, I don’t do it alone." "Yes, the world is worth it."

Across from the station, one of the doors stayed open just enough for you to see inside when you shifted your weight. A teenage girl lay on her side, earbuds in, fingers scratching restless patterns into the blanket. A glittery homecoming photo stood propped against a cup of water on the tray. Chemo orders were taped to her door; you unfortunately knew of that protocol

"So they’re making you miss the dance?" Clark’s voice drifted out, low and curious, while you picked at another forkful.

You watched the girl shrug without looking at him, eyes fixed on the shadows on the wall. "They said I couldn’t go," she grumbled bitterly. "Too many people. Too many germs. I spent, like, three hours on my hair last year and I still looked like a dork."

"I’m sure you didn’t," Clark replied.

She finally spared Clark a glance. "You kind of have to say that, right? You’re Superman. You can’t tell a bald girl she looks weird."

You watched him lean forward in his visitor chair. "For the record," he started, "you don’t look weird. You look like someone who’s fighting really hard. That’s… its own kind of beautiful."

She flushed, clearly unused to accepting compliments without deflection.

"I get it, though," he added after a beat. "You feel like something got stolen from you. That’s not fair. It’s okay to be mad about that."

Her chin wobbled. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just be ‘grateful,’" she stressed the last word, breaking a little. "Grateful I’m here, grateful they caught it, grateful for ‘more dances later.’ I am grateful. I just also wanted this one."

You watched him nod, slow and serious. "They’re not mutually exclusive," he said, offering his hand. "You can be both—grateful and angry."

She eyed his hand suspiciously. "W-what are you doing?"

He gave her that small, sheepish smile you knew from half a dozen clumsy proposals before the real one. "Offering you a rain check," he said. "We can’t do disco lights or loud music in here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do a little dance."

She stared at his hand for a long moment. Then, quietly, she slid her fingers into his.

He stood slowly, careful of wires, and helped her up. One hand braced around her elbow, the other held her IV pole. You watched them from the corner of your eye as he guided her into a slow sway beside the bed. No spins, no dips. Just a gentle rock, his lips moving with a carol you could barely hear but recognized from your own apartment.

She rested her forehead against the symbol for half a breath, just taking him in, then pulled back, cheeks red. He let her have the moment and let it go.

"First dance of the season," he nodded as he helped her sit on the edge of the bed. "Many more to come."

He checked her lines, said something soft to her mother, then stepped back into the hallway. For a second he just stood there, shoulders lifting with a slow breath like he needed to reset. As he turned, his gaze snagged on you again.

His gaze dipped to where your hand rested over your belly, then came back up. One brow ticked like a quiet question. You answered with the smallest nod and a thumb rubbing slow over the curve of your stomach. I’m okay. We’re okay.

Some of the tension left his shoulders, and he move on. A hospital volunteer caught him near the pantry, pushing a cart fully stacked with bright holiday cards—snowmen, stars, the Metropolis skyline with tiny printed capes flying between buildings.

"The kids made some of these," the volunteer explained nervously, flushing as she handed a handful toward him to admire the hand-made cards. "We, um, printed some extras in case…"

"In case I showed up?" he finished, eyes crinkling already grabbing a sharpie. "You were prepared."

You watched him tuck the kid-made ones under his arm like treasure, then sign the blank cards in the gaps between rooms. He didn’t just scribble his name. He wrote:

Thank you for being so brave.

I’ll keep an eye on the city while you rest.

Tell your nurses they’re heroes too.

On your way to toss your empty container and oil off your fingers at the hallway sink, you caught Clark at a different doorway with a father in an old work jacket, half-way passing the card he just signed. 

"…can’t do much this year," the man was saying. "With me out of work and her here… we’ll make it work. Just wish I could give them more than pudding cups and a plastic tree."

Clark listened all the way through, not rushing him, that little reporter crease between his brows.

"I’m sorry," he exhaled solemnly, placing hand on the man’s shoulder. "That’s a lot to carry."

The father shrugged, embarrassed now. "We’ll manage. Just… it’s hard. You just want it to feel special, you know?"

Clark rubbed his jaw, thinking. You could practically see the gears turning.

"There are some people I know in the city," he explained carefully."They run a few different programs—foundations, toy drives. They’re good at helping quietly. Would you be okay talking to the social worker here? I can ask her to reach out to those friends of mine. No promises, but… this is exactly the kind of family they like to look after."

"Y-you’d do that?" the man asked with shock, eyes stinging. "Seriously?"

"You’re doing the hard part," Clark assured, patting his shoulder again. "The least I can do is make a few calls."

You washed your hands and, when you glanced back, Clark was already at the social worker’s door. Head bent close as they spoke in low voices, a folded note changing hands. You knew that look on his face—calculation, fierce determination, unwavering kindness.

Somewhere in the city, one of his very rich "friends" was about to get a call from Superman about a family on the pediatric floor. And you stood there in your slightly tight scrubs, Viola kneeing against your palm, so full of love for him you weren’t sure how your body was holding it all.

.

Clark eventually ended up in the small playroom at the end of the hall. Kids clustered on beanbags, wheelchairs, and parents’ laps. You slid in along the back wall, lunch bag still dangling from your wrist, half-empty water bottle in your hand.

A child life specialist handed him a worn hardcover of The Polar Express and a stack of holiday cards from kids who couldn’t leave their rooms.

He sat on one of the little plastic chairs that looked comically small under him and opened the book.

If Clark Kent hadn’t become a reporter, he could’ve made a living as a storyteller.

He didn’t just read; he performed. His voice dropped low and conspiratorial when the boy in the story heard the train outside his house. It brightened when the conductor called, "All aboard!" A couple of kids squealed and bounced. He gave Santa a warm, booming tone and softened when he read about the bell, about hearing it only if you believed.

He didn’t drag it out, but he didn’t rush either. Just enough pauses. Just enough lift and fall that the kids leaned forward, eyes wide, completely caught.

One little girl reached out and rested her hand on his boot like she needed to make sure he was real. He shifted his stance just enough to brace for her touch without looking away from the page.

Parents stood around the edges. Some filmed. Others just watched their kids’ faces instead, soaking in the wide-eyed wonder like that was the gift.

You let your shoulders hit the wall and finally let some of your weight rest there. You took a few sips of water and imagined your own living room a year or two from now: a tree in the corner; Viola in mismatched pajamas, head tucked against Clark’s chest; his voice reading the same story for the tenth time because she’d asked and he’d never be able to say no. The ridiculous voices. The extra lines. The way he’d draw out suspense just to make her giggle. His hand rubbing slow circles over her back until she fell asleep mid-sentence.

Your chest ached, too full, too warm, a little overwhelmed.

When Clark closed The Polar Express, there was a beat of silence. Nobody wanted to move and break whatever spell he’d woven. Then one baby cooed, and the room burst into noise. Kids clapped; a toddler kicked both feet against a beanbag and shrieked; parents laughed, wiping at their eyes and blaming the lights and dust.

You slipped out with the little tide of staff and families easing back into the hallway. Clark stayed in the doorway, already fielding another question from a kid who’d held back. You fell in a few paces behind a knot of Peds nurses, a respiratory therapist, two residents, and an intern as they drifted back toward the nurses’ station in a loose clump.

Your heart still felt too full, and the weight of Viola pressing low made your back twinge with every step. You focused on the soft slap of your shoes, the swing of your lunch bag, the crinkle of your water bottle in your hand.

"Okay, I’m sorry, but he’s way hotter in person," someone up ahead blurted.

The group dissolved into laughter. Your step hitched, and your gaze snapped up to the voice, eyes wide for a second before you forced yourself to look down again.

"He’s so much taller in person," one of the residents sighed, folding his hands theatrically over his chest. "I didn’t think that was possible. They never show how big his shoulders are on TV."

"The muscles on that man, mmhmm!" an older nurse hummed as if in pain. "And the way that suit fits? My goodness."

The respiratory therapist laced her fingers behind her head as she walked. "If he smiled at me like that, I’d forget my own name," she cackled. "I’d hand him my badge and say, ‘You tell me who I am, big guy.’"

You recognized Kayla’s voice in the mix. "He’s so nice," she said, half annoyed, half worshipful. "Like, impossibly nice. There has to be a catch. How are we supposed to date regular men after this? Superman ruined men for me forever."

Someone snorted. Someone else muttered, "Impossible standards."

"Did you see the way he held that baby in 14?" another nurse added. "So gentle, like he was afraid to breathe too hard. I almost ovulated on the spot."

The corridor echoed with laughter.

And you were: silent. Hormonal. Sleep-deprived. Married to him.

They didn’t know the city’s savior was the same man who filed taxes with you, hogged the blankets, and made grilled cheese at midnight because you woke up craving it. They didn’t know he was the reason your scrub top had gone up a size, that the baby kicking your bladder probably already had his dimples and stubborn streak coded into her DNA.

You did know. And still, your ribs felt like they were housing a small, territorial dragon.

They’re just talking, you reminded yourself. You’re being hormonal. You deal with actual trauma; get a grip.

"It’s everything," the second resident said dreamily. "Hair, smile, voice. If he told me to drink more water and sleep eight hours, I’d actually do it. Especially if I got to play with that little curl on his forehead."

"Oh, if he told me anything, I’d do it," the older nurse chimed back in. "He could tell me to stop eating carbs. Curl optional."

"Quitting carbs is blasphemy," the respiratory therapist said. "But yeah, I get it."

Then the intern—fresh out of med school and very confident—sighed dreamily. "There is no way someone with that height, that build isn’t… super in other departments, if you know what I mean. Wonder if he's single."

More laughter. Someone clapped.

You tightened your grip on your water bottle until the plastic creaked. Heat crawled up the back of your neck. Your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, provided: No, he is not single, and yes, he is super in other departments, and he put this baby in me, thank you for your concern.

The intern pushed on, oblivious. "If he asked me to run away with him, I’d go in a heartbeat. No questions asked. My bags are packed."

"Girl," one of the residents nudged her elbow, "we all know you’d go without packing underwear, too."

"You’re so right!" she shrieked with laughter along with the rest of the group.

Something in you snapped at the same moment your water bottle did.

Your fingers clenched; the loosened cap gave with a soft pop, and a cold splash hit the front of your scrub top, arcing down over your bump. You sucked in a sharp breath as icy water soaked the fabric in an unmistakable patch.

"You've got to be kidding me!" you hissed.

"Oh my God," Kayla yelped, finally glancing back. The intern turned too, eyes wide. "Are you okay?"

You held the crumpled bottle away from you, water still dripping onto your shoes, and bit hard on the inside of your cheek.

"I’m fine," you got out, a little too quick. "Just… underestimated my grip strength."

"Must be all those prenatal vitamins," the older nurse joked, but her gaze was soft as it swept from your face to the spreading damp on your scrubs. "Go change, honey, before somebody thinks your water broke."

That got another round of laughter. You managed a weak huff along with them, trying to smother the ridiculous little monster inside your chest.

They were allowed to look. They were allowed to talk. You trusted Clark more than you trusted gravity. You knew exactly whose ring sat on your finger and whose daughter was kicking irritably against that cold patch.

You also knew that if you stayed with this group one more second, you were going to cry, snap, or blurt something graphic about your husband’s stamina.

"Yeah," you agreed weakly, adjusting your lunch bag higher on your shoulder. "I’m gonna go dry off. Maybe actually take a breather from the chaos while I’m at it."

"You want me to grab you a spare top from our locker room?" Kayla offered.

"Nah, it'll dry soon," you said, already angling away. "Going to steal a few minutes of real sunlight by the back stairs may help, too."

"Good plan," she nodded. "I’ll come find you if he starts juggling beds."

You peeled off at the next intersection, their chatter about "that smile" and "that cape" fading behind you. One last glance over your shoulder caught a slice of red through the playroom doorway—Clark leaning in to listen to another parent, head bent toward a toddler with a high-five, cape puddled behind him like a waterfall.

Your heart clenched so hard it almost hurt.

"Okay, Little Miss," you murmured, palm sliding over the wet patch on your stomach as you headed for the staff stairwell. "Mama’s gonna go be sane somewhere else for a minute. Maybe warm up in the sun. Your daddy would approve."

You pushed the stairwell door open and let it close behind you, shutting out the noise, the lights, and the ongoing "Superman ruined men for me" symposium on the pediatric floor.

.

The stairwell next to unit was one of the only truly quiet places in the hospital. Narrow windows let in a strip of afternoon sun, catching dust motes and turning them slow and lazy in the air. The distant beeps and overhead pages were muffled here, more hum than noise.

You lowered yourself onto the middle step, moving carefully. One hand went to the small of your back, the other to your belly. Your scrub top was starting to dry where your water mishap had soaked in; the fabric still clung cool and clingy over your bump.

"Alright, Vi," you murmured, thumb rubbing slow circles through the damp cotton. "Let’s soak this in."

She rolled under your touch, a small, answering shift. You tipped your face toward the window and closed your eyes. The winter-pale sun still felt good on your skin.

A few quiet breaths later, the stairwell door opened.

You didn’t have to look. You knew that cadence—steady, careful, always half-thinking about not breaking the floor.

You glanced back anyway. Clark stepped in, letting the door click shut behind him. His head tilted, listening—quick sweep of upstairs, downstairs, making sure you were alone.

Satisfied, he exhaled. His shoulders dropped; his jaw unknotted. Superman bled away in a breath, leaving the man you went home to.

The cape settled around him as he crossed the landing, the edge brushing the step below yours. In the narrow stairwell, the red almost wrapped around you both.

"Hey, trouble," you greeted cheekily, lifting a hand.

His whole face softened the second he was close enough to really see you. He cupped your cheeks, thumbs gentle along your cheekbones, hands warm against the faint chill of your skin. His eyes swept over you head to toe—color, posture, tension, breathing.

"Hey, sweetheart," he breathed, leaning down to kiss you, quick and soft. "How are you feeling? Did you get to eat?"

There it was: the farmboy worry beneath the cape.

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding him there, soaking in the contact. "Yes, Clark. I ate," you said. "Had a nice meal and a very distracting show."

The corner of his mouth kicked up. "A show, huh?"

"Mhm." You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Some guy in a ridiculous blue suit. Real scene-stealer."

He huffed out a low laugh and sank down onto the step below, kneeling so you were eye level. His hands slid from your face to your knees, broad palms steady through your scrub pants. From here, the symbol on his chest was right in front of you, catching the light.

He went still, eyes unfocusing for a second as he listened—first to you, then deeper. Viola shifted as if she’d felt her father arrive. His gaze softened, and the crease between his brows smoothed away.

"There she is," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Viola pushed again under both your palms, stronger this time.

"Clark, how long have you known about this?" you asked quietly. "The visit. Be honest."

His mouth crooked. "Couple weeks," he admitted. "Remember that sinkhole? I saved one of the hospital admin incidentally. Asked if I could come by before Christmas if the timing worked."

"And you didn’t tell me because…?" You lifted a brow, but there wasn’t any bite in it. "You, my honest, kind, as subtle-as-a-freight-train husband who cannot keep a good surprise to save your life?"

He looked equal parts pleased and sheepish. "Because I wanted you to see it, maybe?" he supplied. "Not just hear me babble about it at two in the morning. The plan was: swing by Peds, then come down to the ER, pretend I just happened to be in the neighborhood and ‘oh wow, you're here too, fancy seeing you here!’"

You snorted. "Nice plan, baby."

"Yeah, well it didn't end up as expected." His eyes warmed. "I didn’t think about them announcing me as a VIP guest." He squeezed your knees lightly. "I assume this was a conveniently timed lunch break?"

"Don’t look at me," you exclaimed, hands up in surrender. "Talk to your daughter. She insisted on front-row seats."

He glanced at your belly again, smile soft and amused. "Good instincts already. A true Kent."

You swatted his shoulder playfully. "I’m actually… really impressed," you let out a low whistle. "You lasted weeks without spilling. I didn’t think that was possible."

He brightened. "Jimmy owes me twenty bucks. I had to tell at least one person about this."

You barked out a laugh.

"I wanted it to be a surprise, sweetheart," he said, turning serious. "You’ve had such a rough month. I thought maybe this would give you something good in the middle of all of it."

"It did," you admitted, voice wobbling. "It also made me want to cry in the middle of my lunch, so, you know. Mission accomplished?"

His brows pinched, worried. "Are you saying this in a good or a bad way?"

"In a… pregnancy way," you stressed, sniffling. "In a ‘my husband is using his only free hour to make sick kids smile’ way." You let out a thin, shaky groan. "I’m just overwhelmed, Clark. I spent my whole break watching you be a miracle for those families and then listening to everyone upstairs trip over themselves and drool over you."

His ears went pink before his cheeks did. You watched the blush climb.

"I, uh," he started, then cleared his throat. "I might’ve heard some of that."

You narrowed your eyes. "Might’ve."

He gave you that innocent, doomed look that never worked on you. "Superhearing’s a curse sometimes, honey."

"Oh God, you heard it," you groaned. "Every single comment."

His shoulders shook once with embarrassed laughter. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright. "They’re very… enthusiastic," he tried.

"That’s one way to put it," you deadpanned.

His smile gentled. One hand slid from your knee down to your left hand, thumb brushing over your ring before he lifted your hand and pressed his lips to the band, lingering.

"It’s flattering," he murmured against your skin, "but none of that matters. You know I only have eyes for you, right? My wife. Mother of my child. Love of my life."

The words still landed like they were brand new.

You looked at your joined hands, rocked forward a little. "They only know I’m Clark Kent’s wife," you muttered. "Not Superman’s wife too. Which is probably a good thing, but still."

His thumb moved in slow circles over your knuckles. "I get it," he squeezed your hand. "I do. But that’s all it is, sweetheart—noise. They see a half hour in a cape." He glanced from your eyes to your belly and back. "I go home to you and her. That’s the real part. That’s the part that matters."

You studied him: the suit, the cape spilling around his knees, the one curl that never listened to him. His expression shifted, worry cutting through his gentleness.

"Honestly, I’ve been really worried about you," he admitted. "Working this hard, on your feet all day, while you’re pregnant. The holidays on top of it. I keep hearing alarms down here and my brain just…" He shook his head, frustrated. "I needed to see you. Not from three miles up. Right here. Hear you. Hear her. Make sure you know you’re not doing this alone. I’m sorry it’s been so hectic on my end."

As if on cue, your baby pushed again under both your hands. You and Clark both went quiet for a moment, just feeling her move, matching smiles tugging at your mouths.

"Talking to those kids today…" His voice dropped. "I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About our girl. I want her to grow up in a world with more afternoons like that and fewer days of you running yourself into the ground downstairs. Less sirens. More stories and crafts and burnt Christmas cookies."

Your eyes stung. You blinked hard; a tear still escaped.

"Oh, Clark," you said, his name catching in your throat. You squeezed his hand, hard enough that he looked up. "Look at me."

His eyes met yours, blue and anxious and so, so earnest.

"You’re doing so much good," you assured him. "For them, for this city, for us. I see it. I see you." Your voice thinned, but you pushed through it. "And I’m okay, really. Tired and hormonal and soggy, but okay. You haven’t failed me, or her. Not even close."

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased at that, just a shade, like you’d loosened something he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He shifted closer on his knees so you didn’t have to lean so far. You tipped toward him anyway, resting your forehead against the symbol on his chest. The fabric was warm under your skin; his heartbeat thudded steady behind it. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair.

"Watching you with the kids, their families…" You swallowed. "It made me fall for you even more. Which is really unfair, because I don’t know where else I’m supposed to put it."

His chest vibrated against your cheek as he laughed. He pressed his mouth to the crown of your head, holding there, then tipped your face up with the lightest pressure of his knuckles.

When your eyes met his, everything was there—worry, relief, and that same ridiculous, wholehearted love that had followed you from Smallville to Metropolis and right into this stairwell.

No cameras. No patients. No performance. Just his mouth on yours, sure and familiar, his hand warm at the back of your neck. You curled your free hand into the front of his suit and pulled him closer. The winter light caught along his jaw and the damp shine of your bottom lip when you finally broke for air.

"I'm truly sorry, sweetheart," he murmured against your mouth. "Because I’m not planning on making it any easier on you."

You huffed a shaky laugh. "Is that so?"

"Rightfully so," he said, kissing you once more, settling a palm against your belly again. "Get used to it, hon. I’m already stupid in love with you, and I’m going to be even worse once this one's officially in the mix."

You let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and kissed him again, deeper this time, because there was nothing else to say.

For a long, suspended moment, there was no ER, no Peds, no Metropolis waiting. Just you, Viola under both your hands, and the man doing everything he could to make the world softer for all three of you.

.

You and Clark came back to Pediatrics unit, re-entering from the stairwell at different times.

He’d given you one last kiss, promised he had "two more rooms" and sent you ahead so you could freshen up in the restroom and grab a fresh water bottle. By the time you came back to the nurses’ station, your break was nearly over. You settled beside Kayla and that too-curious intern—badge bouncing, empty lunch bag in hand.

The hallway hummed, but softer now. Kids laughing from inside rooms. Parents talking in low, hopeful voices. Nurses finishing vitals with a little more spring in their step than they’d had an hour ago.

Clark was at the far end of the hall, finishing his last goodbyes. 

A boy of maybe seven sat parked in a wheelchair half in, half out of the room. One leg was in a bright blue cast and a paper cape draped over the chair, it fluttered a little whenever he moved.

"Hey there," Superman said, coming down to his eye level. "Got yourself a pretty impressive ride."

The boy’s fingers tightened on the armrests. "Do you ever…" He swallowed, glancing from Clark’s boots to the symbol on his chest. "Do you ever take people flying?"

His mom, hovering just behind the chair, winced apologetically. "Honey, no don't—sorry about that, Superman."

Clark shook his head quickly, gentle. "Can’t leave the hospital today," he said, "they’d miss you too much if I flew you off to the moon."

The boy’s shoulders drooped.

"But," Clark added, eyes crinkling, "if it’s okay with Mom, I might be able to do a practice run. Just around the hallway. Co-pilot seat’s open."

The boy’s head snapped up. His mom’s mouth flew open, already nodding. "If you’re sure," she whispered.

Clark slid one arm carefully under the boy’s knees, the other around his back, counting softly, "One, two, three," as he lifted him clear of the chair.

The paper cape slid down to rest against Clark’s arm. The boy let out a startled little laugh that turned into a breathless grin.

"Ready, co-pilot?" Clark asked.

"Ready," the boy whispered.

He didn’t really fly—too many equipment, too many watching parents—but he jogged the length of the pediatric hallway with his steps just a little lighter, a subtle lift to each one. To a seven-year-old’s body cradled against his chest, it probably felt like gliding.

Kids poked their heads out of doorways as he passed. Someone started it—one small voice, then another, then another—

"Superman! Superman! Superman!"

By the time he circled back and eased the boy gently into his wheelchair, the boy’s cheeks were flushed, eyes huge.

"Think you’ll be ready for the real thing when that leg’s healed up?" Clark asked quietly.

The boy nodded so hard his beanie slipped sideways. Clark straightened it for him, tucking the edge over his ear.

"You rest," he offered his hand in a fist-bump. "Metropolis needs you at full strength."

.

Only then did Admin finally step in. "On behalf of MetroGen, thank you for coming, Superman," the administrator said, her voice a touch too formal. "You’ve made a lot of people very happy today."

He gave her his famous, wide smile, but you saw the real one under it. "No, thank you for having me," he replied, gesturing slightly toward the cluster of nurses, aides, therapists, and doctors milling around. "Like I said: they do the hard work here. I’m just glad I could stop by."

Families peered from doorways for a final look. Kids clutched paper capes and signed cards, playfully arguing about whose should go on the bulletin board. Nurses promised to print photos. It felt like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter and let fresh air in.

He glanced around then, like he was checking that he’d hit every room, every corner. It looked like a last sweep before a clean exit. Except you knew him. That wasn’t a general scan.

His eyes found you by the nurses’ station. You dropped your gaze to your lunch bag for a second, pretending to fuss with the zipper. Your pulse picked up, quick and hard, at the sudden attention.

He took a small breath, squared his shoulders—that tiny shift into full "symbol of hope" mode—and raised his voice enough to carry.

"Before I go," he began, lifting a finger slightly, "there’s one more thing."

The hallway quieted like someone turned down a dial. The knot of Peds nurses, therapists, and residents near the station snapped a little straighter. You could feel them preen—hands smoothing scrub tops, fingers fixing ponytails, bodies angling themselves toward him. A tech checked her reflection in the blacked-out monitor.

You stayed put, hands wrapped around your lunch bag handles and your new water bottle, trying to look like part of the background.

He didn’t look at them. He came straight down the hall, cape moving around his boots, steps easy and unhurried. The group parted without thinking, bodies stepping out of his way like it was muscle memory. The whispering started:

"Is he—?"

"Wait, is he coming over here?"

"He’s looking at—no, shut up, he is."

He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint line at the corner of his eyes, the one that deepened when he smiled for real.

He smiled now. Soft. Too knowing.

"Mrs. Kent," he addressed, clear enough for everyone to hear. "It’s a nice surprise to see you up here today. How are you and the baby doing?"

The unit went dead quiet for a full beat.

Someone sucked in a breath so sharply you were surprised they didn’t need oxygen. A clipboard clattered to the floor behind you, papers fanning out across the tile. You heard the intern gasped, high and stunned: "Wait, he knows her personally?"

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You kept your face as composed as you could manage, with what felt like the entire floor watching.

"We’re doing just fine, Superman," you answered, keeping it professional with all your strength. "Thanks for checking on us. It’s good seeing you today, too."

His gaze dropped to your bump, slow and deliberate. The warmth there wasn’t staged. You’d seen that look at home, in your dim kitchen, in your shared bed, under the glow of your Christmas tree. Seeing it here, in the middle of fluorescent lights and hospital beige, made your chest twist.

"Mr. Kent speaks very fondly of you both every time we meet for interviews," he added, blue eye with mirth.

Oh, you sneaky, sneaky man!

You could feel everyone’s attention sharpen at the mention of Clark’s name. Clark writes those interviews. Clark meets with Superman. Clark talks about you.

His hand lifted slightly, hovering just above the curve of your belly. He didn’t touch you, no scandal, no boundary crossed, but the space between his hand and your scrub top felt charged. Anyone really watching would see it for what it was.

He turned his head slightly, addressing the rest of the station.

"Metropolis is lucky to have nurses like Mrs. Kent and her colleagues," he said. "Thank you for taking such good care of everyone here. Have a good rest of your day."

A ripple of shy pride went through the group. A respiratory therapist blinked fast and coughed like something was caught in his throat. Kayla and the intern both had white-knuckled grips on the counter, eyes wide, obviously replaying every thirsty comment they’d made within earshot.

The administrator looked like she might cry.

Clark faced you again, that small, polite smile flickering to the surface.

"Mrs. Kent," he asked, "may I walk you back to the ER?"

For a moment, you forgot how to speak. Your chest felt tight, your throat worse. You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded.

He stepped to your side, hand hovering politely near your elbow without quite taking it, and together you walked passed the onlookers and toward the elevators. You risked a final glance at the station—Kayla and the intern were still staring. Kayla lifted her hand in a dazed little wave; the intern managed a stunned, incredulous look. You answered with a smirk and a little wave of your own.

The jealous, territorial little dragon that had been breathing fire under your ribs in the hallway earlier… stretched, yawned, and curled up smugly to sleep. Your rational brain rolled its eyes at you, but your heart still gave a deeply petty, deeply satisfied little purr.

Security met you at the elevator bank. One of them started to say something about an exit route, but Clark shook his head lightly.

"I’ll ride down with her to the ER, and exit through there," he assured. "I appreciate you, though."

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside.

The second they closed, the world shrank. The hum of the hospital dropped to a dull vibration, red and blue flickering faintly in the brushed metal walls as the floor numbers ticked down.

Clark let out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders dropped, the line of his jaw loosening. "You okay?" he asked quietly, fiddling with the collection of cards. "That was… a lot of eyes on you."

You set your lunch bag on the rail and fisted both hands in the front of his suit, tugging him a little closer. "You called me Mrs. Kent in front of an entire unit, implying familiarity," you said, voice rougher than you meant it to be. "You tell me, Clark."

Color climbed his ears. He gave you a sheepish, crooked smile. "Yeah, sorry, hon," he admitted. "I, uh… might’ve gotten carried away. I was trying to be subtle, but then you were right there and—" He shrugged, helpless "Is this a complaint?"

Your chest squeezed. "You know this is not a complaint," you laughed, poking his chest lightly. "But I am never hearing the end of it. Ever."

His eyes darkened, that soft heat you knew too well simmering underneath as he caught your prodding finger gently with his free hand. "Then I’m not sorry I said it."

You didn’t bother answering back. You just hauled him down and kissed him.

Not the careful stairwell kiss. Not soft reassurance. This one was hungry, senseless—every bottled-up feeling from the last hour poured into a single, stolen moment. His hand flew to your waist, thumb brushing against the swell of your belly. His cape brushed your calves; the symbol pressed warm against your chest.

He made a quiet, helpless sound into your mouth, knees bending as he leaned into you like he’d been waiting all day for this. You felt him try to keep it gentle and failed. When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing harder than an elevator ride warranted.

His forehead touched yours, the faintest grin curving his mouth. "For the record," he said softly, "I meant it. I’m not going easy on loving you. Not now, not ever."

"Clark, if you keep talking like that," you muttered, fingers still knotted in his suit, "I’m going to pull the call button and tell them I fainted so you have to carry me out of here."

His chuckle vibrated against your mouth. "Don’t tempt me, sweetheart. I’d love an excuse to play the hero."

Another chime cut through the moment. You both straightened automatically. His hands dropped back to his sides, yours returned to your lunch bag. He flicked his cape into place with a practiced adjustment, the public face settling over his features in an instant.

The doors opened onto the ER.

Everything hit you at once—monitors, voice overhead, the smell of coffee that had been burned half an hour ago. And all of it, for the first time ever, had Superman stepping out onto the unit beside you.

Maya, restocking blankets near the desk, froze mid-fold. The blanket slid out of her hands and puddled at her feet.

"Oh my fu—God!" she choked, then cut herself off, eyes swinging from him to you. "They were not kidding about VIP."

Jamal, halfway through charting, sat back in his chair so fast it rolled into the wall. "Holy—! Nobody told me our VIP was that VIP," he winced. "I would’ve worn my nice scrubs."

Rosa, at the charge desk with a stack of assignments in hand, actually crossed herself once, then shook her head like she’d done it on reflex. "Madre de Dios," she muttered. "Honey, you took ‘lunch break’ and brought back Superman?"

Denise stepped out of her office just in time to see Clark, you, and the cape. Her lips parted; her eyes flicked to your badge, your belly, back to his face. Then she recovered, because she’d been a nurse too long not to.

"S-superman!" she stuttered, stepping forward and offering a shaky hand. "Welcome to the ER! Thank you for visiting our colleagues upstairs."

He took her hand, grip gentle. "No, thank you. You all do incredible work down here, too," he glanced around, taking in the organized chaos, the full board behind the station. "I know this season is hard on everyone. Thank you for taking care of Metropolis on days like this."

You could feel your coworkers stand just a bit taller. His gaze slid back to you one last time, warmth flooding through the blue of his eyes. The words were for the room, but the look was only for you.

"Take care, Mrs. Kent," he gently patted your shoulder with a wink, waving the stack of newly acquired cards at you."Tell your husband I said hello, and I look forward to the next interview with him."

You sneaky, troublesome man!

"I will," you managed, grinning stupidly anyways. "Take care, Superman."

He gave you and the unit a final nod, turned toward the ambulance bay doors with security waiting out front for him. In a few strides, Clark was gone—blue suit and red cape vanishing past double doors, swallowed by cold December light.

The silence lasted all of three seconds.

"You know Superman?" Maya exploded. "Why didn’t you say anything?"

"Since when?" Jamal demanded. "Is that what ‘I know people’ meant that one day? Because that is not what I thought you meant."

Rosa slapped a hand lightly against the counter. "In all my years—why am I just connecting that your husband Clark Kent is the same Planet Clark Kent, who is also exclusive-interviews-with-Superman Clark Kent." She pointed between the empty doorway and you, then blurted: "Do you guys meet for dinner?!"

Questions tumbled over each other.

You held up your hands, cheeks hot, trying not to laugh.

"My husband and I have known him for a bit," you said, falling back on the script you and Clark had rehearsed years ago. "Clark writes those profiles. Superman trusts him. It’s… kind of a long story."

You let "long story" hang there, a soft, polite brick wall.

Before anyone could press further, the charge phone rang. A trauma alert blared overhead. Denise clapped her hands once.

"Okay, celebrity time’s over," she reminded briskly. "We’ve got beds to turn and patients to see. You," she added, pointing at you, "hydrate and then I want you sitting for five minutes before you take your next assignment."

"Yes, boss," you saluted, grateful for the out. 

You ducked into the break room. The second the door swung shut, you exhaled hard, braced one hand on the counter, and let yourself grin like an idiot. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Clark: Hey, hon. What size fries did you want? Need anything else before I get home tonight?

You snorted. You checked the board through the narrow break-room window. New names were already popping up. The shift wasn’t slowing for anyone—not even Superman.

You: If you really care, you’ll buy me an extra-large. Let me indulge. Maybe a foot rub. Heating pads??

His reply was instant.

Clark: Already planned on it: Extra large fries (double order), heating pad, and a foot rub. Get through the rest of your shift. I love you both.

You bit your lip, a smile tugging at your mouth helplessly.

You: We love you, too, Clark

You slid your phone away and your hand found your belly for a quick rub. "Hear that, Little Miss Vi?" you murmured. "Fries later. Superman cameo achieved. Time to get back to the fray."

Viola gave one soft thump. You straightened your badge, squared your shoulders, and stepped back into the bright, chaotic ER—heart settling around one quiet, steady truth.

The city might only ever know him as Superman, the man who dropped into Pediatrics for an hour of borrowed hope, but you knew better. Under the cape and behind the bylines, he was the husband who’d just promised—again—that he wasn’t going easy on loving you or the little girl turning slow somersaults under your palm, no matter how many lives were waiting on the other side of those doors.

.

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.

Clark sat at the dining table, his laptop open in front of him, a shared Google spreadsheet already color-coded within an inch of its life. 

Two mugs of coffee sat between you—his with a splash of cream, yours black — but both had gone lukewarm over half an hour ago. Outside, the city moved around you, but in here, the world had shrunk to cells, numbers, and the little, precious weight cradled against his chest.

Viola lay sprawled along his forearm, cheek pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, gnawing determinedly on a blue teether. Every few seconds, her tiny fist thumped his sternum like a drum. Her dark curls stuck up in soft tufts, and her socks were already half off from repeated enthusiastic leg kicking; one hung from her toes, close to slipping free.

Next to him, you were cozy in Clark’s oversized Metropolis U crewneck, legs tucked under you, thick hair piled up in a loose bun that had already started to tilt. You held a pen between your teeth, the pages of your notebook covered in neat columns and tiny notes in the margins.

"Okay, sweetheart," Clark clapped his hands and rubbed them together, trying for his "serious finance face," which you claimed looked exactly like his "constipated article draft face." "Kent Financial Wellness Check, Q2. You ready?"

You waved your pen around in mock enthusiasm. "As I’ll ever be, baby. For two people who did not choose lucrative careers…"

"…we sure do like having electricity," he finished with you with a grin.

Viola squealed at the same time, teether slipping slightly. A string of drool hit Clark’s shirt, and unphased, shifted her higher, rubbing a slow circle on her back, replacing the teether. 

He clicked on the first tab. "Groceries."

Green for "essentials," yellow for "questionable choices," red for "what were we even thinking." 

You leaned forward, blinking at the screen. "Is that… three different orders labeled ‘delivery emergencies’?"

"In our defense," Clark said, "two of those days I was on a deadline and a city crisis somehow no one in the Justice Gang had time to deal with. One of those days, you had a double shift. Your text said, and I quote: ‘if I stand up, my spine will crumble.’"

A fuzzy image of that week came back—him stumbling in at midnight, you half-asleep on the couch, both of you too wrecked to even look at the stove. You snorted and flipped back a page in your notes, hunting. "Uh-huh. And what about this one that’s just labeled 'smiley-face'?"

He winced. "…That may have been the same week. Lois mentioned a limited-time burger pop-up near the Planet and I thought, you know, morale boost."

"So that’s three ‘delivery emergencies’ and one ‘morale boost,’" you nodded, already dragging your pen to the margin.

He watched you start to write, squinting to read upside down. "Are you writing that down?"

"Future us," you narrated slowly as you scawled, "please do not order takeout four times in one week because Lois said there was a limited-time burger pop-up near the Planet."

"At least Lois has good taste," he muttered. "Terrible timing, but good taste."

Viola shifted, pressing a palm flat against his chest and gurgled as if ‘taste’ triggered her. He bounced his knee gently, supporting her head with his other hand, and the motion settled her. She gnawed the teether harder, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.

Clark moved to the next category. "Baby stuff."

There was a lot of yellow there. Rows and rows of tiny numbers that felt harmless when you hit "checkout" at 2 a.m. late-night shopping, but looked monstrous when they all sat in one column, judging you.

"Okay," he muttered, scrolling. "Formula. Bottles. Different bottles because the first bottles were apparently ‘not her personality.’ Purees. More purees. Teething rings. Bibs. Why does someone her size need eighteen pairs of socks?"

"She doesn’t," you countered, voice going instinctively softer as you glanced at Viola. "She needs eighty. Half of them disappear into the void the second they go in the washer. Somewhere there is a hell dimension that is just unmatched baby socks and hospital pens."

Viola made a soft humming noise and kicked against his forearm, like she agreed. Her half-on sock wobbled on her toes.

"And what is this?" he asked, scrolling further. "Three different types of pacifiers?"

You winced. "Okay, that one’s on me. I liked the little cartoon stars. It was cute…at the time."

Clark smiled despite himself, watching the way your mouth curved even as your brows pinched at the total. "We’ve got her diapers covered. Her food is fine. We finally found a bottle she won’t toss out the window. And the pediatrician said she’s thriving. That’s what matters."

Viola had her teether now clutched in her hands, and was now testing the quality of Clark’s T-shirt collar with a tight little fist. She squealed when the fabric stretched, delighted with her own strength.

"You hear that, Little Miss Vi?" you cooed, reaching over to smooth a hand over her wild curls. "You’re our tiny, adorable money pit. The best money pit."

"Don’t insult the investor," Clark murmured with a grin. He shifted her up and pressed a noisy kiss to her cheek. She smelled like baby lotion and leftover milk, and her skin was warm against his mouth.

You snorted. "Oh, I’m sorry. Our tiny, adorable operations manager."

"Miss Vi," he corrected solemnly, tapping her nose. "Distinguished baby of the house, funding allocation manager—oh—"

She had slapped his chest with her open palm, fingers splayed, leaving a faint damp handprint on his shirt. The hit bounced harmlessly off muscle, but she looked very proud of herself.

"MISS VI," you sang in warning, drawing it out.

Her head jerked toward you. Her blue eyes went huge and bright. She squealed, high and delighted, then flailed both arms and smacked Clark’s chest again like a drum.

You laughed. "Hey, hey—be nice to Daddy," you scolded gently, smoothing a hand over her back. "He’s the one funding your sock habit."

You leaned in, resting your chin briefly on Clark’s shoulder. Viola let out a happy babble, trapped between both of your bodies, and drooled contentedly onto his shirt instead.

"Putting it in the notes," you said, scribbling something on the paper. "Line item: Miss Vi’s Reign of Financial Terror."

Clark glanced at your handwriting and shook his head, smiling. Terror or not, if she needed sixteen more pairs of socks, you’d both figure it out.

He moved down the list. "Rent. Utilities. Food. Press credentials renewal," he pointed at a blue row with his cursor, "that’s me. Monthly nursing association fees, that’s you."

You wrinkled your nose. "I love that I have to pay money to show my enthusiasm for my career."

He grunted in sympathy. "At least the Planet isn’t charging me to complain about my job yet."

He scrolled, checking the totals. The numbers weren’t comfortable, but they weren’t terrifying either. Tight, not desperate. A spot on the line where he knew a lot of people would still trade places with him—steady roof, fridge with food, lights that came on when you flipped the switch, a baby with full cheeks and strong lungs. He tried to hold onto that when his chest clenched at the column of expenses.

"Bills look doable," he decided after a beat. "If we watch the impulse stuff, we’re fine. Maybe we can finally start setting aside more for a real vacation fund. Something with an ocean for you and a lot of yellow sun for me."

Your head snapped up, eyes lighting as you giggled. "Beach trip where I get to see my husband shirtless. In public? Say less."

He snorted. "You see me shirtless every day."

"Yeah, yeah," you said. "But I want witnesses."

Viola let out a loud, garbled "Gaaaah," flailing her hand against his chest again like she was seconding the motion. Her sock finally gave up and slid the rest of the way off her foot, landing in his lap.

"Look, she’s already practicing for the beach," you laughed.

He shook his head, picking up the tiny sock and placing it next to your notebook so it wouldn’t vanish into thin air. Then he clicked to the next sheet. More tabs, more colors. He felt your focus shift—not on the screen, but on him. You did that sometimes when things started feeling heavy, like you were keeping an eye on his internal barometer.

"Clark, how are we doing?" you asked quietly.

He kept his eyes on the laptop a second longer, tilting his head. "On… what?" he said, glancing up. "You, me, or the mortgage?"

"You, me, and our little cuddle-bug currently drooling on your clavicle," you said. "I dropped to part-time for Viola. You’re juggling the Planet and Superman duties. We’re tag-teaming childcare. Ma and Pa are a plane ride away. My parents are…" You trailed off, lips pressing together, that old ache passing through your face. "It’s a lot. I just want to make sure we’re not pretending it isn’t."

He let his hand settle over Viola’s back. Her heart beat steady and strong under his palm, a rhythm that felt like the center of everything. It always calmed him, even on days when nothing else did. You and her—that was the part that made sense when the rest didn’t.

His Polaris and Canopus.

"It is a lot," he agreed. "Some mornings I wake up and I feel like I’m already behind—on writing, on patrol, on sleep. And then I come home, and you’re trying to stretch yourself into three people so I don’t have to worry about you when I go out into the fray."

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, softer.

"But I also know that every time it feels like too much, it’s still… us. It’s still you and me and now her. Even when we’re wiped, we’re doing it together. Like always."

That pulled a small, real laugh out of you. Your shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the tension easing out of your neck. You ran your thumb along the edge of your notebook, watching his face instead of the numbers.

"So… we’re okay?" you asked, finally glancing up. "You’re okay?"

He met your eyes and didn’t look away. "We’re more than okay, darlin’," he said, guiding your hand toying with the corner of your notebook up to his lips to briefly kiss your knuckle. "We’re tired and under-caffeinated and I still haven’t called customer service about the internet again—"

You grimaced like you’d bitten a lemon. You gently cradled his chin with your thumb and index finger. "Clark, you promised you’d do that last quarter."

"I did. And I will," he groaned, feeling the weight of all the minutes he’d spent on hold with bad jazz looping in his ear. "I just need… three consecutive hours of patience and no collapsing bridges."

"High bar," you said dryly.

"Extremely," he agreed. "But we’ll get there."

You watched him for another beat, then leaned into him, hand braced near his mug, laptop, pens, and notebooks. He met you halfway. The kiss was quick, familiar, and warm as his coffee should’ve been—your mouth soft, your free hand curling in the front of his soft and dribble-damp shirt.

Between you, pressed to his chest, Viola let out a sharp, delighted sound and kicked against his thigh like she was cheering. One tiny heel nailed him in the side and you on the bicep.

He huffed a laugh against your lips. "Your daughter’s heckling us," he pointed out.

"Your daughter’s a romantic," you answered fondly.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours for a second. From this angle, he could see the little cowlick in Viola’s hair, the way her fist had found the fabric of your sleeve and refused to let go.

"See?" you murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice low. "We’re a great team."

He smiled, that deep, genuine kind that came with a warm bloom in his chest. "Best one I know," he said.

Clark looked down at her, then at you, and felt the same thought hit him it always did when he got a full view of the two of you at once:

Whatever the spreadsheet said, he was absurdly, ridiculously rich.

At least, that’s what he thought—right up until he nudged the trackpad and scrolled down to the next tab.

"Okay," he said, more to himself than to you. "Let’s see what’s left… miscellaneous."

You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspicious."

"It’s not suspicious," he said, opening the tab. "It’s—organized."

A column of charges appeared. Your gaze skimmed down the list of dates and vendors, and then stopped. Clark watched the exact moment your expression slid from curious to amused.

There, highlighted in muted orange, was a single line item with its own subcategory:

BED BUDGET.

He winced. "…and finally," he managed, palms stretched as if presenting a new idea to Perry, "the Bed Budget."

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the heel of your hand. "Baby, you have to stop calling it that."

"Honestly, it’s the only recurring purchase with a higher rate than the electric bill," he said weakly.

Viola made a soft, unhappy noise and kicked once against his ribs. Clark adjusted her, tucking her closer, one big hand cupping the back of her head. She fussed, then resettled, breath puffing damp against his neck. He smoothed a thumb along the curve of her tiny ear, the way the pediatrician had showed you both, and watched your mouth twitch like you were trying not to smile.

"I mean," you said, lifting your head to rest on on your palm, "we could just call it ‘home repairs?’"

"Normal people don’t have to replace their bedframe as often as we do, sweetheart" he countered.

"You’re right." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Normal people also don’t have to factor in their husband's superstrength. Party of one, right here!"

He felt heat creep up the back of his neck. "Sweetheart, that’s not—"

You flicked the line with the tip of your pen with a deep sigh. "Scroll. Let’s see the damage this time around."

He scrubbed his jaw and did as he was told.

The column expanded, revealing a depressing set of near-identical transactions. Same store name. Same shipping charge. Different months, some more frequent than others.

The memories hit in quick flashes.

The time you’d just staggered home from a string of brutal day shifts, dark circles under your eyes, hair still smelling faintly like antiseptic and sweat. He’d been late back from patrol. You’d barely seen each other all week. The second the door shut, you’d walked straight into his arms like your body knew the path by muscle memory. Ten minutes later, the frame had let out a long, furious groan and then snapped at the center slat. He’d ended up on his back, you sprawled on top of him, both of you wheezing with laughter on a mattress that had dropped a full inch.

A replacement had died on a "just one more paragraph" night—Clark finally breaking through a month-long knot in an article. You’d climbed into his lap to "reward the most incredible journalist," as you put it. At the peak of your third celebration, there’d been a crack loud enough to startle him into checking for structural damage in the building. You both received a noise compliant from your blushing landlord the following week.

One event still made his ears burn. You’d come home after a day you’d only summed up as "awful." He’d caught the way your shoulders sagged when you thought he wasn’t looking, the way your smile didn’t reach your eyes, sad and with unshed tears. He’d decided that his girl was going to feel better by the end of the night. The universe, apparently, had agreed a little too enthusiastically. The corner leg had sheared off. You’d ended up half on the mattress, half clutched onto his chest, wheezing with tears in your eyes from hysterical laughter while he apologized to the floor and your downstairs neighbor with motification.

And another time… post-baby. You’d gotten four hours of unbroken sleep for the first time in weeks. Morning light had barely started leaking around the curtains; Viola was still out in her bassinet out-cold. You’d looked at him over the pillow, sleepy and soft and wicked all at once, and smugly siad, "We have thirty minutes before she remembers she’s a tyrant." The headboard had not survived under his grip.

And the most recent one—only last week. Viola had finally, finally taken to a semi-predictable nap schedule. You’d both stood over her crib like scientists observing a miracle, then snuck back to your room, Clark flying the both of you and grinning like teenagers. It was the middle of the day, sunlight striping the bed. You’d meant to "just make out a little."

It had not stayed "a little."

The central support bar had snapped with a shriek, leaving the whole frame tilted. Viola slept peacefully in the next room, completely unaware her parents had just committed structural homicide again.

Later, with you yawning against his shoulder and Viola fussing on your chest for her next feed, Clark had pulled up the furniture site on his phone and, out of habit more than sense, hit the same "reorder" button he’d used the last time.

Now the broken frame was still limping along in your bedroom, one leg propped up on a stack of old nursing textbooks.

Clark exhaled, rubbing his thumb over the trackpad. The list of dates and order totals blurred a little. "This is… not a flattering pattern," he grimaced.

You snorted, a lot smug, and very little apologetic. "I don’t know. I’m pretty flattered."

"It’s just cheap wood," you added, louder, like you were talking to the ceiling to convince yourself. "Poor craftsmanship. Shoddy design. Not rated for excessive joy."

"Yes," he said quickly, voice a pinch higher, latching onto that like a lifeline. "Exactly. Wear and tear. Bad engineering. Not like I’m an engineer myself, but yeah."

You leveled your pen at him, elbow propped on the table. "And the part where you’re an alien with the strongest bones on the planet? Definitely has nothing to do with it, right?"

He could feel his face heating again. He’d faced international crises and press scrutiny with less embarrassment than he felt sitting at this table surrounded by spreadsheets and baby toys.

"I’m careful," he tried to convince himself, and even to his own ears it sounded defensive.

You hummed, your convictions wavering. "Mmm. So careful there’s a permanent scuff line on the wall where the headboard keeps slamming." You tilted your head toward the bedroom like you could see the damage from here. "We are never seeing that security deposit again, baby."

He groaned quietly and scrolled further, more to have something to occupy his hands than because he wanted to see more incriminating evidence. The identical order confirmations stared back at him like a row of smug faces.

"Clark," you started, calmer now, amusement and fondness softening the denial. "You realize we’ve been buying the same bedframe. Every time."

He squinted at the screen, then searched up the item ID on his browser. He knew the answer, he just…wanted to make sure. 

Product details: same model number, product code. Same marketing photo of a tasteful, innocent-looking bed that had no idea what it was in for. Everything else lined up like a bad joke.

"Oh, good gosh," he muttered, dropping his forehead onto Viola’s.

"It’s like we’re trapped in a mattress-themed Groundhog Day," you clicked your tongue, shaking your head. "Order, assemble, destroy, repeat."

Viola picked that moment to let out an impatient little whine, as if picking up on her parents' displeasure. Her fingers flexed against his chest, bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. Clark’s focus snapped away from the screen; he instinctively jostled her, bouncing his knee and rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register that seemed wired directly into her nervous system. "You’re okay, Little Star."

She settled almost immediately, her tiny body relaxing against him.

"You know," you said slowly, eyes gleaming as the mischief slid back in, "maybe if my husband wasn’t so—"

You shifted in your chair, leaning in a little, voice dropping. "—determined to see how many times in one night he could make me forget my own name—"

The teether chose that exact moment to bounce off the edge of the table. Clark’s hand shot out without him thinking, catching it before it hit the floor. He set it back on the table. Then, belatedly, his brain caught up to what you’d been about to say. He turned his head and looked at you. You met his stare with the sweetest, most innocent smile you owned.

He coughed, shifted Viola higher, and covered one of her ears lightly with his palm like that would somehow shield her from innuendo. "We are not discussing that in front of our daughter," he hissed, scandalized.

You raised your eyebrows. "Our daughter who cannot say more than ‘gaaa’ and ‘buh’ yet?"

"She’s very advanced," he defended stiffly. "She picks up on things. You know this."

Right on cue, Viola blew a heroic spit bubble against his neck, then patted the wet spot with her little palm.

You laughed, bright and unbothered. "Am I wrong? To say that," your voice dropped again, "we would not have needed a baby budget tab or this adorable little cuddle-bug right here—" you reached over and tapped the tip of Viola’s nose, making her blink and squeak "—if your… enthusiasm hadn’t been so effective."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. This, he thought, was the real test of his superhuman endurance—not lifting space stations, not heat vision, but surviving you with his dignity intact.

"You’re enjoying this," he accused.

"Immensely," you said without a hint of shame. "You save millions of people every day, but the thing that finally takes you out is ‘bedframe expenses.’"

He opened his eyes and couldn’t even argue. Instead, he dragged his attention back to the ridiculous numbers. Underneath the embarrassment, though, the truth sat there.

He cleared his throat. "It keeps happening," he reasoned slowly, "because it’s the one place we keep… meeting in the middle."

He glanced up. You were watching his face deep in thought, pen resting loose between your fingers.

"You’re at the Planet, or you’re out there," you started off waved your hand up in the air, to the sky beyond the kitchen window. "I’m at the hospital. We’re trading off shifts like a relay race. Half the time, we’re just… handing the baton back and forth."

He nodded. He’d felt it too, that dizzy pass-off—your fingers brushing his in the doorway as you came home and he went out, the quick kiss in the hall while one of you was already turning away, the nights where the only time you were all three together was fifteen minutes on the couch before someone fell asleep sitting up.

"So when we finally land in the same place," you went on, "we hold on. Maybe a little too hard for the structural integrity of mid-range furniture. But I’m not sorry about that."

He looked back at the repeated charges, the ridiculous label he’d given the category, then down at the tiny heel of Viola’s foot pressing into his ribs. Her toes curled, gripping at his shirt like a rock climbing wall.

The brief shame ebbed instantly,  replaced by tenderness that spread through his chest and settled there.

"It’s not just the bad days," he said. "It’s when things go right, too. The article finally clicking. You coming home and not smelling like feet or blood." He shrugged one shoulder carefully so he didn’t jostle the baby. "Either way, I want you close. I like making sure you feel it, too."

"Same," you squeezed his knee, smiling. "If the worst thing that happens to us is we blow through a few bedframes because we’re still crazy about each other? I’ll take it."

Viola stirred again, letting out a contented little sigh, and Clark felt her small weight settle fully against him. Busy or not, scheduled to the minute or running behind, this was the part that made everything else make sense.

"Okay," you said at last, tapping the ‘Bed Budget’ label with your pen. "Maybe the name stays. Just so future us remembers what this actually is."

"A poor financial decision?" he tried with a cheeky grin.

"A reminder," you corrected, snorting, "that we didn’t let life and work and superhero nonsense turn us into roommates. That we’re still crazy about each other. Even if it means we have to explain to our accountant why we’ve bought the same piece of furniture four times in a quarter."

Clark huffed out a laugh. "I’m not explaining that to anyone, sweetheart."

You smirked, mischief slipping back in. "Don’t worry then. I will. In detail."

Viola chose that moment to let out a bright, random "Gaaaah," smiling against his collarbone like she was chiming in on the bit.

Clark sighed and bent his head, pressing a kiss into the soft fuzz of her hair. "Traitor," he murmured, but his voice was nothing but fond.

Your phone's ringtone cut through the quiet.

Clark’s head snapped up. Your phone buzzed across the table, skittering a little between the mugs and the edge of the laptop. Viola startled at the sound, fingers flexing against his chest, then settled again when his hand automatically started that slow, soothing rub on her back.

You glanced at the screen, eyebrows climbing, and then turned it so he could see.

Furniture store. Oh. Of course it was.

For half a second, neither of you moved. The spreadsheet glowed accusingly in front of him. The memory of that late-night "just reorder it, we’ll deal with it later" click sat like a weight in his gut.

"Speak of the devil," you whispered, already starting to grin, eyes going bright with the kind of delight that spelled disaster for him.

Clark felt something in his chest tighten. "We could… not answer?" he offered weakly.

"That’s a coward’s way out, Superman," you said immediately. There was no heat in it at all, just way too much amusement for his liking.

The phone kept buzzing, jittering against the wood. Viola squealed at the movement, reaching one chubby hand toward it like she wanted in on the action. Clark sighed, shifted her higher on his arm so she couldn’t grab it, and wiped his free hand quickly on his sweatpants like that would somehow make him sound less guilty.

He hit accept.

"Put it on speaker," you mouthed.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the icon. Speaker meant no escape. It meant you would witness every second of your shared humiliation in high definition. But maybe this is the intervention you two needed.

He swallowed and tapped the icon. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mr. Kent!" a bright male voice came through, cheerful in the particular way of someone who was absolutely not the one about to be mortified. "This is Eric from Citywide Furniture Delivery. Just confirming we’re dropping off the king platform frame tomorrow between ten and two—same building, same floor?"

Clark could feel every muscle in his body go tight. Not a generic call center voice. Eric. With a name. With history.

"Uh, hi Eric. You got that right," he coughed. "Same building, same floor."

Beside him, you were already folding over your notebook, shoulders shaking. You turned your face away, one hand clamped over your mouth, the other curled protectively around Viola’s back where she sat in his lap, caught between her parents, thrilled by the noise and having no idea her father wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Clark started to pace without thinking—tight little loops between the table and the counter, bare feet padding loud on the hardwood. It was the same rhythm he fell into at the Planet on long calls with sources: think and move, move and think. Except right now, his brain wasn’t producing anything useful. Just a steady chant of ah geez, ah geez.

Viola made a curious little "nnnh" noise at his jostling, then a fussy one when his arm shifted wrong. Clark’s instincts overrode everything else. He broke stride just long enough to adjust his grip and pass her across to you, the handoff practiced and easy.

You took her like you’d been waiting for it, palms firm and sure at her ribs. She immediately curled into you, tucking her cheek under your chin. Her fingers bunched in your shirt, tiny knuckles whitening as she clung, and she let out a happy, breathy sigh that puffed warm against your throat, her inherited dimples peeking.

"Great!" Eric said cheerfully in Clark’s ear. "We’ll be there in that window. Elevator’s still the one that likes to stick on your floor sometimes, right?"

Clark’s soul briefly left his body. "Uh… yeah," he squeaked. "That’s the one."

You shifted in your chair, adjusting Viola higher as she nibbled on her fist. One of your hands rubbed absent circles on her back while the other came up to cover your mouth. From where he stood, Clark could see your eyes crinkling above your fingers.

"We’ll try not to ding the hallway wall again," Eric went on. "Your landlord and maintenance guy gave us that look last time."

You made a strangled, choked sound that was absolutely not a cough. Viola startled at the noise, then immediately giggled—just a bubbling little sound, pleased and clueless, picking up on the energy in the room if not the content.

"That’d be appreciated," Clark managed, voice thin.

"Oh, and we’ll bring an extra hex key this time," Eric continued. "You two always wanna check the bolts yourself now, right?"

Always.

Clark could feel the heat in his face climb another ten degrees. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand as he resumed his loop, the phone held out in front of him like it might bite. You were nearly doubled over now, shoulders shaking, Viola along for the ride and patting your collarbone like she was applauding.

Clarkbwondered, briefly, if he could develop a sudden, selective hearing loss that only applied to this conversation.

"Uh… yeah," he gulped. "Yeah, that’s us."

You finally got enough air to chime in. "This is Eric, right?" you asked, voice still wobbly with held-in laughter. "You said you’ve come around before?"

"Oh hiya, Mrs. Kent," Eric greeted, like you were old friends. "Yeah, a couple times this year already, actually. Have you talked to the store about any warranties on this model? It doesn't seem to be holding up well for you guys?"

You pressed your forehead briefly to Viola’s hair. She squeaked, then reached up and patted your jaw, confused but delighted that she’d become a pillow and a laugh prop at the same time.

Clark glared at the laptop screen, the words BED BUDGET hovering in his peripheral vision like a neon sign.

In the background of the call, another voice called out, slightly muffled but still way too clear: "Hey, is that the bedframe couple? They’re on the route again?"

You and Clark were slack-jawed.

Your eyes lifted to his over Viola’s head. Dawning horror on your face. Dawning horror on his. Equal parts mortification and the absurd, rising urge to laugh until you cried because what else could you do?

We have a reputation, his brain supplied helplessly. We have a reputation we have a reputation.

Again? your expression added, even if your mouth didn’t say it. He said again? 

Eric chuckled, clearly having heard his coworker. "Don’t mind him," he said easily. "We just try to keep track of tricky buildings. Your place with the tight corner, the twentieth-floor with the narrow stairs, that one elevator still in service, buying frames a little too big for—uh…" He faltered for half a second, then pivoted hard. "Anyway. Hey, is that the little one I hear?"

Viola had started babbling, bright nonsense syllables spilling out as she gnawed on her fingers. Her voice piped through the speaker, high and happy, like she was trying to join the conversation.

You shifted her slightly so her face turned toward the phone. "That’s her," you cheered, pride bleeding through every word. "Little Miss Vi."

"Aww," Eric said. "I remember when she was just a bump. Last time we saw her, she was starting to roll over. What’s she up to now?"

Clark blinked, as if this unprovoked intervention couldn't have made things more clear.

He looked at his daughter, at her wild little curls and drool-damp chin. At the way her fingers had found your necklace he gifted you years ago. Then at the phone clutched in his hand.

These delivery men had watched it happen, Clark realized. Not the whole story, but enough markers. The timeline of his growing family, measured not in holidays or anniversaries, but in deliveries and awkward hallway encounters. A bedframe where you joked about all the extra space. Another when you were waddling and complaining about your back, a hand pressed instinctively to your lower spine. A time when you’d sent him a selfie of your swollen ankles and Clark nearly flown a couch halfway across town to make you more comfortable. The post-baby reorder he’d placed one-handed while you dozed against his shoulder and Viola cried for her next feed.

He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. "She’s… good," he said finally. "She’s, um… sitting up. Teething now… yelling at us a lot."

"Future boss," Eric accepted. "Love to hear it."

You bit down on your smile.Your daughter gurgled like she agreed with her promotion, then abandoned her first and tried to eat your hair.

Clark cleared his throat, desperate to get off the call before someone offered them a punch card. Buy five beds, get the sixth free. 

"We, uh… just really value good sleep," he blurted. "Anyway. Thanks for the call, Eric. We’ll see you tomorrow."

"Sounds good, Mr. Kent. Mrs. Kent. Bye, Boss," Eric said enthusiastically. "We’ll bring that extra hex key."

The line clicked off.

The fridge hummed, a siren wailed faintly outside, Viola was making quiet, content little "mmh" noises as she kneaded hair gently, but the room felt like someone had hit mute on the world as you and Clark stared at each other. 

Clark set your phone gently back on the table. He blinked at it, hollow. Then at you.

You stared back, eyes wide, mouth formed into a grimace, teeth bared.

And then, inevitably, your gazes slid in unison to the laptop.

The spreadsheet glowed innocently. BED BUDGET sat there in bold letters, like it wasn’t the punchline to half your current embarrassment and apparently your public image with at least one delivery crew in Metropolis.

You exhaled first, a little disbelieving huff. "We are insane, baby."

"We’re absolutely insane, sweetheart," he agreed.

Viola chose that exact moment to let out a delighted squeal, flapping her arm against your chest. Her legs kicked against your stomach like she’d just heard the world’s funniest joke.

You and Clark both turned to look at her at the same time, as if she’d done it on purpose.

"Traitor," you said in unison. Viola giggled harder, eyes shining, as if pleased she’d nailed her cue.

Clark sank back into his chair, raking a hand through his hair until it stuck up worse than before. "Okay, sweetheart," he puffed out a breath. "It’s clear we cannot keep doing this."

You bounced Viola lightly on your knee to keep her from latching on the corner of your notebook inches away. "Buying bedframes?" you asked.

"Being personally known by furniture delivery," he clarified. "I’m Superman! I protect Metropolis, and somehow my legacy is ‘that guy with the wife who keeps pulverising platform beds.’"

You snorted. "To be fair, the wife helps."

"That is somehow not comforting," he said, though his mouth tugged up at the corner.

Viola chose that moment to grab your fingers and try to pull them into her mouth this time. You shifted her higher on your lap, guiding her teether back into her hand instead. Clark’s eyes tracked the movement automatically—baby, you, baby again—like he couldn’t decide which one he wanted to stare at more.

"So what’s the plan then, Mr. Finance Committee?" you asked, wiggling Viola’s fist gently until she giggled. "We clearly need a new strategy."

He dragged the laptop closer, pulling up the browser with one hand while the other rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck.

"We could finally invest in something heavy-duty," he suggested. "I could get Gary at the Fortress to fashion something that could handle a lot worse than us. I could…"

He trailed off, already picturing it. Reinforced alloys. Weight distribution calculations. Supports that looked like normal human furniture but could probably withstand a small earthquake and at least three overenthusiastic reunions.

You watched his eyes go a little distant and shook your head, amused. "And how exactly are you going to fly a bedframe from Antarctica into the middle of downtown Metropolis without anyone noticing?" you frowned. "Amazon Prime doesn’t cover ‘imported from Kryptonian ice palace.’"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Okay, that was fair.

"We could say it’s a… very modern imported art piece," he tried.

"Clark Kent," you said gently, like you were humoring a very earnest, very dorky man you happened to be madly in love with. "Love of my life. Father of my child. You can barely sneak in a pizza box without Mrs. Reyes down the hall asking if you’re eating enough."

He sighed, swiping a hand in the air as if striking that bulletpoint out. "Okay. Fortress bedframe is out."

You shifted Viola now onto your hip; she immediately turned so she could watch Clark, eyes wide and curious. "Or," you went on, "we downshift. Simple low platform, keep the fun on the mattress. Less leverage. Less catastrophic failure."

"Or," he countered, "we accept our fate, move the mattress to the floor, and save everyone the trouble."

You wrinkled your nose. "We live on the twentieth floor. What are the chances you end up going through the actual floor? ‘Sorry about your chandelier, Mr. Wu downstairs, my husband got enthusiastic.’"

Clark made a face. "They already think I walk too loudly as it is."

You winced. "Yeah, that noise complaint email was rough." You hesitated, then added with a tiny smirk, "To be fair, it wasn’t just your walking that night."

"You are relentless," he groaned.

Clark leaned over and brought one big hand up to cup over Viola’s nearest ear, like his palm could somehow censor his next suggestion.

"We could… keep you on top," he offered suddenly, desperate to contribute something useful, and immediately wished he could shove the words back into his mouth. 

Your head snapped toward him, that slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. "Oh? Keep me on top, you say?"

Panic flared. Clark gently cupped his other hand over Viola’s other ear now that the damage was very much done. 

"I just mean—less strain on the frame," he rushed out, voice pitched an octave higher. "Gravity. Leverage. Physics, darlin’."

"Mmhm. Physics," you hummed, clearly unconvinced. Your smile turned smug. "Honey, we could draw diagrams and run simulations, but it wouldn’t matter." You nudged his knee with yours. "No matter what position we end up in, you can’t hold your enthusiasm back for long."

He made a strangled sound and made sure his palms were still secure around his daughter’s head. Viola blinked up at him with her big blue eyes, delighted with her new little echo chamber, and squealed just to hear herself.

"You are impossible," he hissed, amusement laced in his voice.

"And you’re way too into me, Mr. Kent," you smirked, far too pleased with yourself.

He didn’t bother denying it. Couldn’t, really—not when your hair was falling out of its knot, his crewneck smudged with saliva, and your daughter with his smile and eyes and your nose and laugh was happily clapping in your lap. He just sighed fondly and turned the laptop fully toward you both.

"C’mon, let's stop this insanity. Step one: stop re-ordering the same disaster. Help me pick something that doesn’t break the second we look at each other funny."

You shifted your chair closer to his, closing the space between you. "And step two: accept that this is the funniest problem we could possibly have."

Your knee bumped his knee again with a grin. Viola had migrated back to Clark’s lap, a warm, squirmy bundle propped on his lap. She reached out and smacked her hand against the bottom of the screen, leaving a tiny smear of drool on the bezel.

Clark pulled up the familiar furniture site, fingers moving quickly across the keys. "We should at least see what else is out there," he drawled. "Something with better slats. Higher load rating. Maybe center support legs?"

You tipped your head. "Did you just say ‘load rating’?"

He glanced at you. "If we’re going to have a dedicated budget line for this, I’d like to know what we’re paying for."

He clicked into a promising listing. His eyes went straight to the specs—weight capacity, material type, slat spacing. He did the math automatically, converting it to the kind of impact he knew the frame would get from the two of you. It was weirdly satisfying, applying Fortress-level problem solving to bedroom furniture.

You, naturally, went straight for the photos.

"Ooh," you said, pointing. "Look at that headboard. Simple, clean lines. And it probably won’t squeak every time you breathe."

He squinted at the image. "Solid panel. Fewer joints to loosen. Could help."

"Mm," you said thoughtfully. "I kind of like the squeak, though."

He blinked. "You… like it?"

You shrugged, blushing. "It’s like our own little soundtrack. Lets me know you’re having a good time."

Heat climbed up his neck, too. "I think there's other ways I communicate that," he muttered.

"Sure," you waved a hand, far too innocently. "But the bed shrieking like it’s tattling on us is fun too."

He shot you a look. "You complain about it every time."

"I complain about the landlord hearing it," you corrected. "Different issue."

He shook his head, fighting a smile, and scrolled to another option. This one had metal legs and a solid center beam. "This one’s rated up to eight hundred pounds," he pursed his lips, crossing his arms highly considering. "Steel frame, reinforced joints."

"That's hot."

He snorted. "You think everything is hot if it survives us."

"That’s not true," you protested, mock-offended. "I also think it’s hot when you do taxes without crying."

He couldn’t argue with that, either.

He clicked to another listing. "Okay. Weight capacity: six hundred pounds," he recited. "That seems—"

You squinted. "Okay, but do they mean static weight? Or ‘withstands two overworked parents trying to make the most of an eighteen-minute nap window’ weight?"

"Good question, sweetheart," he said, rubbing his chin. "Let’s check the reviews."

He opened the comments. One of the top ones read: Very sturdy—survived my three kids jumping on it. Highly recommend.

You and Clark exchanged a long, unimpressed look over Viola’s head.

"Darn, our problem is not children, sir," you snapped your fingers.

"No, it is not," Clark agreed.

You let your head tip briefly against his shoulder, careful not to squish Viola, who had now decided his forearm was a climbing wall. Clark adjusted automatically, arm curving around both of you. Laptop, baby, spouse—his whole life in a three-foot radius.

"We’ll figure it out," you said, voice softer. "Heavier frame, better slats, maybe actually using the warranty this time instead of just panic-reordering."

"And fewer repeat purchases," he added. "For the sake of our bank account and our reputation with delivery guys."

"And if all else fails," you said, straightening just enough to look at him, "we pivot to hammocks."

He stared at you. "Absolutely not."

"Kidding," you added. "Mostly."

He shook his head, but the smile was already creeping back. He turned his head and brushed a quick kiss against your temple, his lips lingering in your hairline.

"Pretty sure there’s not a weight capacity on this planet that accounts for how much I love you," he breathed. "But we’ll try."

Viola squealed like she’d heard the important part, kicking her heels against your stomach and slapping the table with her free hand.

You looked down at her, then up at him. "And there’s our stress tester," you said. "Built-in quality assurance."

Clark laughed under his breath, pulled the laptop a little closer, and kept scrolling—with one arm always anchored around the two people he was trying to make all of this work for.

He flipped to another tab, then paused, a thought catching him mid-scroll. "We should also… think long-term," he said slowly.

You glanced up from zooming in on yet another headboard. "How long-term are we talking?"

"I was thinking more… ‘Vi’s going to be a toddler before we know it’ long-term."

That got your attention. Your expression softened, lines around your eyes easing. "Yeah," you agreed quietly. "She is."

He could see it almost too clearly: a slightly bigger version of his daughter toddling into your room at three in the morning, dragging her favorite blanket, black hair sticking up in staticy tufts. Climbing or floating up the side of the bed with fierce determination, throwing herself between you, starfished across both your chests, kicking him in the ribs and drooling on your pillow. Something warm and steady settled under his sternum.

"She’s half-Kryptonian," he went on. "We need a frame that can handle nap pile-ups. And possible jumping. And the occasional… accidental launch."

You puffed out a tiny laugh. "No more test-launching our child, please."

"That was one time," he defended himself lightly.

"Luckily she floated long enough for us to catch her," you sighed at the memory. 

His chest tightened, just a little. His mind flicked back to your pregnancy without his permission—how your body had started doing small, impossible things it wasn’t built for. Jumps that took you a little too high. Glasses that seemed lighter in your hand. The way you’d had to sit down halfway through a grocery run because your heart was pounding like you’d sprinted a mile.

"It wasn’t easy for you," he said quietly.

You seemed to follow his thought, because your hand came across the table on instinct, fingers brushing his wedding ring. "Hey, we got through it," you said earnestly. "And we got our Little Star out of it."

He squeezed your hand, thumb pressing into your knuckles. 

He’d been terrified, even if he hadn’t always said it out loud—watching you carry a child made half of him and the yellow sun he’d spent his whole life under, when your cells had only known a weaker, filtered version of that power. There had been times you’d glowed with static, little sparks jumping off your skin when you’d kissed him, and he’d smiled and joked, but gone very still inside.

And even then, some stubborn, quiet part of him wished this wasn’t a one-time miracle for him. Couldn’t be. If he was brave enough to do anything twice, it would be this with you. Only if you wanted to.

He cleared his throat. "If we ever… decide to do that again," he swallowed, voice rough, "maybe we should have furniture that’s not going to give out on us at the slightest provocation."

You watched him already heading his thoughts. You rubbed his ring again. "When Vi’s a little older," you assured. "When we’re ready."

"Yeah," he grinning. "When we’re ready."

You smiled back, and just like that, the heavy edge of the memory eased. "In the meantime," you added, "I like the idea of a bed that can survive two very in-love idiots and a baby with a possible future jumping problem."

"Future siblings and nap pile-ups," he said, rolling the words around in his mouth. They sat in his mouth like something he very much wanted.

Viola gurgled on his lap and flapped a fist, smacking his chest. He looked down at her tiny, serious face and felt his heart flutter.

He was about to click on another listing when a different realization hit him as the internet connection cut out for just a second.

"Oh darn," he muttered with a tsk.

You raised your eyebrows. "What? What’s wrong?"

"I still have to call the internet company," he moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If the Wi-Fi cuts out one more time while I’m on a deadline, I’m going to end up throwing the router into the sun."

You perked up, which was not the reaction he’d expected. "Think of it this way," you hummed. "If the internet keeps going out, that’s less streaming, less entertainment, and more… bedframe testing. Like the old days when seeing a woman’s ankle was just too much to handle."

He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, the sound sharp and surprised. The vibration of it ran straight through his chest into Viola’s small body. She jumped, then let out a delighted squeal. One tiny fist smacked the table for emphasis, teether dangling from her other hand, ready to launch again.

"See?" you cooed, smirking. "Boss Lady Vi agrees. For science."

Clark shook his head, still chuckling, one big palm smoothing over the back of your daughter’s romper until she settled back into happy wiggles. "…maybe we can live with occasional outages," he said finally.

You grinned. "Look at you, compromising."

You leaned over to the laptop, nudging his hand aside. "All right," you said. "If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. Forget what I said about keeping this label."

You clicked back to the spreadsheet, scrolled to the offending tab, and highlighted the cursed label. BED BUDGET blinked at you both. You thought for a second, then deleted the words, and typed carefully:

STRUCTURAL INVESTMENTS. You added, in smaller letters in the next cell: (Earthquake Preparedness Division).

Clark grinned, leaning back in his chair. "That works."

You sat back, satisfied. "No more re-ordering the same doomed frame," you declared, summarizing your new plan. "If we’re spending money here, it’s intentional."

He nodded, feeling a lightness at the simple act of renaming. "Got it."

You flipped back to the browser, navigated to the order status page, and pulled up the scheduled delivery for the old model. "Okay," you said. "We cancel this one, pick the new one, and apologize to Eric for messing up his route."

Clark winced, imagining yet another conversation with the man who knew too much about his sleeping arrangements. "I’ll email. Less chance of me dying of embarrassment mid-sentence."

You laughed. "Cowardice accepted just this once."

Between the two of you, it didn’t take long. You canceled the duplicate order, clicked through reviews, weighed specs, and finally settled on a new frame—steel, center supports, quiet headboard, and a weight rating that made Clark feel mildly hopeful.

He double-checked the confirmation, made sure delivery was set, and closed the laptop with a decisive click.

"Okay," he gathered Viola’s hands in his, clapping them gently. "Kent Financial Wellness Check, Q2 as concluded. Meeting adjourned!"

You saluted him with your pen. "Successful meeting as always, baby. Looking forward to next quarter’s agenda. Preferably with a noticeable decrease in bedframe-related expenses."

Viola squealed like she was seconding the motion, smacking her palm against Clark’s chest.

.

The new bed frame arrived the next week.

Clark built it with the same focus he used on big rescues—careful, methodical, following every human instruction step, even the ones he could’ve skipped. He tightened each bolt just enough, resisting the instinct to overdo it. Viola supervised from her play mat, rolling onto her side and squealing every time a piece of metal clinked against another.

By the time you both dropped the mattress on, it felt… solid. Not indestructible—not in his world—but solid enough he didn’t immediately picture the floor giving out.

That night, after the full bedtime gauntlet—bath, bottle, and babbling—Viola finally sighed herself to sleep, fists tucked to the sides of her face. You and Clark lingered at the crib, shoulder to shoulder, watching her chest rise and fall.

"Little Star’s asleep," you whispered.

"For now," he whispered back,  lacing his fingers through yours as you slipped out and eased the door mostly shut. 

Back in your bedroom, the new bed sat there like a challenge. You and Clark stopped at the threshold. For a second, you just looked at it.

"Feels weird," you said. "Approaching a piece of furniture like it’s a wild animal."

"It has a documented history of turning on us," he mumbled. "Caution is warranted."

You stepped closer, fingers skimming the new headboard. "Looks good, though. Very… structurally invested."

He snorted. "Strictly for boring, practical purposes," he agreed, wagging a brow. "No ulterior motives at all."

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes bright. "We should probably test it," you suggested, your voice pitched high and teasing. "For science."

"For improvements to the Financial Wellness Check," he countered.

"For earthquake preparedness," you added.

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "I love you."

"I love you," you smiled, tugging at your mouth as you crook your index finger in a slow, unmistakable come-here.

He closed the space between you in two easy steps, like there was nowhere else he’d ever been headed.

The night blurred—laughter against his mouth when your knee bumped the frame and it didn’t wobble, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, his hands mapping familiar curves beneath your waistband. Nothing frantic, but there was a pulse of urgency under everything—weeks of half-finished kisses and falling asleep mid-sentence finally cashing out.

The bed creaked, sure, but differently now—lower, steady, like it was complaining out of habit, not actually failing. You moved together, braced and careful at first, then now– forgetting to be cautious, trusting the bolts, the beams, and the simple fact that if something did give out, you’d still land tangled up in each other.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Clark registered every creak, every protesting strain of metal. But mostly he registered you—the way your eyes went heavy and hungry, the way your breathy laugh punched straight through his chest, the way you gasped "Clark" over and over again, and made every other sound—bed, building, city— drop dead.

.

Viola’s wail came through the baby monitor like a starter pistol the next morning.

Clark surfaced fast—his baby crying, yellow sun sneaking through the curtains, your leg tangled with his, your breath warm against his chest. And under all of it: the new bed. Solid. Level. No sag, no tilt.

He grinned before he even opened his eyes.

You groaned into his neck. "Tell me that’s not my alarm."

"It’s worse," he mumbled. "It’s our boss."

"Fired," you muttered. "She’s fired."

Your hand slid over his stomach as you pushed yourself up. He felt the little catch in your breath and was awake, fully, in an instant.

"You okay?" he asked, propping himself on an elbow as he studied your face.

You shot him a sleepy, exasperated look. "My boobs are killing me," you breathed through the ache. "Vi’s late for breakfast."

He winced in sympathy. "Right. Okay. We should…" He glanced at the headboard, then back at you, smugness creeping in. "For the record, frame’s intact."

You squinted at him. "Don’t gloat."

"A little gloating," he shrugged, running a hand through his riot of curls. "Scientifically justified."

You sighed, but your mouth curved as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, hunting for your pajama shorts you’d discarded last night. He reached out and snagged his own sweats from the floor, pulling them on.

As you tugged one of his T-shirts over your head, you mumbled, "I’ll put it in my notes… passed one stress test. But all good experiments need more than one trial."

He laughed, warmth flooding his chest. Crossing the room, he caught you by the back of the neck, leaned down, and stole a quick, deep kiss.

"With what we’ve got going on," he mumbled against your mouth, "I think we’re always going to break a few things along the way. As long as it’s just furniture, I can live with that."

You smiled into another kiss, then broke away, already heading for the door. "Come on, Kent," you tossed over your shoulder. "Our tiny traitor awaits."

You padded down the short hallway together, still half-warm from sleep, the monitor’s crackle guiding. Clark eased the nursery door open with his shoulder, and the wail spilling out dulled to a softer, hiccuping cry.

Viola was in her crib, face scrunched, fists clutching the air. The moment you both leaned over her—your hand smoothing her blanket, Clark’s shadow falling across the rails—her cry stuttered into a confused little gurgle. Her blue eyes blinked open wider, taking you both in, and her mouth wobbled into something that wasn’t quite a smile yet, but close enough to make Clark’s heart squeeze.

"There she is," you cooed, scooping her up. "My demanding little supervisor."

"Good morning, Miss Vi," Clark brushed a kiss over her sleep-tussled curls. "Just so you know, the structural investments performed admirably."

She let out a loud "Buh!" and latched onto your shirt.

The rest of the morning unfolded in the familiar rush.

You in the kitchen in your scrub pants and his old hoodie, making coffee one-handed while balancing Viola on your hip. Clark measuring grounds and pouring water, bumping your shoulder every time he passed. You stealing his mug for a sip, him stealing it back for a kiss, and getting baby fingers in his hair for his trouble.

You grabbed your bag, checked your badge, shoved our feet into sneakers. Clark stood at the door with you, his laptop already open with his assigned article draft, baby toys scattered nearby, ready for his "work from home" shift that meant drafting articles with one eye and playing peekaboo with the other.

"Internet company," you reminded him with a sing-song voice, jabbing a finger toward his phone on the counter.

He groaned. "Right. The jazz."

"Think of the outages," you teased. "More field tests."

He paused, then exhaled. "Fine. I’ll call. After I feed our tiny tyrant and get two paragraphs done."

You tipped your head up and he bent to meet you half-way, kissing your cheek, then your lips. "You’re a good man, Clark Kent. I love you."

He returned the endearments and watched you go off to work after stealing one more kiss.

Viola’s laughter chimed from the doorway as you did a goofy little wave just for her. The promise of another "stress test" some night soon tucked itself into the corner of his smile.

The bedframe might or might not survive the year, but hopefully the quarter. The Wi-Fi might cut out. The budget would need revisiting, again and again, probably.

But as he shifted Viola on his hip and reached for his phone to be put on hold by the internet company with unfavorable jazz, Clark felt very certain about one thing:

Some structures were worth reinforcing. And some—like this messy, ridiculous, joyous life with you and Viola, his Polaris and Canopus—were already stronger than anything he could build.

.

The house was quiet.

Not the unnerving kind of quiet, where every creak of the floor feels like a warning, but the gentle, layered silence that comes after a baby has been tucked into bed and the rest of the world has momentarily agreed to hush.

Viola, your beautiful Viola, had gone down easier tonight than she had all week, a small miracle you didn’t take for granted. Five months in, you knew better than to assume anything about her sleep schedule—babies are unpredictable—but tonight, after a soft sigh and the way her tiny hand curled into tiny fists like half crecents, she drifted off as if the day had taken just the right amount out of her.

You lingered by her crib longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her tiny hand in the dim glow of the nightlight, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. Her hair, dark like yours, fell in soft spirals across the crib's mattress. Even in sleep, her tiny features reflected both of you: your own delicate line of jaw and nose, and Clark’s earnest blue eyes, faint dimples, and amusingly so, his lashes.

A small, perfect combination, bright against the pastel blue nursery with tiny yellow stars and navy blue and violet constellation wallpaper.

The house beyond the nursery felt empty.

Clark’s side of the bed was cold, the sheets barely disturbed from where he had left them hours ago. He had kissed you deeply earlier, murmured something about needing to patrol the city, about the world requiring Superman’s attention. You asked for details out of curiosity, never to restraint. If the world wanted Superman, you would never stand in the way.

You married the man, not the cape, and you learned that the cape came with him like a second skin the moment he shared his heritage half a lifetime ago.

You tried to distract yourself. A book lay open on the bedside table, though your eyes skimmed the words without registering them. You scrolled on your phone, looking for anything to hold your attention, but the notifications of the outside world were dull and irrelevant.

The exhaustion of parenthood, however, was relentless, and eventually you drifted off, comforted by the faint lull of the city beyond the window, and the steady rise and fall of your own chest in the quiet dark.

Then something stirred you awake.

Not a sound exactly. Not a creak of the floor or a car outside. Something softer, subtler, like a tug in your chest you couldn’t ignore.

You blinked at the glowing white numbers from your phone: 3:14 a.m. You rubbed your eyes, heart thumping, listening to the quiet house, unsure if you’d really been woken or simply dreamed it.

You’ve learned to listen to that feeling. It was the same one that nudged you awake before Viola cried, that told you when she was about to roll over or when she’d need a midnight feeding. That whisper when Clark might be in danger.

You tugged the robe from the the corner chair and padded softly down the hallway. The wooden floors were cool under your feet, and the slight creaks made you aware of each step. The nursery door was cracked, a warm golden light spilling out into the hall. You paused, resting your fingers on the frame, leaning closer.

A voice drifted out. Low, gentle, and familiar.

Clark.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders easing as you peeked inside.

Clark's there, broad shoulders bent slightly, his six-four frame filling the chair, arms wrapped around Viola, who nestled contentedly against her father's strong chest. Your baby’s dark hair was adorably mused, and the faint dimple when she stretched her mouth into a small yawn made your heart sing. Her tiny fist was curled into his white shirt. You realize he was in sweats now, barefoot, his curly hair damp at the temples like he’d showered quickly before slipping in to greet his daughter.

His hand rocked her gently, each motion so careful it almost seemed choreographed, lips brushing the crown of her head, a small hum of contentment vibrating from his chest.

He spoke softly, almost conspiratorially, the kind of low, private voice that made you feel like you were intruding on something sacred.

“…and then I realized I couldn’t keep it inside anymore,” he murmured. “My Viola, I’ve fallen in love.”

Your breath caught, gripping the frame now.

Panic flared. Not because you didn’t trust Clark—because you did, with your life, with everything—but because those words, that tone, the way he said them… it didn’t yet have context. Your mind raced, heart hammering, stomach twisting with a mix of fear and disbelief.

Viola cooed softly, tiny hands fluttering. Clark shifted her in his arms, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

“I know it sounds strange,” he whispered, almost to himself. “But it’s true. And I wanted her to know it. From the start.”

The warmth in his voice, the intimacy of the gesture, the quiet devotion—all of it made your knees weak.

You held your breath, frozen, as he bent closer to your baby, rocking her with a slow, steady rhythm.

“Would you like me to tell you all about her, my star?” he murmured, almost as if speaking to you through the baby. “The way she laughs, the way she makes the world feel smaller and brighter at the same time…”

Viola babbled in response, tiny sounds insistently asking him to, "go on."

You tightened your grip on the doorframe, uncertain whether you were ready to hear the answer.

But somewhere deep down, you were.

.

"She’s about this tall,” Clark began, shifting Viola so her head rested more comfortably against his chest. He lowered one hand, palm flat, to measure just above his ribs lowering his hand to measure just above his ribs. “Five-one. Comes up to my shoulder, which she hates, by the way. Thinks it makes her look small. But I like it. Means she fits right here.”

You watched as he tapped the place where Viola now rested. Your daughter let out a tiny gurgle, her sparkling blue eyes meeting her father's eyes for a fleeting moment before closing. A faint dimple forming when she smiled.

“She doesn’t like asking for help,” he rocked her gently, sounding offended. “Would rather climb onto the counter to reach the top shelf than call me over. It'd be so easy, my star. I’ve walked in on her climbing our counters more times than I can count. Nearly gave me a heart attack the first time, but now it’s just… her.”

“And coffee,” he added with a low chuckle. “Black as sin. None of that cream-and-sugar business. Swears the rest of us are cowards, especially your Aunt Lois. I’ve learned to just let her have it her way.”

Your baby babbled, tiny hands fluttering, and he hummed in response. You bit your lip to stifle your laugh.

“She listens to music way too loud,” he continued as he played with Viola's curled fingers, voice warm with amusement. “Rock. Don't get me wrong, I like it, too. But golly. The kind that rattles the walls. Says it clears her head, but it’s left her ears ringing so bad she can’t fall asleep without white noise." He brushes some silky hair behind her ear, "Not that I mind. Means I get to hold her a little longer until she drifts off.”

He shifted slightly, brushing a thumb over her tiny hand. “She bakes brownies for people at work. She’s kind in ways that don’t make the headlines. Remembers birthdays even though they don't remember hers. She laughs at all my jokes like she means it. Gosh, she's the best."

Viola kicked lightly, a happy squeak escaping her. Clark kissed the top of her hair, soft and careful.

“Your mama. She gave me a family, my star,” Clark murmurs, softer now. “Something I never thought I’d have. I spent years thinking it wasn’t possible for me. That I’d always be too much or not enough, or that the world wouldn’t let me have something so normal. And then… she loved me anyway. She gave me you.”

Viola nestles deeper against his chest, and he kisses the top of her hair, soft, reverent.

“I'm the luckiest man alive,” he whispers in awe. “Because of her. And if I could, I’d give her everything she’s ever dreamed of. A bigger house someday. Maybe a little farmhouse with a yard. And more kids. As many as she wants, if she wants. Just… more of this. More of you. More of her.”

You felt your eyes tear up, heart full.

Clark shifted Viola slightly and murmured softly, almost as if the words are meant to weave into the night:

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

Recognition hit you. Shakespeare. The depth of your husband's thoughtfulness.

He leaned back in the chair, cradling her, speaking now in that reverent tone, almost as if your daughter were older and could understand everything he said.

“You know, my star, I’ve seen the Earth from space, the wonder, the beauty of it all. But none of it… nothing I’ve ever seen takes my breath away like your mama does.”

His voice softened, eyes tracing every tiny movement of your daughter. “I hope you and your brothers and sisters—if there are more someday—always see her the way I do. Always treat her like the treasure she is. Because she’s my wife, my best friend, and your incredible mother. She gives so much, quietly, without ever asking for praise. And you… you’ll learn that, too.”

She cooed again, tiny fingers brushing against his chest where his Superman insignia would've sat, and he chuckled.

“And even though she climbs on counters instead of asking for help,” he said softly, “and drinks her coffee black like she’s daring the world to keep up, and blasts rock music that rattles even Aunt Kara, and can’t sleep without some white noise, she’s… perfect. I know she’ll teach you that being extraordinary doesn’t always mean loud displays or heroics—it’s in the little acts of love every day.”

Clark then stood up, holding Viola closer as he paced around the nursery. “Someday, when you grow up, you’ll understand. She’s the kind of person who makes you want to be better just by being herself. And if you ever have siblings, they’ll know it too. And they’ll see it in how you love her. How we all love her, and we'll spend every day reminding her.”

Viola babbled again, tiny sounds that made him grin.

“And you know what’s also true, my star?” he added, a playful sparkle in his blue eyes, his deep voice coming towards the nursery door, closer to you. “She swears she can cook, but your incredible mother, the love of my life, once set pasta on fire.”

Got ya!

You stepped softly into the room, laughing, hand pressed to your chest. “Dang it, babe! Superhearing?”

Clark’s grin widened, dimples deep craters. “Superhearing.”

You embarrassed him then, careful not to jostle Viola. She was half-asleep, chest rising and falling, blue eyes fluttering shut, dark hair spilling in soft waves.

“She’s out again," you whispered with a soft squeal as you rubbed a thumb softly against her cheek.

“Mmhmm,” he murmured. “Guess my voice bored her.”

“Or soothed her,” you countered softly as you looked up.

He shrugged, eyes softening when they met yours. “You heard everything, right?”

You nodded, smiling despite the tears threatening to spill.

“Well,” he said, sheepish, “guess the secret’s out.”

“Clark,” you whispered, voice catching slightly, “I know you love me. You don’t have to… prove it like that.”

“It wasn’t proof,” he said dipping his head to kiss you, “It was truth. And I wanted her to know it. From the start.”

You leaned forward, forehead resting against his shoulder, hand brushing over Viola’s blanket. “You’re a big ol' mush," you murmured.

“Maybe so,” he said, lips brushing the crow of your head this time, softer now. “But I’m your mush.”

Silence fell, tender and almost sacred. Viola stirred, sighing softly, completely at peace in Clark’s arms. You let your gaze wander over them, feeling the stillness of the night sink in. The faint glow of the nightlight painted the room in warm gold, the gentle hum of the city beyond the window just a soft, distant murmur.

“So… a farmhouse,” you murmured, voice light with wonder.

“With a porch. Maybe a swing,” he said softly. “Big enough for more kids, if… if you’d want that someday.”

Your grin spread, heart racing with excitement. “Of course, Clark. I can’t wait. I want all of it. Every messy, loud, beautiful moment. More kids, more chaos, more everything with you.”

His grin deepened, warmth in his eyes matching the swell in your chest. “Then that’s the plan, my love.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Always planning ahead, Mr. Kent.”

“Someone has to, Mrs. Kent,” he teased. “Otherwise you’d climb all the counters and blast rock music all day.”

“Hey,” you whined mockingly, nudging him gently. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

“I do,” he relently with a smile, steady and certain. “Every single thing about you. Even the cooking disasters.”

You gasped through a laugh, shaking your head. “Babe—”

“What?” His grin was wide, unwavering. “Our Viola agrees.”

Your daughter stirred faintly but didn’t wake. You and Clark fell into a comfortable quiet, the moment stretching with the slow rhythm of shared breaths and gentle heartbeats in the early morning hours. You tucked closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder, fingers brushing the soft curve of Viola’s fist and finally allowed yourself to sink fully into the warmth of your family.

“I love you, Clark,” you whispered.

“I love you more, sweetheart,” he replied, voice unwavering, filled with the quiet gravity of every day you’d spent together.

And there, in the dim nursery, watching Clark cradle your Viola, you let the weight of the moment settle—the quiet certainty of a life built together with your best friend was more profound than anything else you could imagine.

.

.

It started with sunlight.

The window caught the morning’s clean, golden warmth, and it flared against the ring on your left hand as you reached for your coffee. Clark’s ring. He had forged it himself, molten metal shaped by careful hands, modest enough to look ordinary but strong enough to survive anything.

Clark tried not to stare, but his eyes kept finding it. Kept finding you.

The sight of it—of you, wearing it—still left him short of breath.

You were at Townhouse, tucked on a quiet corner just off Centennial Avenue. It always smelled faintly of coffee and sugar, sunlight spilling through wide front windows onto polished wood tables. Every table held a small glass vase—always fresh flowers, never quite the same mix twice.

The DeLuca's, a married couple who had run the place for over twenty years, knew most of their regulars by name. But you and Clark were their favorites. Or that's what Clark told himself. They saved your usual table by the window when they saw his tall frame and mop of curly hair, already knowing your orders before you sat down—your black coffee, Clark’s hot chocolate, your shared plate of pancakes, no matter the season.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was home in the way only certain places could be—cozy, constant, a little timeless. The walls were lined with framed photos of brunches and small celebrations; you and Clark had probably been in a few without realizing it.

For most people, Townhouse was a weekend treat. For you and Clark, it had quietly become the backdrop to an entire relationship—where first anniversaries were celebrated, job promotions toasted, and the engagement announced with shaky hands and shining eyes over syrup and sunlight.

You sat close, shoulders brushing. Across the table, Jimmy leaned back in his chair, his Canon camera perched between his hands like an extra limb, grin bright enough to rival the sunlight.

"So," Jimmy said, after drawing out the suspense with theatrical flair, "as your best man, I’ve decided on my wedding gift."

Clark’s instincts braced for impact. "Jimmy…"

"No, no, hear me out!" Jimmy waved a hand. "This is going to be great. I’m documenting your entire engagement year. A full behind-the-scenes reel. Tasteful, cinematic, very you. Think of it as—" he gestured dramatically, "—the Planet Exclusive: The Kents Before the Kents."

You lit up immediately, excited and amused. "You’re serious?"

Jimmy beamed. "Totally! I’ve got the gear, the editing setup, the eye for romance—Lois says I’m the Scorsese of engagement videos. I’ll follow you two around for a bit, capture the magic—dates, holidays, all the stuff people love in those sentimental reels. You’ll thank me at the anniversary dinner when you’re sobbing into your champagne."

Clark’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, pancake sliding off. "You’re going to follow us around?"

Somewhere toward the back of the restaurant, a small private room door opened and closed, followed by a burst of laughter and cheers from a mid-morning celebration. Clark glanced toward the sound—another milestone, another story being marked in this same little restaurant.

Jimmy held up both palms, getting his attention again. "Not all the time! Respectable distance, promise. I’ll keep it documentary-style. Voice-over narration, tasteful montages, none of that intrusive paparazzi nonsense. I’ll even edit out any…" He glanced at Clark meaningfully. "…suspiciously fast costume changes. Scout’s honor. Think of it like a nature doc. National Geographic, but with feelings."

You laughed, the sound easy and bright, and Clark’s jaw softened before he could stop it. He leaned back in his chair, half-defeated, half-enchanted. You reached for his hand and squeezed once.

"Oh, this will be so fun," you breathed. "I've always wanted something like this!"

He glanced down at your joined hands, your ring glinting between your fingers. The soft whorl of your thumb against his skin anchored him; it always did.

"Clark, you just focus on us, okay?" you gushed. "Because it’ll be nice to see ourselves from someone else’s perspective for once. You’re always the one behind the saving, the fixing. Let someone else do the documenting."

He studied your face, your words, reading between the lines. He knew—painfully—that you had grown up in a home without many photographs or home videos, that moments weren’t captured the way they were in his own childhood. And now, with your parents gone, there was no one to fill in those gaps.

Watching you smile, animated and full of life, he realized that this little project—Jimmy’s camera, the endless candid footage—could give you a kind of permanence you never had before. A record of joy, of love, of ordinary and extraordinary moments alike.

Something in him unwound at that, the knot in his chest easing.

Jimmy was already fumbling with his camera. "Just a test shot! Don’t mind me. Keep doing whatever adorable thing you were just doing."

Clark shot him an amused look over his glasses. "You mean eating breakfast?"

"Exactly! Authenticity sells."

You snorted into your cup, whispering, "Come on, Clark. Smile for the documentary."

He did. Awkwardly at first, the corner of his mouth twitching up in self-conscious protest. But then you tilted your head toward him, brushing your shoulder against his bicep, and the smile caught—real this time, soft and unguarded.

Jimmy lowered the camera a beat later, eyebrows raised. "See? This is gold. Natural chemistry. I can already hear the background music."

Clark groaned. "You’re going to make a montage, aren’t you?"

"Oh, several, just ‘cause you asked. Maybe a slow-mo section, too."

You giggled, leaning in just enough that Clark could feel the warmth of you against him. "You’re doomed, baby."

"Completely," he agreed, but his tone carried more affection than complaint.

Jimmy kept filming while you talked—little domestic rhythms that Clark barely noticed until he saw Jimmy’s lens catch them: your fingers circling the rim of your mug when you were thinking, the way your lips pursed when you were trying not to smile too big, how you unconsciously leaned toward him whenever someone else laughed.

To anyone else, they would have seemed trivial. To Clark, they were everything.

He wondered if that was what Jimmy would see in the footage later—not Superman, not the Daily Planet’s mild-mannered reporter, just this quiet thread of a life he was building with you.

"Okay," Clark said finally, setting down his fork. "You win. One year of your project. But you stick to your promise—respectable distance. No helicopter shots. No hidden mics."

Jimmy clapped once, triumphant. "Scout’s honor! This is going to be beautiful, man."

Clark buried his face in his hands, and you burst out laughing, your voice ringing across the café like a bell. When he looked up again, Jimmy had the camera tilted just so—sunlight in your hair, your laughter blooming, the ring gleaming with life.

And for a fleeting moment, Clark didn’t mind being caught on film like this.

Because when he saw the footage later, he knew—he would see what Jimmy saw.

He would see you.

.

It’s only been five months, and Clark’s beginning to realize how often you make him smile—how often you make him feel.

Jimmy promised to keep a respectable distance, but "respectable" still meant everywhere. Every aisle, every café corner, every shadowed street: there was always that faint red blink of Jimmy’s camera. 

And always, you.

.

There were the drop-offs. 

You started visiting the Planet on your days off. Sometimes you brought a homemade meal, sometimes take-out from Mali’s, sometimes just coffee and that mischievous tilt of your smile that made Clark forget deadlines. Jimmy lurked near the bullpen printer, pretending to adjust camera settings while everyone pretended not to notice.

Clark watched you approach his desk, the shy little smile you gave when he leaned down to kiss you in front of colleagues, the way you slid your hand over his arm before setting down lunch. He pretended not to notice the camera, though the tips of his ears always went pink, and he thanked you softly, the way he always did, like gratitude was a habit he could never outgrow.

Jimmy’s lens hummed softly. Clark tried to type, but your fingers sneaked one French fry up to his lips, and his composure dissolved. 

Later, when Jimmy sent him a still frame — your head tipped toward Clark’s shoulder, sunlight striping both of you — Clark stared far longer than he cared to admit.

.

Then there were the pick-ups. Dusk in Metropolis, the air biting with early-winter chill. Clark met you outside Metropolis General, your shift badge still clipped to your scrubs, taking your work bag wordlessly. Jimmy trailed half a block behind, camera half-hidden in his coat.

You talked about your day; Clark talked about deadlines. The city hummed around you. At one crosswalk, a gust tore your scarf loose. Before he could think, Clark caught it mid-air, tying it back around your neck. You didn’t even blink at the speed — just grinned and said, "My hero."

Jimmy caught it, of course. The footage showed nothing impossible, only a blur of motion and the quiet way Clark looked at you afterward, as if the world’s noise had thinned to silence.

.

Your apartment looked like a Hallmark set gone wrong — countertops dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg, you half-laughing, half-scolding. Clark’s apron reading KISS THE COOK because Jimmy thought it was funny, but you took it literally. 

Jimmy had set up a tripod for your "holiday prep vlog." Clark tried to fold pie crust with surgical precision.

"Loosen up, honey," you said. "It’s pie, not a Pulitzer submission."

Jimmy’s commentary drifted from the kitchen. "Our couple demonstrates patience under pastry pressure."

You flicked flour at Clark; he retaliated with whipped cream. Jimmy declared it cinematic gold.

Then came packing for Smallville for Thanksgiving weekend. Clark folded clothes with geometric precision; you threw your sweaters in without regard. You teased him for over-organizing; he teased you for bringing three scarves for a two-day trip. Somewhere in the middle of it, he kissed you — quick, unthinking, but caught on camera anyway.

Then, Jimmy mentioned Martha and Jonathan getting bonus footage. Clark froze mid-zipper as you straddled your overpacked suitcase.

"You will not harass my parents."

"Okay, two things: one, harass is a strong term. Two: they’re thrilled! Your mom’s already got her old camera out!"

Clark groaned into his hands, but at the farmhouse that weekend, he endured it with a kind of helpless love, because he knew every frame would capture you laughing between his parents and the Kansas sunset kissing your face, utterly at ease.

.

For Christmas Eve, you insisted on a mistletoe. Jimmy hovered with his camera until Clark sighed, helpless, drawing you close and kissing you — deeply, slowly, genuinely, filmed through the twinkle of tree lights. Jimmy whooped, "That’s the cover shot!"

It was supposed to be playful, staged. Then it wasn’t. Jimmy cleared his throat and pretended to adjust focus while you giggled against Clark’s chest. 

Later, Clark replayed the night in his mind: the warmth of your laughter, the glow of the lights on your face, the way you kissed his jaw softly before whispering, "Merry Christmas, baby."

.

New Year’s Eve. You both counted down at Jimmy’s rooftop, mingling with his neighbors.

Pop! 

A stray cork hurtled toward your face before anyone could react — Clark’s hand was there, lightning-fast. Everyone cheered.

Jimmy’s camera wobbled. "Dude, you never cease to amaze me."

Clark shrugged, deadpan. "Eh, fast reflexes."

You looked up at him, admiring. "That’s one way to put it."

Midnight hit. You tugged him down by the collar and kissed him, radiant in the fireworks’ glow — hair messy, cheeks flushed. Clark’s chest ached in the best way.

.

Jimmy mercifully gave you both Valentine’s Day off—he had a date himself. But the next morning, he cornered Clark at the Planet, camera rolling.

"So, Big Guy… had a fun night?"

Clark nearly drops his coffee. "Jimmy! Good gosh, where’d you come from?"

"Just answer the question! Need to know if the doc needs, you know, a censored segment."

Before Clark could scold him, his phone buzzed. Your name. As if you had a sixth sense. He answered, smiling.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Your voice, sleep-rough, teased: "Hi, honey. I’m incredibly sore this morning. Guess we over-did it. Five times? Sheesh, so happy I got to sleep in today. See you later for lunch?"

Clark went scarlet. Jimmy’s jaw dropped.

"Y-yes, sweetheart. Later. Uh… you’re on speaker," Clark said tightly, repeatedly clearing his throat. 

The rustle of sheets, and you cackled. "Jimmy, did you get that on film?"

"...I might."

Clark hung up in a blur of mortification before you could say anything else.

Lois passed by, muttering, "You two are gonna be insufferable when you’re married."

Jimmy held back what sounded like a strangled cough, "They’re insufferable now!"

Clark had a feeling that clip — his red-eared glare over his glasses at the camera — became Jimmy’s favorite blooper.

.

The footage got softer — domestic, unassuming, human.

You and Clark stood side by side in aprons that read METROPOLIS CARES, serving meals at the soup kitchen. Your hands brushed while sneaking smiles. Jimmy hovered near the donations table, balancing the camera between stacks of bread.

"Maybe more serving, less filming?" Clark suggested.

"Are you kidding?" Jimmy whispered back. "Look at you two—coordinated angels in hairnets."

You rolled your eyes, smile hidden behind a surgical mask. Clark pretended not to blush when your hand squeezed his forearm.

When a child slipped and spilled his soup, Clark’s hand moved faster than the camera could follow — steadying the bowl before a single drop hit the floor. He passed it back with an easy grin, gentle enough that no one thought twice. Jimmy’s camera found that gesture.

"Super reflexes, huh?" Jimmy muttered.

Clark cleared his throat. "Reporter reflexes."

You giggled and gave him a knowing look. "Sure, sweetheart."

That night, Clark lay awake thinking about how your laughter had echoed through that tiled hall — how simple it felt to help, side by side. He had saved cities. But this? This felt like the kind of saving that lasted.

.

You and Clark grocery-shopped on a random Saturday, Jimmy pushing the cart like a third wheel. You debated cereal brands like philosophers. Tasted grapes together. Clark snuck in a box of hot chocolate; you added an extra box when you noticed.

"Notice the domestic synchronization — unspoken communication in the produce aisle," Jimmy narrated.

You threw an apple at him with a teasing grin.

In the baby section, Clark picked up a tiny pair of mittens, placing them in his large palm with that quiet, careful concentration. You lingered next to him, scanning the socks and soft toys, your hands brushing as you reached for a plush bear. 

Jimmy, from the aisle over, caught it all on camera, his face softening at the unspoken tenderness he’d stumbled into.

At the register, a power surge flickered the lights. Clark steadied the elderly cashier before she stumbled; you paid for the next customer’s bread without comment.

Shakespeare in the Park came next — you in his jacket, head on his shoulder, his arm around your waist while the crowd laughed at a well-timed pun. Clark’s sure the camera’s caught him not watching the play, but watching you.

"Don’t you dare cry," you whispered when Clark discreetly wiped his eyes at the ending.

He scoffed, embarrassed. "It’s—uh—tragic timing. They did an excellent job."

"You big ol’ mush."

"Your big ol’ mush," he murmured softly.

.

It was toward the end of February when Jimmy asked Clark to come over after work.

Jimmy’s apartment smelled faintly of Chinese takeout, a stack of half-charged batteries, memory cards, and lenses spread across his editing rig. The room was bathed in blue light, and the file labeled "The Best Man Project – Rough Cut (v.2)" was cued up on the monitor.

Clark sat on the couch with a carton of food, tie loosened, glasses off, anticipation knotting his stomach. He didn’t know what to expect — he guessed grocery aisles, clinking mugs, dramatic hand-holding?

"Don’t get too critical just yet," Jimmy said, breaking his chopsticks. "It’s still in edit mode, but it’s almost half a year of footage. I want you to see it. Color’s not graded. Transitions need tweaking. Some audio spliced. And… Lois might’ve given me a few notes."

Clark eyed him warily. "Define ‘notes.’"

"She thought you could use more close-ups."

"Of what?"

"Your face."

Clark snorted, "Of course she did. Denied."

Jimmy grinned, spun in his chair, and hit play.

Sunlight streamed across the opening shot — the café where it all began, your engagement ring catching the morning light. Jimmy had added a soft guitar track underneath, nostalgic, almost embarrassingly tender. 

Clark winced, "You’re going to make me look ridiculous."

"Buddy, you do that all on your own. Now hush."

Then came the clips, strung together like pearls:

You feeding Clark a fry at the Planet, then turning to snag a handful when he wasn’t looking. 

Clark catching the child’s bowl at the soup kitchen, your awe-struck face in the back. 

Grocery aisles, cereal debates, hot chocolate sneaks, tiny mittens and socks in the baby section, laughter caught at just the right angle.

Jimmy’s voice comes faintly over one clip: "Observe the rare Clark Kent in his natural habitat…"

Clark groaned, "You kept the narration."

"Obviously," Jimmy says around a mouthful of lo mein. "It’s the best part."

But each moment has a kind of accidental intimacy. Clark didn’t realize how much Jimmy had caught — the way his hand always seemed to find your waist, or how your fingers sought his when crossing a street. The way his expression softened whenever you enter a frame.

Then, Smallville packing chaos— you sitting on your suitcase, giggling while Clark tried not to overdo his superstrength to close it. The quick, unthinking kiss captured on camera. 

Christmas Eve under the mistletoe, the kiss tender and real, Jimmy giving just enough space to preserve intimacy. 

Onscreen, there’s footage of you at Shakespeare in the Park. You're bundled in Clark’s jacket, your head on his shoulder as the crowd applauds. Clark’s eventual own voice, muffled: "Your big ol’ mush."

Then the subtitle Jimmy added: Possessive pronouns in the wild.

Clark can’t help smiling. He’s embarrassed, sure, but there’s a fondness threading through the mortification. It’s strange, seeing himself like this. Not as Superman, not as a headline — just a man.

The video faded to the "Valentine’s Aftermath."

Clark braced, but Jimmy trimmed the audio. Clark suspected it's to save your dignity more than his, because it’s only half the phone call — starting with your laugh, his mortified expression, Lois cackling off-camera. The caption read: And they say romance is dead.

Then, mercifully, the tone softened.

The screen faded to black before opening on the quiet moments Jimmy caught between the chaos. No jokes. No captions. Just the sound of your laughter under sunlight, Clark’s voice low and warm.

Then the reel cut to slow motion: you brushing your thumb over his knuckles, the sunlight haloing your hair.

Clark leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching a still frame of you. His chest tightened. He could feel the way his heart seemed too big for his ribs. 

It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Painfully so.

.

When the video ended, Jimmy didn’t say anything. He was busy picking sesame seeds off his jeans. The computer fans whirled softly.

"You… really put this much time into it," Clark mused.

Jimmy shrugged. "Oh course. You’re my best friend. And it turns out, you’re photogenic when you’re not pretending not to be."

Clark laughed quietly. "I didn’t realize how—happy we look. I mean, I know we are. But—"

Jimmy raised a brow. "It’s just hard for you to stop long enough to notice, right? You’ve got a good thing going, man."

He remembered every frame — not only because of how you looked, but because of how he looked when you were near.

Jimmy leaned back, folding his arms. "You know, Lois thought this project might freak you out. Got too close. But she was wrong. You’re, like… a natural at being in love."

Clark smiled faintly. "You sound surprised."

"I’ve seen you pull satellites out of orbit. Bench-press collapsing abandoned buildings without batting an eye. Do literally the impossible. But this—" he gestured vaguely, "—looking at someone like that? That is a league of its own."

Clark’s throat tightened around something he can’t quite name. "Yeah."

Jimmy pushed off his chair and dug through his fridge to make space for his leftovers. 

He tossed a bottle of water to Clark without warning, then nodded toward the monitor. "You gonna tell her you saw the rough cut?"

Clark caught the bottle easily and twisted the cap off, contemplating. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"You’re welcome, by the way. I gave you guys, like, a twelve-hour grace period for Valentine’s. Professional courtesy."

Clark barked a laugh. "That’s what you call it?"

"Please. I had my own date. A man’s gotta prioritize."

"So generous of you."

Jimmy grinned, then sobered a little. "You know, jokes aside, this thing’s important. Years from now, you’ll have proof that life wasn’t all rescues and deadlines. It'll be right up there along with your parents’ home videos. Just the two of you — ordinary, extraordinary, together."

Clark stared at the frozen image on the screen — you, laughing into sunlight, your hand over his. His chest ached, warm and full.

"Yeah," he said softly. "The two of us."

.

When Clark left Jimmy’s apartment an hour later, snow was falling — the thin, early kind that clung to coats and hair. He didn’t fly tonight. He walked.

Through the quiet streets of Metropolis, past the hum of taxis and the soft glow of streetlamps, his mind replayed the culmination of Jimmy’s footage. Your face, your voice, the moments in between.

Only five months, and yet it already felt like a lifetime captured in frames.

Clark had spent so long hiding pieces of himself behind glasses and headlines, but that video — it had shown him living. Not saving the world. Not rushing toward danger. Just loving someone inside it.

By the time he reached your shared apartment, he already knew what he would say the moment he saw you.

That he wasn’t as strong as he thought. That he couldn’t wait another seven months, another staged engagement moment, another meticulously planned ceremony delayed by deadlines or world-saving.

He didn’t want ‘perfect’. He wanted now. He wanted you.

.

The apartment was dim when Clark got home, city noise tucked beneath the hum of the refrigerator. You were curled on the couch in his old flannel, laptop open, blanket draped over your bare legs, a forgotten mug on the coffee table.

He closed the door softly behind him.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, voice still warm from the night.

You looked up. "Hey! You’re late coming home."

He smiled, "Yeah, I walked from Jimmy’s."

You shifted on the couch, and Clark felt your stare on him, then: "I was looking at restaurants for your birthday. Anything you’re craving?"

Clark huffed a small laugh. "That’s not for another few days."

"Still," you said, tilting your head, "you know how the weekend can get. Or you want to stay in?" Your smile faltered slightly. "Are you okay? You look…a little far away. Did something happen?"

He finally sat beside you, loosening his tie completely and sliding his glasses into his dress shirt pocket. He knew hair still carried the faint scent of Jimmy’s apartment — Chinese take-out and burnt coffee. He offered a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"He showed me an edit," he said finally, gently scooping your legs onto his lap. "Of the footage so far."

You shifted your laptop, eyes bright. "Really?"

"Yeah." He leaned forward slightly, massaging your calves and ankles. "I thought it’d be funny mundane, cheesy stuff — holding hands, hugging, kissing, ya know? But it was… it was more than that. He caught things I didn’t even notice. The way you look at me… the way I—" He swallowed, quiet. "—the way I look at you."

Clark watched you study him in the half-light. You reached for his hand, and he felt a tether in your squeeze.

"So it’s good, then?" you asked.

"Better than good," he said, still caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. "It was beautiful. It made me think."

"About?"

His thumb traced the line of your cheek, the curve of your jaw, before pressing a kiss to your lips. "How incredible you are, how lucky I am. How happy we are. Everything in that video was so us. I just—" He exhales, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead against yours. "I don’t want to wait anymore."

Your pulse stuttered beneath his hands. "For what?"

"For the rest of it."

You blinked, then whispered, "So… you’re thinking about getting straight to the good part, too?"

His eyes flicked to yours, startled, then softened with dawning amusement. "Too?"

"Well," you teased, biting your lip, "it has been a thought that’s come up almost every hour since you proposed. Early enough to get refunds, you know. That white gown in the back of my closet? For any galas? Price tag’s still on."

He laughed — low, warm, something that settled in Clark’s chest and refused to leave. He kissed your knuckles, heart aching in that light, easy way you always had. "You’d really want to?"

You tilted your head. "Would you?"

For a heartbeat, the question hung between you like static. Then his voice softened, a grin blooming: "More than anything, sweetheart."

You were already half-turned toward your laptop, typing furiously. "There’s a twenty-four hour grace period once we pay the fees and sign in-person. Hypothetically, if a couple were very eager and maybe wanted to skip a twelve-hour guest list, weeks of handwritten thank-you letters, months of table seating arguments…"

"…We could get married this weekend," Clark finished softly, eyes wide. Then a grin tugged at his mouth. "Sounds like you’ve been researching."

"Don’t judge! I'm a nurse. Comes with the territory. Plus, I’m marrying an incredible journalist —have to keep my facts straight."

You’re clicking through the city clerk website, reading the instructions. "We can plan something small, simple. But no courthouse."

"No?"

"I…I have an idea." You passed your phone. "What do you think? We can ask if the private room’s available, a few candles, a small meal with a few special people?"

Clark’s eyes softened in that way that always unmoored you, the look that said you just thought of everything I didn’t know I wanted.

He passed your phone back and leaned closer, voice low. "You really think it’ll be available?"

You smirked. "I’m sure something can be worked out. They like us. Or at least they like your tipping habits. Besides, I can be persuasive. Let me call them before you change your mind."

"Change my— sweetheart," he leaned down, kissing you quick and stunned, "I brought this up first!"

"Okay! Okay! While I call the restaurant, I need you to call Ma and Pa! They’d kill us if they weren't here for this."

Clark watched you toggle airline sites, typing and clicking with effortless multitasking. "We can handle tickets," he muttered, rubbing his face, grinning helplessly. "We’re really doing this."

"Doing what?" you teased, glancing up. "Planning a birthday celebration on your birthday weekend. Totally special and innocent."

He laughed, full and fond, chest tight in that way he only felt around you, and dug his phone from his pocket. "That’s how we’re playing it? Alright, sweetheart, when Ma inevitably sees through me in two seconds, I’m blaming you."

"You wouldn’t dare!"

"Watch me, baby."

Clark stepped into the kitchen for privacy. "Hey, Ma! I was just thinking maybe you and Pa could fly out to Metropolis this weekend. Yeah—yeah, I know it's short notice. Just… It’d be nice to see you guys, my birthday and all…."

He smiled, listening to her soft excitement on the other end. "Awe, Ma, thanks. We're planning a nice dinner….Yeah, yeah, no, we can cover the fair…. No, promise, we want to."

He looked back toward the living room. You met his eyes over the top of your laptop, that conspiratorial spark in your expression nearly undoing him. You pointed at your screen, whispering, "Saturday morning. Round-trip for your folks. I even added refundable protection in case they catch on early."  While you’re on hold with the restaurant.

He grinned faintly and returned to his call. "...You're all set, Ma. We'll send the ticket confirmation to your e-mail… I can't wait either…. Tell Pa I said hi… Good night, Ma. I love you, too."

Clark had barely set his phone down when he noticed you pacing the living room, laptop balanced in one hand, phone pressed to your ear. Your voice was bright — that particular brand of polite determination he’d learned to recognize as you’re about to talk someone into something impossible.

"Hi, Mrs. DeLuca? It’s me — yes, hi! I know, I know, we just saw you the other Sunday, the cinnamon brioche was criminally good—" You laughed softly, spinning in place while you waited for the owner to respond.

Clark leaned against the doorway, half-smiling. Your hair was mussed from where you’d been running your hands through it, your free hand gesturing animatedly as you spoke. Watching you mid-plan always felt like standing too close to sunlight — impossible not to be drawn in.

"Yes, actually, I had a small… question. Or a favor, really." You paused, listening. "You know how Townhouse has that private room near the back, the one you use for small parties sometimes? Would there be any chance — any at all — that we could reserve it this Saturday evening?"

Clark heard Mrs. DeLuca’s voice on the other end, warm but hesitant.

"I know it’s last-minute," you said quickly, smiling nervously. "And I swear we’ll keep it small. Six people, tops. We just—" You glanced at Clark, your voice softening without meaning to. "We want to have our wedding there."

Clark straightened, his chest tight, a surprised laugh nearly breaking from him.

Clark heard a noise between a scream and a gasp, and you laughed again — the sound watery this time. "Yeah. I know, right? We couldn’t wait, and we couldn’t think of anywhere else."

You walked to the counter, fingers drumming anxiously. "No, no, you don’t have to close off the whole space, we’d never ask that. Just the back room, a quiet dinner after. And if you could keep the lights a little dim — oh, and that string-light thing you do during the holidays?" 

You looked over at him, mouthing, I’m pushing it, before continuing, "Yes, that one."

Clark grinned. There was another pause, then your expression softened completely — the kind of relief that made your shoulders drop and your eyes crinkle.

"Really? You mean it? Oh, thank you, thank you. Mrs. DeLuca, you are saving me from a very expensive wedding bill and a very panicked fiancé."

Clark protested, smiling helplessly. "Hey!"

You bit your lip to suppress a laugh. "No, Clark’s right here — yes, of course I’ll tell him you said congratulations. I’ll be there tomorrow to go over the details? Perfect. And—thank you again. Truly."

You hung up and exhaled, finally turning to face Clark with that unstoppable, radiant smile."They said yes. The private room’s ours Saturday night. They even offered to put together a few decorations and a little dinner menu — she said she’s always wanted to host a wedding there."

Clark crossed the space in two strides, wrapping you in his arms before you could even put the phone down. He laughed into your hair, the sound low and disbelieving. "We’re really doing this."

You smiled against his chest. "Told you I could be persuasive."

He pulled back just enough to see your face, thumb tracing your jaw, the world narrowing to you. "You’re unbelievable."

"My husband would say I’m a woman of action," you teased, eyes bright. "He loves that about me."

Clark kissed the corner of your smile, voice rough with affection. "He really does."

.

By a little after ten, almost everything had fallen into place.

The marriage license application was submitted, the clerk was appointment confirmed. Flights were booked for his parents under the pretense of his birthday. The private room was secured, the officiant paid and signed, and: 

"Our favorite bakery has next-day pick-up!" you clapped, laughing into his chest. 

Clark watched, utterly undone, as you typed in an order for a small, one-tier chocolate cake — nothing fancy, just clean white frosting, a ribbon detail, and black ‘just married’ in cursive. You read the note aloud while typing it: ‘For a wedding (elopement). Keep it simple. Sweet. WHITE BOX WITHOUT WINDOW.’

He couldn’t help smiling. It all felt surreal — how quickly forever had turned into this weekend.

He then fired off a text to Lois:

Hey, are you free Saturday for dinner? Got reservations at Townhouse.

You and Clark gave each other an incredulous look when she replied almost instantly:

Occasion?

He glanced at you, smiling as he typed:

My birthday. My parents are in town. Do you mind picking up the cake?

Lois’s text bubble paused for a few moments, then:

Oh, right, leap year! We can actually celebrate on the day, Smallville. Say no more!

Minutes later, you text her with the bakery address and pick-up time:

Thank you again, Lois! The Kents are flying in for Clark’s birthday, so we'll be a little busy. See you then! 

Lois replied with a thumbs up and a heart emoji. 

Clark leaned back, a quiet warmth spreading through him. Everything was in motion now — the kind of secret that made his heart race. 

He opened one more chat and typed:

Hey Jimmy, thanks for tonight. I actually need you Saturday evening. Bring the camera. We’ve got dinner planned at Townhouse for my birthday, and a great idea for the documentary.

Jimmy’s response was instant.

Are you finally letting me film the proposal reenactment?! 

Clark smiled — that quiet, love-struck kind of smile that made his eyes go soft. His thumbs moved before he could stop them.

Sure

.

Later that night, the two of you lie tangled in bed, the citylight cutting soft against the bed sheets. Clark’s fingers drifted over the curve of your bare back, tracing slow, lazy circles — the shape of rings and promises not yet spoken aloud.

"You really meant it, right?" he asked quietly, his voice barely carrying in the dark. "You really want forever with me this soon?"

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. "Clark, we just had mind-blowing sex, and I was practically begging for forever to start yesterday."

He flushed, smiling despite himself, and caught your hand before it could escape, brushing his lips over your knuckles. "I just want to make sure," he murmured. "I don’t want to cheat you out of your dream wedding day."

You leaned in and kissed his cheek — rough with stubble, warm from the blush spreading there. "This is my dream wedding day, Clark. Anything that ends with you as my husband. The rest is just background noise."

His hand found the back of your head, guiding you close enough for him to press a kiss against your forehead. "We sure are going to make some noise."

You laughed, curling closer until your body fit perfectly against his. "We did plenty of that tonight already. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Mrs. DeLuca, then we’ll go to the clerk’s office on your lunch break, and after that… we wait for Saturday. Oh—tell Jimmy to bring backup batteries. I want everything recorded. Including everyone’s reactions."

Clark chuckled against your temple, sliding his hand down to your hip and pulling you in until he could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ribs. "Anything for you, almost Mrs. Kent."

You squealed, muffling it against his chest, your excitement radiating like warmth through the dark.

As your breathing slowed beside him, Clark stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. His heart was a thunder of something bright and reckless, something that felt a lot like peace.

He’d spent so long waiting for the right moment — the right time, the perfect everything.

But maybe the truth was simpler than that. Maybe the good part was already here.

.

The hum of the city was soft that night — the kind of hush Metropolis only offered when something good was about to happen.

Clark adjusted his tie for what had to be the sixth time in as many minutes. He wasn’t usually this fidgety — not when saving lives, not when walking into a press briefing, not even when facing Lois Lane on a caffeine shortage.

But tonight wasn’t about any of that. Tonight was his.

His thumb brushed the small velvet box in his pocket — a quiet reassurance that it was still there. Inside, nestled against deep blue satin, were the matching wedding bands he’d forged himself at the Fortress two nights earlier, in the hush of crystalline air and sunlight. Gold alloyed with trace Kryptonian metals, strong enough to withstand anything, yet light as a whisper when he’d held them up to the glow. 

He’d etched a single line of Kryptonian script along the inside of each: For all my lives, I’d find you.

He stood just outside the entrance to Townhouse, the restaurant’s warm, golden glow spilling across the sidewalk. Lois and Jimmy were already waiting at the curb, both dressed nicely, both assuming they were there for an intimate "birthday dinner."

Jimmy spotted him first. "Hey! Fancy suit for a birthday boy."

Clark smiled faintly, the lie sitting sweet and harmless on his tongue. "Had to make the most of it. Leap-year birthdays don’t come around often."

Lois shifted the bakery box in her arms. "Where’s the fiancée?"

Before Clark could answer, his mother’s voice chimed from behind him — soft and practiced. "Oh, honey, she was called into work this morning. She sounded heartbroken about it."

Lois blinked. "Wait—seriously!?"

Jonathan nodded solemnly. "Duty calls, I suppose. But I think she said she’ll be rushing here right after."

Clark nearly laughed, pretending instead to fuss with his cufflinks. You’d texted him an hour ago — a photo of a garment bag draped across your shared bed after you’ve snuck back in, captioned:

I’ll be next to you soon, Mr. Kent.

He rested his hand over the pocket again — over the weight of what waited inside — and smiled to himself. In less than an hour, those rings would no longer be just something he’d made. They’d be a promise, sealed in candlelight, held between your hands.

He led the group toward the familiar front doors. Mrs. DeLuca greeted them warmly, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that made Clark suspect she’d been vibrating just as much as he had with the secret all day.

"This way, this way," she urged, gesturing them down the hallway toward the back. A server offered to take the cake box from Lois. "We’ve got your table all ready."

Jimmy lifted his camera instinctively. "Mind if I get a few shots for the ‘birthday reel’? Just for fun?"

Clark smiled. "I don’t mind. Just… keep it rolling."

They stepped into the private room — and the noise outside seemed to fall away entirely.

Candles flickered on every table, and string lights hung low and golden overhead. The chairs were arranged in two neat rows facing an arch of greenery — simple, elegant, quietly perfect. At the front stood the officiant, waiting with a gentle smile.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then realization dawned — slow, bright, unstoppable.

"Oh my God," Lois breathed, turning to smack his arm. "Clark, what the hell!"

Martha gasped, tears spilling instantly as Jonathan caught her hand, eyes shining with pride. "Clark, is this really what we think it is?"

Jimmy’s camera thudded against his chest as he scrambled to refocus. "Wait—wait—hold on! Dude! You sneaky farmboy!"

Lois kept swatting at him. "You absolute romantic menace!"

Clark grinned — helplessly, completely — that wide, boyish grin that had followed him his whole life. "Surprise everybody," he said, voice laced with laughter.

Mrs. DeLuca peeked in from the hall then, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She leaned toward the officiant and whispered, "She’s here. She said she’s ready."

The officiant nodded and raised his voice gently. "If everyone could take their seats, please."

Martha sniffled softly as she sank into her chair, clutching Jonathan’s hand. Lois wiped at her eyes with a napkin she’d swiped from the nearest table, muttering something about "damn romantic farmboys." Jimmy crouched beside his tripod, whispering to himself, "Okay, okay, focus — this is the best damn thing to happen all year—"

Clark moved to the front of the room, fingers twitching against his sides to keep from fidgeting. His heart was pounding — not just fast, but loud. Louder than city sirens, louder than thunder, louder than any heartbeat had a right to.

Then the doors opened.

He forgot how to breathe.

You stood framed in the soft amber glow spilling from the hall, the faint chill of evening following you in. Your hair caught the light like something holy, your dress simple but luminous, and in your hands — a bouquet of white ranunculus and lavender, threaded with a bit of green Clark was certain had been Mrs. DeLuca’s touch.

For a moment, you just looked around — eyes bright, a little wet — before you found him across the room. That was when Clark felt it hit him fully: this was real.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then reached out a trembling hand toward Jonathan.

Clark’s throat tightened as he watched his father rise — slow, a little stunned — and take your hand in his. Jonathan squeezed your fingers, whispered something that made you laugh through a tear, then walked you forward with all the gentleness in the world.

Clark’s vision blurred at the edges. He didn’t even hear the soft music a server had cued from the speakers above. 

The world had narrowed to this: the flicker of candlelight on your face, the soft shuffle of your steps, the sound of your breath catching when you saw him smile.

.

"…and by the power vested in me by the state of Delaware," the officiant said, voice soft over the hush of the room, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Clark barely heard the words. He felt them instead — in the tremor of your fingers where they laced through his, in the bright shimmer of your smile trembling beneath the veil, in the soft sound of Martha sniffling somewhere behind Lois’s delighted gasp.

"You may kiss your bride."

You didn’t wait. You laughed, that bright, unstoppable sound that always found its way straight through him, and tugged him down by the lapels of his suit. 

Clark met you halfway, one arm sliding around your waist, the other lifting instinctively to cradle your jaw, and pulled you up until your toes left the floor. 

The kiss was steady but full of laughter — the kind that caught between your smiles, that carried every secret, every almost-moment, every promise you’d both ever made.

The room erupted. Applause, cheers, a muffled "This is really happening" from Lois, Jimmy audibly crying behind his camera. Even the servers who’d been pretending to polish glasses in the hallway had gathered near the doorway, clapping, teary-eyed, whispering to each other as if they’d just witnessed the end of a perfect movie.

Clark set you down slowly, forehead resting against yours as the applause swelled. You clutched the front of his suit like you feared he might float off if you let go. You were both laughing, breathless, dizzy, caught somewhere between disbelief and joy.

"Hi, Mrs. Kent," he whispered, his voice hoarse with wonder. The truth of it hit him like sunlight — sharp, real, alive.

You smiled so wide it broke his heart open. "Hi, Mr. Kent."

He felt the box’s weight no longer in his pocket, but on his finger — the gold band glinting under the string lights, catching the faintest shimmer of the Kryptonian alloy. You lifted your joined hands, tracing the wedding band with your thumb, marveling how it paired beautifully with your engagement ring and wedding band.

"You forged this, too?" you whispered in wonder, voice meant only for him.

Clark nodded, eyes soft and shining. "Thought we should have something that could stand the test of time, my wife."

You brushed your lips over his knuckles. "You are a big ol’ mush, my husband."

He laughed unguarded and so deeply in love it almost hurt. Around you, the room blurred into motion again: Jonathan crying as he held Martha, Lois gripping Jimmy while he fumbled with his camera, Mrs. DeLuca dabbing at her eyes as the servers clapped from the doorway.

And in the middle of it all, Clark held you close. He was so wrong. This was the actual part you’d both been waiting for. 

The good part. 

.

The low hum of conversation filled the private room, along with the clinking of glasses and the scent of garlic and rosemary drifting through the warm air. Clark sat close to you, his fingers twined with yours, still half dazed from everything that had just happened. 

Husband. Wife. 

The words still felt too big and too good to be real.

Lois leaned back in her chair across the table, staring like she still couldn’t believe she’d missed it. Jimmy, predictably, had his camera out again, whispering to himself as he adjusted angles and caught every moment — the laughter, the brush of your thumb over Clark’s knuckles, the way the light caught your rings.

Martha and Jonathan were giddy in their own quiet way, Martha adjusting her shawl as she whispered a reminder to Jonathan not to cry too loudly. Clark couldn’t stop smiling at their pride.

Dinner was simple, elegantly arranged — roasted chicken, seasonal vegetables, warm bread — yet the sense of intimacy, the private glow of the string lights overhead, made it feel like something grand. Clark found himself watching you more than the food, noting how the candlelight bounced off your engagement ring and new wedding band. It shone when you lifted your glass, and something deep in him settled — a kind of peace he’d never known.

"Happy birthday, Clark," you whispered, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand. "And, uh… happy marriage day."

He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. "Best birthday I’ve ever had. By far."

"You two are ridiculous," Lois lamented suddenly, breaking the gentle buzz of conversation. "Doing this under the guise of a birthday dinner?"

Clark grinned, a little sheepish.

"You got lucky getting past me this time," Lois shot back, though her voice softened. She glanced down at the table and then back at you, and the slight upward curl of her lip betrayed a smile. "Never again."

Just as the laughter settled, a waiter stepped forward, carrying a small cake. Lois sat wide-eyed, pointing at the cake.

"W-wait! Is that—Is that the cake you made me pickup?!" she stuttered, eyes wide, pointing at the cake. "You two! Reckless romantic idiots!" She groaned dramatically, shaking her head.

Laughter rippled around the table. Clark couldn’t stop smiling. You reached for the knife, your hand brushing his. The light caught on both rings, gold glinting under the string lights. 

For a moment, the rest of the world fell away — there was only your laughter, your eyes, and the warm pulse of your hand in his. It was as if he discovered you for the very first time.

Clark tightened his grip on your hand, leaning in close enough to whisper, "We’re really married now."

"Yeah," you breathed, smiling up at him, cheeks flushed. "We really are."

Jimmy, camera still rolling, whispered under his breath, "Gold, Kents. This is pure gold."

.

Later, Clark slipped out with you to the quiet patio, the laughter and music from inside fading to a low, distant hum. The night air was cool, threaded with the scent of rosemary and candle wax, the soft glow of lanterns catching in your hair. He drew you close — one hand at the small of your back, the other finding yours — and you swayed together beneath the pale wash of moonlight.

It felt endless, that moment. The warmth of you against him, the rhythm of your breathing, the pulse that matched his. For a man who had seen eternity from above the clouds, this — this simple, human closeness — was what felt infinite.

"You know," he murmured, his voice low against your ear, "I fall in love with you again every single time I look at you like this, Mrs. Kent."

You laughed softly, a sound that brushed through him like sunlight. Your cheek pressed against his chest. "I could say the same thing, Mr. Kent."

He closed his eyes, smiling into your hair, letting the quiet joy of it sink into him like light through glass. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement — a familiar shape, half-hidden behind a post.

Jimmy.

Crouched, camera in hand, trying very hard to be invisible.

Clark’s laugh came quiet and full, the kind that loosened something deep inside him. Months ago, every camera had made him tense, cautious, aware of the weight of his secret. But now, he didn’t flinch. He just smiled — genuine, open — the kind of smile that belonged only to you.

Jimmy froze, guilt plain on his face. Clark shook his head, amused. "Go on, Jimmy," he called softly. "We’re trying to make the best documentary ever, right?"

Jimmy laughed, waving his hands, but Clark didn’t take his eyes off you. He was intoxicated by the sight of you in his arms, the glow in your hair, the way your hand lightly traced the edge of his lapel

"I mean it," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "Every day with you feels like the first time I realized just how much I love you."

You tilted your face up, lips quivering, "And I’ll spend every day reminding you, then."

He kissed you. It was slow, tender, a promise more than a gesture. Around you, the world blurred into murmured voices, faint music, and the distant click of Jimmy’s camera.

But for Clark, there was only you — radiant, alive, breathtaking, the echo of your heartbeat steady against his palm. 

And in that small, perfect slice of night, he knew with utter certainty that he’d spend the rest of his life finding new ways to love you — again and again, for as long as time would let him.

.

The Fortress of Solitude was just that. The crystalline walls glowed a soft blue, their light refracting against the snow beyond. Clark sat before one of the consoles, elbows on his knees, chin resting loosely on his folded hands.

Gary had taken it upon himself to "curate a viewing experience," as he called it, while he waited for his cousin’s arrival. The reels flickered across the translucent wall: his parents on a grainy Kansas porch, Jonathan holding him up as a baby wrapped in a blanket. The sound was warped but unmistakable—Martha laughing through the wind. 

Then, spliced between the decades, came Jimmy’s new footage.

Then, seamlessly, the footage jumped decades. Jimmy’s handheld camera, a jarring leap from Super 8 to smartphone, and suddenly there was sunlight, a café table, and you — haloed in gold morning light, leaning across the frame, eager about Jimmy’s "documentary."

Clark could hear himself off-screen, saying something corny—something that made you laugh. The sound alone made his chest tighten.

The Fortress door hissed open behind him. A muffled crash echoed through the corridor.

"—Shit!"

Kara stumbled in, brushing snow from her hair, her flight path apparently less graceful than she expected. Krypto trotted beside her, tail wagging, a small blue gift bag clamped gently in his jaws.

"Sorry, dude!" she blurted, cheeks flushed pink. "I got your message—just, uh, about a month late. Don’t kill me, ‘kay?"

Clark turned, amusement ghosting across his features. Krypto bounded forward, tail wagging furiously, dropping the gift at Clark’s red boots.

Kara glanced around the soft-lit chamber, her gaze catching on the flickering projection. "How’s married life treating you, big guy?"

Clark didn’t answer right away. His eyes had already drifted back to the rotating reel — to the looping café footage. You, laughing into the light. The glint of your ring. The warmth that poured from you like morning sun.

His throat tightened, warmth swelling somewhere deep and immovable. "It’s…" He paused, searching for the right word, something vast enough to hold it all— the love, the peace, the incredible happiness to simply be with you. His voice softened. "It’s everything I ever hoped it could be."

Onscreen, the footage shifted again — Jimmy’s camera catching another stolen moment. You and Clark were looking at a pair of baby mitts, unaware you were being filmed.

Kara smiled knowingly and stepped back toward the door. "Tell her I said congratulations," she said, lifting a hand in farewell. "I’ll get Krypto next week, ‘kay?"

Krypto circled once, then settled at Clark’s feet, his breathing slow and steady.

Clark stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the projection. The images flickered across his face — Kansas light, city light, your smile — each frame a pulse of memory, a heartbeat made visible.

On the screen, sunlight caught your ring again.

He smiled—soft, private, reverent.

For the first time in a long while, he let himself simply sit and watch. Not just as Superman. Not just as Clark Kent.

Just as a man in love.

And the Fortress, aglow with those small, human moments and sunlight, seemed to breathe with him, too.

.

The first one came on a hot summer afternoon when you were seven, a moment so ordinary it almost feels like a dream now. Your mother was at the sink, cutting apples for pie, your favorite. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, warm and dappled, and she hummed to herself as the knife slid through the fruit with an easy, practiced rhythm.

You’ve always had little bouts of questioning your mortality.

And then, without warning, the thought arrived—sharp and enormous.

The world was here before you, and it’ll be here after you. Metahumans, notable figures, your mom, your dad, existed years before you. What happens after they die? What about you? What will you miss?

It sat in your chest like a stone, terrifying in its simplicity.

"Mama," you blurted before you could stop yourself, "What happens after you die?"

The knife hesitated mid–slice. Your mother turned, alarm flickering across her face.

"Well," she said after a beat, choosing words that were meant to soothe but landed blunt and unsatisfying, "that’s… not something you have to worry about for a long, long time, baby."

Then she smiled—a little too quickly—and went back to her apples.

But the answer didn’t help. It only made the stone heavier.

You sat there in silence, small legs dangling off the chair, staring at the bowl filling with crescent moons of fruit, every breath a reminder that time was moving and you were trapped inside it.

A knock on the screen door broke the spell.

"Hey!"

Clark stood on the porch, curly hair already mussed from running, his blue eyes impossibly bright against the summer sky. "Wanna play?"

The terror loosened. Just like that, the enormity of life and forever was eclipsed by him, your best friend.

You grabbed the bowl of apples your mother set aside as the final slice fell in and ran to the door. Clark’s grin widened as you stepped outside, and the world—your small, fragile world—felt whole again.

Side by side with Clark, as it always was.

The years folded themselves neatly behind you like pages in a book.

Clark stayed by your side through scraped knees and science fairs, listened to your restless midnight thoughts as if they were secrets meant only for him.

One night, it was his turn to share.

You were sixteen years old. An autumn night under a clear sky spilled with stars that burned sharp and endless, and made the world feel both infinite and unbearably small. You remember the chill of the grass beneath you, the warmth of his hand in yours, and the strange, perfect certainty that you would never look at the stars the same way again.

"I need to tell you something," he said, voice low enough that it almost disappeared into the crickets.

"Yeah?" you whispered, turning your head.

"I’m… not from around here. Not on Earth, I mean."

"Is that your way of fishing for a complement? You’re out of this world?"

He chuckles, trembling from anxiety, then floats a few feet in the air.

For a moment, his words that didn’t make sense—like a story whispered in the wrong language – finally do. You looked at him, at the boy who had carried your school projects and bandaged your scraped knees, and tried to fit the infinite into the familiar as he told you more of his heritage.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t run. Instead, a dozen questions rushed in at once.

"What’s Krypton like? Do you have… super senses like the other metahumans? What makes you fly? Are there more like you?"

Some answers came easily—yes, he could do things no one else could; no, there were no other Kryptonians as far as he knew. Others he could only shrug at, a boy who carried a universe of questions inside his chest.

You asked the one question that lodged itself deepest in your chest.

"What about… aging? Will you grow old like me?"

Clark’s gaze seared into your memeory. "I’m not sure," he admitted. "Under a yellow sun….I don’t really know what it means for me, hard to know when you’re alone."

You reached for his hand that night with trembling hands, fingers threading through his.

"That’s not true. Whatever happens, I’ll be by your side. Promise."

Clark turned to you then, blue eyes reflecting the stars. The quiet thanks in his smile was brighter than any constellation.

At eighteen, you shared your first kiss. It was hesitant but sure, the summer before college. The taste of cherry soda still on your lips when you both promised to try—together.

Metropolis University, endless coffee-fueled nights and shared apartments, laughter echoing against brick walls.

At twenty-seven, a wedding band slipped onto your finger, Clark’s eyes bright with vows he meant with every breath.

It was the same year the world met Superman.

Clark had stepped into the sky for the first time in public one year ago, a blur of red and blue saving strangers while keeping his name hidden, still just Clark to you and his Ma and Pa.

While headlines marveled at a man who could outrun bullets and carry buildings, you stood in a small chapel and promised forever to someone who might actually have it. You held his hands and felt the steady, human pulse beneath your thumbs.

And now twenty-eight, a life built with him like both miraculous and ordinary—morning coffee, shared laundry, the quiet hum of two hearts beating in tandem.

The fear still comes sometimes, sudden and uninvited.

A flash of thought in the middle of a shift, the whisper of a question while brushing your teeth. Fleeting, yes—but never gone. You’ve learned to live with it. To love despite it.

Because whenever the terror presses in, Clark is there.

And somehow, his smile still feels like the first light of a summer morning, chasing the darkness back into the corners where it belongs.

.

Morning arrives soft and golden.

The sheer curtains billow faintly with the early breeze from window cracked open, the first sunlight threading across the bedroom in long, warm ribbons. You wake to the quiet—a steady heartbeat of birds outside, the faint hum of the city in the distance—and to the familiar weight of Clark’s arm draped across your waist.

Last night lingers in the air: the warmth of skin, the soft echoes of laughter and whispered names. Your body still hums with it, tender and slow.

Clark sleeps on his back, the sheet pushed low across his hips, dark curls spilling onto the pillow in disarray. The sunlight loves him as much as you do. It slides along the smooth planes of his chest, kisses the line of his jaw, makes a quiet spectacle you can’t seem to look away from.

You shift onto your side, chin propped on your hand, and simply watch. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The faint smile that plays at the corners of his mouth as if he’s dreaming of something gentle. No one, you think, should look this young after a night like the one you shared—after years of nights like it. But Clark does. Always has.

Eventually he stirs, blue eyes blinking open, bright even in the lazy light.

"Morning, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. He tightens his arm around you and presses a slow kiss to your temple.

"Morning, handsome," you whisper back, smiling into his shoulder.

The world waits. Work waits. But neither of you moves until your phone’s alarm insists.

.

The bathroom fills with the sound of running water as Clark steps into the shower, humming low under the spray. You stand at the mirror, hair gathered in one hand, the other tracing foundation across your skin in practiced strokes. It’s a routine you could do in your sleep—moisturizer, concealer, mascara, eyeliner, blush. Familiar, comforting.

Then you see it.

A single strand of silver against your dark hair, catching the light at your hairline. Course, unmistakable.

You pause, brush poised midair.

A white strand of hair.

For a heartbeat, the world tilts.

And then—

You laugh and grin. A quick, startled sound that bounces off the tiles. "Well," you mutter to your reflection, "that’s new."

The shower shuts off. Steam curls around the edges of the curtain as Clark steps out, towel slung low around his hips. Droplets cling to the dark curls of his hair, slide down the smooth planes of his shoulders. He moves with effortless grace, every line of him strong and impossibly unweathered.

Full curly hair, still black, not a hint of gray.

Hands – broad, steady, strong, calloused only from battles and farm chores, never trembling.

Skin—smooth, sun-warmed, untouched by time.

Even his smile, when he catches your gaze in the mirror, is maddeningly youthful. Dimples as deep as your love for him. Easy. Beautiful, like the people he believes in.

You imagine what he may look like in twenty years. In forty. Will I be beside him?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks as while he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You blink, forcing your attention back to your reflection, debating to pluck the offending strand.

"Nothing," you say, deciding to brush the silver thread into place as if it might disappear. "Just…found my first white hair."

Clark’s eyes meet yours in the mirror as he reaches for his suit pants.. The smile softens into something fond, almost tender.

"One hair isn’t a big deal," he says. "It just means you’re distinguished."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Distinguished? Me? Please."

He chuckles, coming beside you to look at both of your reflections. "I love it already."

The conversation drifts as you finish styling your hair, slipping into fresh blue scrubs while he buttons his crisp white button down shirt and knotting his tie with a flick of deft fingers. Two lives in motion—your hospital shift, his work at the Planet—moving in quiet parallel.

Breakfast is quick but unhurried.

Cereal and coffee, the clink of spoons against bowls, Clark’s hand sliding into yours across the table, larger, warmer, stronger. You talk about small things—Jimmy’s latest photo assignment, the poor new residents starting on your floor in July—but every word is wrapped in the easy intimacy of a life built together.

When it’s time to leave, Clark bends down for a deep kiss, slow and warm, tasting faintly of coffee. His thumb strokes over the back of your hand and lingers on your ring finger, the evidence of devotion proudly wrapped on your digit. As he pulls away, he lifts you in a hug, a silent promise that the day will end the same way it began: side by side.

You shoulder your work bag, heart still catching on the thought of that single white hair.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Just a thread. A moment.

But as Clark holds the door open, sunlight catching in his black curls, you remember a summer morning when you were seven—your mother slicing apples, the first time you understood that everything ends.

And you wonder, just for a breath, if the universe is quietly reminding you again.

.

The ER is a steady hum of movement and urgency—phones ringing, gurneys squealing across polished floors, monitors chirping their restless rhythms. You’ve worked these shifts enough to fall into the current without being swept away. Chart, assess, comfort, repeat. Life and death pass through these doors every hour, and you’ve learned to keep breathing no matter what arrives.

By late afternoon you’re combing the area of your hairline where that strand rests again. You’re midway through admitting an elderly couple when the room tilts, just slightly, and something inside you stills.

The wife—Mrs. Carr—is pale, in pain, but smiling, her frail hands folded neatly in her lap as if she’s waiting for tea instead of test results. Terminal cancer, along with a slew of diagnoses stares back at you from the screen. Pain creeping into the places medicine can only soften, not stop. Exaccerbation of symptoms, consultation for hospice.

Her husband hovers close, fingers lightly touching her shoulder as though he can steady her by sheer devotion.

He is healthy, that much you notice from his skin, his gait, his easy, appreciative smile. His eyes, though, tell another story—clear and shining with a love that is both fierce and impossibly gentle, but an undercurrent of fatigue and loneliness.

You go through the motions: vitals, questions, paperwork. Your tone stays bright, professional, despite the circumstances.

When you slip a warm blanket around Mrs. Carr’s shoulders, the husband leans close and speaks in a hush voice meant only for her.

"I’ll carry the rest for both of us," he whispers.

The words barely reach you, but they land like a blade.

A scythe’s single, silent swing.

One cut while the other remains.

Your breath catches. For a heartbeat you see yourself in the wife’s chair, Clark’s hand where his rests. The echo is sharp enough to sting—just a sudden, shimmering awareness of the future’s weight. The white hair from this morning flashes in your mind like a signal.

You finish the admission, offering a sympathetic smile and a gentle touch to Mrs. Carr’s arm. They thank you with quiet warmth, the husband never letting go of her hand.

As you step back into the hall, the noise of the ER rushes around you again.

The fear recedes as quickly as it came, leaving only the faint aftertaste of inevitability.

You breathe, steady and professional, and move on to the next patient.

The whisper lingers like a splinter beneath your skin: I’ll carry the rest for both of us.

.

The rest of your shift unfolds in a blur of vitals, charts, and the steady drone of overhead pages. But the Carrs’ whispered promise lingers, a soft pressure at the back of your mind that refuses to dissolve.

At the breakroom counter a splash of color catches your eye: a flyer taped crookedly to the bulletin board.

"Join us in celebrating Nurse Mary-Ann’s retirement!"

You pause, reading the date twice. Mary-Ann—the unflappable Filipino night-shift legend, the woman who trained half the floor and could start an IV in her sleep, and still had time to feed all of you—is leaving. Somehow you never pictured her retiring. She was supposed to be permanent, a fixture like the elevators or the smell of bleach.

Forty years, the flyer boasts. Forty years of service.

You swallow and tack on a practical thought: good for her, she deserves a quiet morning for once. But the idea scratches at you anyway. If someone like Mary-Ann can leave, if decades can slide away like this… how quickly will your own years vanish?

You shake it off, slip into the staff lounge for a sip of lukewarm coffee, and dig in your bag for a pen. Instead, your fingers brush the corner of an envelope.

Ma’s birthday card. Stamped. Unsent, for now.

A pang shoots through you. Ma has always been more than an in-law, more than just Mrs. Kent even before puberty—steady and kind, the first to call after a long shift, her voice a quilt of Kansas warmth you wanted to treasure forever. The card’s cheerful sunflowers grin up at you, oblivious to the date you’ve nearly missed. You promise yourself you’ll mail it tomorrow.

You’re just busy. Everyone forgets sometimes.

By the time you clock out, dusk has settled over Metropolis in a soft blue glow. The streets smell faintly of car exhaust as you walk toward the subway. You slip in your earbuds, craving distraction, and your music app offers a curated surprise: Classic Rock Essentials—Songs of Your Youth.

You almost laugh.

The first notes of an old anthem spill into your ears—something you screamed along to at seventeen, windows down, Clark drumming the Kent truck’s steering wheel on back roads.

Then another track you and Clark slow danced to in college, cheap dorm fairy lights swaying overhead to set the mood, he had teased.

Each song is a breadcrumb leading backward, every guitar riff a reminder that time doesn’t loop—it stretches, it pulls, it leaves you behind.

You force a smile and tell yourself it’s just an algorithm. Data. Nostalgia packaged for profit. Still, your chest tightens. How many years since that night in Smallville? The math comes unbidden, sharp as a clock’s tick.

You lengthen your stride, mind scrambling for distractions: dinner plans, a load of laundry, maybe you and Clark finally stream that show everyone keeps talking about before bed.

But the weight builds anyway, small stones gathering in the pocket of your heart.

Then— BOOM

The sky cracks. A clean, sharp sonic boom rolls through the buildings, rattling windows and echoing off glass.

You glance up instinctively. High above, a streak of red and blue cuts across the fading light—faster than any plane, brighter than the first star.

Clark.

Your breath catches, the heaviness pausing mid-fall. The thought of white hairs and ticking clocks scatters, replaced by the simple, grounding truth of him.

Your husband. Alive. Moving through the sky like he was born to carry the world.

The sonic wake fades, leaving the city humming in its ordinary rhythm. You keep walking, heart steadier now, though the weight isn’t gone.

It waits, quiet and patient, like something you’ll eventually have to name.

The days blur in a soft, familiar rhythm.

.

Morning coffees. Shared commutes. Shared showers when schedules allow. Clark stealing a kiss against the doorframe before heading out into the city, his cape brushing your bare legs. Evening meals where he listens more than he speaks, his kind, blue eyes intent and patient. From the outside nothing has changed—your lives move with the same easy cadence they always have.

But Clark hears the difference.

You catch his eyes on you when you sigh a little too deeply over a pile of laundry. He tilts his head when your heartbeat flutters in a lie you think you’ve hidden. He, of all people, cannot help but listen. In the gentle silence after dinner, when you rest your head against his chest, you feel the subtle tension in his arms, the unspoken question in the way his fingers trace idle patterns across your back.

"Long day?" he asks one evening as you curl together on the couch, watching him make edits to Thursday’s article on his work laptop.

"Just tired," you answer, forcing a small smile.

But your pulse gives you away. You feel the shift in him—a quiet, inward listening only Clark could manage. He doesn’t press, not yet.

The thoughts are harder to name. The moments keep stacking like quiet stones: the Carrs in the ER, the retirement flyer, Ma’s unmailed birthday card. Each small reminder of time’s weight has sharpened something inside you, until every heartbeat sounds like a countdown.

Clark moves around your shared apartment with an ease that sharpens the ache in your chest. He hums, off-key on purpose you think, while steaming the crimson cape draped carefully over the ironing board. The increasingly famous suit dries on a discreet hanger in the corner of the laundry room—its colors vivid even under the ceiling light—while he pads barefoot through the kitchen to refill your tea.

You love the way Clark fits here, the way Superman folds seamlessly into your lives. The man who can catch falling satellites also kneels to scrub mildew on the weekends with you. The hero who can lift a plane single-handedly still steals the last dumpling from the takeout box and grins like a boy when you swat his arm.

At night, when Clark sleeps beside you, your thoughts spiral.

What if Clark stops aging?

You picture yourself decades from now: skin softened by years, hair silvering to white, while Clark remains untouched. His black curls still dark as midnight, his eyes impossibly bright.

Will he stay? Will he love again after I’m gone?

The thought cuts, cruel and unbidden, though you know his devotion like you know your own breath.

What about our children?

Will they inherit his near-invincibility, your mortality, or something in between? Will you watch them grow only to outlive you—or worse, to live forever without him?

The question from years ago resurfaces with merciless clarity.

Sixteen, lying beneath the stars, your voice barely a whisper: "What about… aging? Will you grow old like me?"

His answer had been hesitant, careful. "I’m not sure. Under a yellow sun….I don’t really know what it means for me, hard to tell when you’re alone."

The memory curls tight around your chest. Back then, the mystery felt almost thrilling, an unknown future you’d face together. Now it feels like a shadow you can’t outrun.

You try to soothe yourself with logic. Maybe Kryptonian biology isn’t so different after all. Maybe it won’t matter if Clark stays young. But the what ifs press harder in the dark, each one sharper than the last.

When the dread grows too loud, you reach for memories like lifelines.

The night you surprised Clark with a candlelit dinner in your first cramped Metropolis apartment, the walls still smelling faintly of fresh paint.

Your first Christmas together, snow piling against the windows as he strung lights around the tiny tree, his cheeks flushed from bashfullness more than the cold.

Birthdays spent in laughter—Clark carrying you over his shoulder out of the kitchen to keep you from sneaking frosting off the cake.

Quiet nights when he read aloud while you drifted half-asleep, his voice steady and warm even after hours of saving strangers.

The way he once landed on the balcony in a rush of cold air, suit torn at the shoulder, and let you scold him while you patched the fabric with trembling fingers.

Every recollection is a proof of love, but each one is edged with a question:

How many more do we have?

Clark senses the shift even when you pretend.

One evening he returns from patrol early, hair damp from the clouds, and finds you curled on the couch, a book forgotten in your lap. He kneels before you, still in the suit, the S gleaming faintly in the low light.

He brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering at your temple. "You’ve been quiet lately, sweetheart," he says one night, his voice a gentle invitation.

"I’m fine," you answer, forcing lightness.

Your breath catches, heartbeat stumbling, and you know he hears both.

Clark’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t push. Instead he pulls you closer, tucking you beneath his chin, the faint scent of clean soap, coffee, something like the sun wrapping around you. His warmth is steady and grounding, as if he could shield you from your unnamed turmoil.

You close your eyes and breathe him in— hero and husband, savior and farm boy—and let the silence stretch. For now, the dread recedes beneath the steady beat of his heart, but it doesn’t disappear.

It waits, quiet and patient.

The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside when you return from the post-office, mailing Ma’s birthday card and a parcel together.

.

The air smells faintly of apples baked with cinnamon, a scent that curls around your chest like a warm blanket, tugging at memories that have been rampant all week. Candles flicker along the edges of the living room, casting gentle shadows that stretch and fold against the walls. Clark, your Clark, stands at the stove, a bashful grin on his face, sleeves rolled up, moving with a calm precision that only he possesses.

When he glances over his shoulder, his eyes are bright with excitement.

"Close your eyes, sweetheart," he calls out.

You hesitate, lips parting. Something inside you wants to protest, to shield yourself from yet another touching moment where your fragile human heart might crack, but the warmth of his hand brushing yours stills the impulse. You obey.

When you open them, your breath catches.

Clark has transformed the apartment into a feast of your favorite foods. Trays are lined with roasted vegetables arranged just as you like them, bread from the bakery you stop at every Sunday, chocolate desserts you shared during college, even lemonade in a glass pitcher with condensation beading along the sides.

He’s cooked it all himself, a blessing he learned from Ma before he was shipped off to college with you. Stirring, seasoning, tasting, arranging—turning everyday ingredients into a gesture that carries decades of shared memory.

Every detail is thoughtful, deliberate.

The center catches your eye. A small dish of apples baked with cinnamon, golden and fragrant—the smell curling into your memory of seven-year-old you, standing at the sink, watching your mother cut the fruit.

"What happens after you die?"

"I…Clark, you didn’t have to," you whisper, voice fragile, a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Clark steps closer, hands still warm from cooking, and meets your gaze. "I wanted to," he says, meeting your gaze. "You’ve been… distant. I didn’t know if I did something wrong."

You shake your head, touched, as he guides you to sit. "No, no. You haven’t done anything.. It’s me."

Once you’re seated, he kneels beside you, bringing your eyes to meet his. There’s a softness there, a recall of stargazing sixteen years ago, the boy who sat beside you under the stars, the man you married, the hero you’ve loved.

"Let me help," he says, his thumb brushing a loose strand of hair from your temple. "Tell me what’s going on."

"I…" you choke, words caught in your throat. "It’s nothing important."

It was all the invitation you need, but the weight you’ve been carrying this week presses down heavier than ever. You try to focus on the trays, on the warmth of the room, on the care your husband poured into every dish—but it’s no use. The tension inside you fractures completely, and the tears come slowly.

"Sweetheart, you’re crying. Of course it’s important," he sits at the adjacent dining chair and gathers you into his lap, murmuring into your temple.

His attention turns your tears into cascades, warm and unrelenting. You bury your face in your hands, words tumbling out in a messy, chaotic rush.

"I… I can’t stop thinking! About getting older while you look the same… about white hairs… about Mrs. Carr and the way her husband’s going to carry the burden for both of them… apples when I was seven and realized everyone dies… and I don’t want to miss anything with you… everything you’ll see… everything you’ll experience…"

Your sobs wrack your chest, your voice breaking under the weight of years of fear and love. "I’m scared! I’m scared that when we have kids, how long they’ll live…and if not as long as you… What if–what if you find someone else? Someone else to love, someone to fill the life I won’t be there for? God, I’m so selfish. I don’t want to leave first. I don’t want to leave at all."

Each word is jagged, a tangle of longing and terror. The thought of him loving another, of being alive when you are no longer there, twists your chest in a way that no practical reassurance can reach.

Clark draws you impossibly close to his chest , hands cradling your face, thumbs collecting the wet streaks of tears. You feel the cool press of his wedding band glide against your cheekbone.

You press your forehead to his neck, your hands clutch at his shirt, letting your sobs mingle with the steady, unshakable rhythm of his puse. His heartbeat.

"Shh… breathe," he soothes. "I’m right here, darling. I hear you."

You try to articulate the jumble of fear and love and longing: "I…I love you so much, Clark. I want to be with you forever… I don’t want to miss a single thing… every laugh… every moment… what if I can’t keep my promise… what if you have to watch me leave you?"

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, then brushes your hair back with a tender hand. The damned white hair flickers in your vision.

"I think about it too," he admits after some time, voice hushed and trembling with honesty. "I’m scared of the same things, especially when I watch you. The way you refuse to toss your socks into the laundry, need white noise at night to sleep, that birthmark on your left arm that looks Texas, the way you throw your head back when you laugh, the weird way you arrange our pantry… Nothing about you is ever too small for me to cherish. All those tiny pieces of you, they’re human. And they make me human, too."

He pauses, brushing his nose against the crown of your head. "I’ll make sure our children know you, if they’re like me. Every memory of you, every lesson, every laugh, every way you made our home alive and full—they’ll carry you with them. You’ll never truly be gone from this world, not from them, not from me."

Your head lifts from the crook of his neck slightly, still wet with tears, eyes meeting his.

"It hurts," he continues, voice thick, "that I might not be able to watch you do these things forever. That one day, I’ll wake up and…." He trails off, swallowing the weight of the unspeakable.

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, holding you steady. "You are it for me," he says, voice firm now, unshakeable. "No matter if it’s fifty years or golly, five hundred. No matter what. It’s always you. Only you, my love."

You nod, letting the sobs ease into quiet, ragged breaths. His hand slides down your back, holding you close, chest rising and falling against yours. He presses a long kiss to the top of your head, another to your temple, and then one to your lips—a kiss that is transcendent, tender but full of the weight of your shared life, of every fear and hope, every fleeting thought of mortality and longing.

"You’ll never have to worry," he soothes you, playing with your hair how you like it. "No matter what happens. Kids, celebrations, battles, funerals, I'm here through all of it. There is no other life I want. No other person I would choose to come home to. I would live decades in moments like this again and again because they’re with you."

You pull back slightly, forehead resting against his, breath mingling. "I… I’m sorry," you voice raw and trembling. "I didn’t know… I never knew you felt the same. I never wanted you to carry it alone either, Clark."

Clark shakes his head gently, a small, tired smile brushing his lips. "You didn’t have to know," he says. "I’ve always felt it, but hearing it from you now, feeling it… it makes it real. Makes me grateful that we can share it. That we can face it together."

You rest against him, tears still streaked across your cheeks, feeling the rise and fall of his heartbeat. The faint hum of the city fades, leaving only him, you, the fragile, beating, human reality of your life together—and the infinite love threading through it.

He tilts your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes glimmer with the ache knowing how fleeting each moment together could be, yet fierce with the promise of devotion.

"Forever," you whisper, a promise you are determined to keep.

"Forever," he echoes, brushing his lips to yours again.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, years the fear—the dread, the scythe of time hovering over all that is human—loosens just enough to let you breathe. To rest. To exist in this moment, held and known, with the man you’ve build a life with, and the promise that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

The winter light is softer now, pale gold spilling across the kitchen table as you cradle a mug between your palms. Outside, Metropolis hums beneath a thin veil of frost, but the apartment is warm—rich with the scent of coffee and toasted bread, the low purr of the heater filling the quiet.

.

You don’t count the days, not really, but the seasons have shifted. The restless edge of autumn has mellowed into something slower, steadier. Clark is at the stove again, humming under his breath while he flips pancakes. The sound has become a kind of anchor, the gentle rhythm of a life you’ve learned to savor moment by moment.

Your other hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach. It’s still early, just the faintest curve beneath your soft sweater, but Clark notices instantly. Of course he does.

"You feeling okay, sweetheart?" he asks, voice low and warm, not turning from the stove but tilting his head so he can hear the answer before you even speak.

You smile faintly. "I’m fine. We’re fine. Just a little hungry."

"Good," he says, a quiet note of relief in his voice. "Breakfast is almost ready. Sit. I don’t want you standing too long."

You tilt your head toward the mirror hanging by the hallway. It catches a glimpse of you in the morning light—hair mussed, face bare, still soft with sleep. There it is again: that same stubborn white hair. The one that started this whole spiral months ago.

You lean in closer.

It gleams silver against your dark strands, a quiet reminder that time is moving, even if the world sometimes feels suspended around Clark. You pinch it gently between your fingers, ready to finally pluck it free… but before you can, it slips loose on its own. A single strand, weightless as it falls to the floor.

You stare at it, caught between a laugh and a sigh. It feels different this time—less of a warning, more of a truth you’ve begun to make peace with. Time will come. But today is here.

"Something funny?"

Clark’s voice draws you back. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, spatula in hand, wearing that crooked grin that has disarmed you since childhood. And for a heartbeat, you see it—just the faintest crease at the corner of his eye when he smiles.

It’s small. Barely there. But it’s real.

Your breath catches. Not fear this time. Something else. A quiet, aching tenderness that spreads through your chest like warmth from the inside out.

Clark notices your stare and arches an eyebrow, expectantly, playfully. "Yes, sweetheart?

You shake your head, swallowing the sudden tightness in your throat. "Nothing. Just… you."

He crosses the room in two easy strides, setting the spatula aside and wrapping an arm gently around your shoulders. His other hand finds its place across your belly, warm and strong. "You okay?"

You embrace him around his waist, pressing your forehead to his chest. The steady beat of his heart thrums against your ear.

"Yeah," you whisper, the word carrying the weight of everything you’ve lived and everything still ahead. "We’re okay."

His eyes soften even more, that tiny wrinkle deepening as he smiles down at you. Content sound that rumbles through his chest. "Good. I like hearing it anyway."

His hand lingers against your stomach, fingers splayed as if memorizing the moment. Your throat tightens, but this time it isn’t fear—it’s gratitude. You lean into him, letting his warmth and the faint hum of his heartbeat steady you.

Outside, the city stirs awake. Inside, pancakes wait to be eaten.

The single white hair rests unnoticed on the floor.

The faint wrinkle at the corner of Clark’s eye deepens when he smiles down at you.

Life is moving. Time will come.

But for now, for this heartbeat, you are here—together, growing, infinite in the only way that matters.

.

🍎Don't Cry, We're Bound Together - You’ve always known time would catch you. Now, married to Clark, you begin to notice quiet signs of your own mortality. Clark remains almost untouched by time, and the question haunts you: What if you leave first? Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Death, Anxiety

💍Straight To The Good Part -It starts as Jimmy’s well-meaning project to document your engagement year. It quickly turns into something real when Clark has the chance to watch an early edit of the cut. You and Clark discover that love just can't wait for perfect timing. Mentions of sex, Fluff, Romantic!Clark, Soft!Clark, Elopement

🌌Viola In His Arms - A quiet night. A sleeping baby. A husband whispering truths that make you laugh, cry, and fall in love all over again. Clark talks to your precious star about family, quirks, and love in a way only he could—and somehow, you can’t hide your smile anymore. Fluff, Kent OC baby, Headcannon Clark would love to name his daughter after a Shakespeare character

🐈‍⬛️The Prince of Cats - You and Clark have always sworn off pets—not with your schedules, not with his disappear-at-any-moment life. Then he comes home too cheerful, too kissy, and very much not alone. FLUFF, Accidental Pet Adoption, Romantic!Clark, Soft!Clark, Whole Lotta Kissin'

🗡As You Wish - Clark promises to always come home to you, FLUFF. The Princess Bride Reference

🥧I'd Do Anything (For Pie, For You) - After a twelve-hour Thanksgiving shift in the ER, you’re fully prepared to come home to a dark, cold, empty apartment and eat gas-station turkey and mashed potatoes. You insisted Clark to go to Ma and Pa's for the holiday—because it was the right thing to do, because he deserves peace with the people he loves—but the truth is, you’re dreading the quiet when it's all said and done. Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Thanksgiving/holiday angst, Dedicated Husband Energy

🛏The Bed Budget - You and Clark have to admit it might be time to invest in sturdier furniture. Kent OC Baby GirlDad!Clark, Financial Discussions. Implied and Blunt References to Sex

🤍A Choice Made - tw abortion. A half-Kryptonian pregnancy turns dangerous fast, and you and Clark are forced to choose your life over the future you both wanted—holding each other through grief, love, and the decision that saves you.

🏨Paging Superman - Clark, as Superman, visits the pediatric unit during the holidays. You fall deeper in love watching your husband, father of your child, bring hope, joy, and merry tidings. Major fluff, pregnant!wife!Reader, pre-Kent OC baby

💚Lapsus Linguae - Clark says Lois's name when making love to you. Kinda. Hurt/Comfort. Kent OC Baby. Implied/Blunt References to sex.

🎆Auld Lang Syne (All Over Again) - NYE Superstition. You and Clark chase midnight. Fluff. Implied sex.

🍒Cheri Cheri Lady -You went to a vineyard for the wine. Turns out, Clark was the most intoxicating thing there. (silly drunk + I want you so bad it hurts). Fluff, Implied sex, nothing explicit. Exasperated!Clark, married idiots in love, alcohol use, DownBadNoFilter!Reader (truly, my self-insert)

18+, MDNI

🏡Home - You and Clark return to Smallville for the weekend to help Ma recover from surgery. Clark starts to imagine a future that feels achingly possible—a ring, a home, a family. 18+ MDNI, Soft Smut / Intimate Scenes, Breeding Kink If You Squint, Pre-Marriage

💦House of El Lust Club - Clark is so in love with you that he entertains your bullshit, despite his growing desire to fly himself into the sun. Fic-ception. 18+, MDNI, fic-ception, Romantic!Clark, Insufferable!Reader, Oral (f receiving)

🫦Desire - "Sweetheart, keep this up, and you won't be able to walk tomorrow." "Promise?" 18+ MDNI, Sexting, Horny!Clark, Inappropriate Use of Tie

💍Green - “I think I really, really like you, Clark. Maybe even love you.” “Oh, sweetheart.” “Do…do you like me back?” “I’m—literally—inside—you. How else do I prove I’m committed?” 18+, MDNI, p in v , Oral (f receiving) Wedding Night, Romantic!Clark

Green Ask - 18+, MDNI, p in v, Superman voice while Clark makes love to you

🔆Midnight Sun - Fortress of Solitude Sex. 18+, MDNI, oral (f and m receiving), p in v (unprotected), creampie

🖼️Golden Hour - Van Gogh spent his life chasing light with a brush. Clark just needed one look at you. 18+, mdni, smut, p in v

🌙The Promise - A quiet date night takes an unexpected turn with an unintentional fake-out. That night, Clark makes amends, starting with a kiss to your ring finger. The rest follows. Fluff/angst/smut 18+ mdni, tender lovin, brief female oral & p in v (unprotected), body worship Romantic!Clark, soft!Clark

🍓Sugar Rush -It started with one strawberry. One chocolate. One kiss. While Clark was called away for Superman duties, you indulged. Now, you’re in the bath aching, breathless, and burning waiting for his return. Smut p in v (unprotected), Accidental Aphrodisiac, Bathtub Sex, Underwater Oral (f receiving, Clark my celetial munch), Praise Kink, Size kink, Dirty Talk, Reader acting stupid horny as hell

👨🏻‍🍼Hot Dad- A quiet night turns contemplative when Clark asks a question that lingers longer than expected. What follows is reassurance 18+, mdni, Dom!Clark (kinda?), reader on top bby, pussy talking, orgasm delay, its poetic bc I couldn't bring myself to finish the full smut, married idiots in love, brief talks of pregnancy/parenthood, insecure!Clark, breathe if you think Clark's a DILF

😈Master (Rage)baiter - You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work. 18+, mdni, smut, masturbation (f), sexting, piv, a teeny bit rough sex, standing doggy, Ragebaited!Clark, Mutual horniness

🎶Give It To Me - When a stranger crosses a line, Clark doesn’t raise his voice. He simply steps in and makes it clear. The word “husband” slips out as a defense, but by the end of the night, it feels more like a future. 18+, mdni, SMUT, dance floor grinding, hot-n-heavy make out, simultaneous fingering + handjob, semi-public wall sex (just how i like it, mr muscles), p in v (unprotected), Cock Praise, Praise Kink, hyperspermia, creampie, alcohol use but reader is not drunk, protective!Clark, unwanted attention/touching, brief talks of wedding rings

🛏️Talk So Sweet, Doing Bad Things - The morning after Valentine's finds you tender, well-loved, and staring down the latest casualty of being married to Clark: your one and only bed. 18+, mdni, smut, fingering, cockwarming, piv, creampie, hot and heavy make out, minor praise kink, overstimulated from the night before and Clark is the consent king, Downbad!Clark, Smug!Clark, Romantic!Clark, Mutual horniness, Clark breaks the bed and is prideful, HATES when you're mad

💦Friday I'm In Love - You knew you had dinner reservations at seven. You also knew better than to let Clark have his way with you before then. This was the consequences of your actions. 18+, mdni, aftercare, hyperspermia, you are leaking like a faucet, Smug!Clark, Smartass!Clark, married idiots in love, married banter, happy friday

❤️‍🔥Lover Boy - Clark's a greedy, indecisive man when it comes to you. minimal plot, mostly porn, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, oral (f receiving), groping, brief nipple play, body worship, doggy style bark bark, creampie, the suit stays on, Smug!Clark, Lovesick!Clark

🗃Heaven's Touch -After a day spent teasing Clark across the bullpen, one last stop in the archives room proves to be a very bad idea. Or a very good one. An inevitable one. pwp, 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, brief oral (f receiving as always), creampie, mild manhandling, overstim, workplace fucking, Yearning&Horny!Clark, the skirt and stockings stay on

👌🏼Curiosity Will Never Let Me Go - girlfriend!reader. Clark's from out of this world. Not in the abstract, romantic, larger-than-life way the rest of the world said about Superman. No, your boyfriend was factually an alien. Kryptonian. What you do not know, and unfortunately cannot stop thinking about, is how far that whole thing went. 18+, mdni, smutty ramblings (hot-n-heavy make out, thinking about alien dick, handjob, Clark cums on you, brief cum tasting)

💄Starving - Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most. 18+, smuuuut, oral (m receiving), deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)

Blurbs/Snippets

💃🏻Dancing -Clark would be a great dancer.

💦Slippin' Out- 18+ MDNI, p in v, raw,

🤥Just the tip -18+, MDNI, Clark's a damn liar.

🗣Dirty Talk- 18+, MDNI Clark's good at dirty talk. How could he not be?

🗒Respectfully, 22B - 18+, MDNI, You're not as quiet as you think.

🥵The Handler - 18+, MDNI, sub!clark Clark’s exposed to Red K on a mission, and the Justice Gang calls in the only person he’ll listen to.

🛻Backseat Freakstyle - 18+, MDNI, Kansas hailstorms are no joke. You and Clark make sure the Kent truck doesn't take a pounding. But you on the other hand? “Barn’s empty. Bed’s warm. Storm’s loud." “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.”

🥧Bad Habit -18+, MDNI Dessert, dick, doesn't matter. You yap regardless. “I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth.”

💍Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me - The reception may be winding down, but Clark isn’t done holding you yet. "Don't move, I want to feel this."

🚨SOS - 18+, MDNI, Clark hears you from across the city, and thinks you're in danger. Every sound you make is making this worse.

🧎‍♀️Good for Me - 18+, MDNI, You ask Clark for honesty. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you… slowly.”

💙Superman Day - drabble. Fluff, angst if you squint.

🧎‍♂️Bad Day Remedy - Clark's the kind of guy who drops to his knees, apologizing for your bad day, even though you both know it's hardly his fault.18+, mdni, pure filthy smut, oral, doggy style, creampie