how can we lose when we’re so sincere?

He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”

Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”

“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”

“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.

He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”

He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”

“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”

He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”

He winced. “When you say it like that—”

“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”

The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”

He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”

And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.

You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.

He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.

“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.

“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”

“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”

He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”

He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”

“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”

“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”

Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”

His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”

You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.

“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”

Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”

He frowned. “I don’t fold.”

“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”

He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”

“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”

Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”

“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”

His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”

“See? Believable and romantic.”

Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”

You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”

You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.

You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”

Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”

---

The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.

The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.

By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.

Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”

You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”

Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.

“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.

Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.

Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.

Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”

Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”

Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”

Oh God. Here it was—the test.

Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”

Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”

Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round

Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.

Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.

You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”

Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”

Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.

Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”

“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.

He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”

You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”

He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”

You grinned. “Can’t wait.”

Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”

“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”

His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.

The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.

Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.

The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”

“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.

Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”

You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”

Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.

“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”

Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”

Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”

You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”

Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”

But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”

Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”

“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”

By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”

But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.

Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”

You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”

Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”

When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.

Like he really was happy you were there.

And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.

---

The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.

You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”

Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.

For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”

Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”

“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”

He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”

“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”

“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”

“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.

“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”

He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.

The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.

“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”

He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”

Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.

Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”

His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.

The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”

Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”

When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”

Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”

“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”

He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”

You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”

Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”

But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.

And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.

---

Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”

You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”

You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”

Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”

“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”

He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.

Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.

The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.

Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”

Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”

Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”

It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”

By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”

Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”

“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”

The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.

“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.

“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.

The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”

Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”

“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”

“I don’t,” he protested weakly.

“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”

Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”

“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.

Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.

When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”

“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”

He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.

By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.

After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.

The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.

It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.

You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”

A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”

Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”

Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”

You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”

Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.

As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”

“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”

Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”

You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.

At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”

Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”

The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”

You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”

Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.

He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.

By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”

Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”

You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.

---

The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.

Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.

You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.

The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”

“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”

The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”

You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.

Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.

The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”

Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.

“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.

You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”

The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.

The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.

You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”

“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.

Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.

But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.

“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.

“You’re doing fine.”

The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.

Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.

Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.

The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.

You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.

Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.

He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”

“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”

His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”

Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”

“She’s married,” Clark protested.

“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”

“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”

The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”

He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”

You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.

Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”

You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”

When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.

At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.

---

The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”

Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”

“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”

You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”

After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.

The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.

“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”

Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”

You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”

He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”

“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”

Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”

“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”

Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”

You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”

“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”

Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”

“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.

“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”

You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”

Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”

He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”

He glanced back at you. “What?”

“It’s coming this way.”

“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”

The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”

“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”

“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”

By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.

The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”

Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”

His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”

That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”

Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”

He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.

The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.

Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”

Clark winced. “The cows.”

“The cows?”

“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.

You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”

Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”

“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”

“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.

Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”

You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.

Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.

“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”

He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”

“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”

“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.

“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”

---

Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.

Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”

And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.

Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”

“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”

He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”

“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”

“About all of it,” he said simply.

Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”

Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”

Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”

Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”

Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”

The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.

“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.

The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.

By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”

When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.

The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.

Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”

“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”

That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”

“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.

Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.

The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.

Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.

The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.

You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”

When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”

Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”

You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.

Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”

Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”

“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”

His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”

You blinked. “What?”

Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”

The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”

But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.

You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”

The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.

As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.

Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”

“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”

The women descended like hawks.

“Oh, isn’t she lovely.” “Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?” “Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”

You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.

Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”

“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.

“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”

Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.

The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”

A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.

He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”

The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”

Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”

The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”

Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.

“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”

Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”

The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.

“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.

You swallowed hard. “So we…?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”

“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.

And then he kissed you.

It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.

Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.

Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.

The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”

You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”

But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.

It hadn’t felt fake at all.

---

The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.

You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”

His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”

You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”

For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”

“Right.”

You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.

You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.

Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.

And maybe… thrilling.

---

Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.

You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.

Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”

“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.

Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.

When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”

Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”

Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”

The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”

Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”

You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”

You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.

---

The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.

But you had.

You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.

You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.

Normal.

Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.

The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”

Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”

“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”

Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”

You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”

His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.

You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.

Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.

The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.

But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.

And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.

“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.

And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”

Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”

Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.

You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.

The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.

By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”

You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.

---

It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.

You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.

When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.

“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”

He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”

“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”

He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.

“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.

“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”

Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”

Your heart thudded. “Clark…”

He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”

Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”

The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.

“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”

His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”

And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.

This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.

“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”

You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”