ava

You don’t exactly remember the walk back to the motel room. You were in a complete daze as the field felt blurry around you. As soon as the door closed choked sobs slipped past your lips.

You collapsed onto the bed, curling into the sheets that still smelled faintly of him. The sobs were violent as it was now even easier to picture him here next to you. You shook as your fists gripped the blanket, aching in every place his hands had touched you less than an hour before.

About an hour passed as your tears have dried on your face, leaving yourself with a slight headache. You couldn’t remember a time you had felt more broken.

Forcing yourself up took more effort than you would have imagined. You stare at the wall, wiping your face that felt tight with dried tears. You needed someone. Anyone, just to hear their voice.

You thought about calling your family. Having to explain this situation to your mom would be nearly impossible but you also knew they were probably still under watch since you were technically wanted by the government. They were watching them just waiting for you to slip.

Shaky hands reach for one of your hoodies as you slip it on. Walking down the hall of the motel feels like you are in a different world as you kept your head down. You eventually slipped into the quiet lobby and felt grateful when the woman at the counter didn’t even look up from her phone.

Against the wall sat a small desk with an old fashioned computer. Your trembling hands pressed the keys as the screen dimly lit up. You opened up the internet, typing in a name that lived in the back of your mind for weeks now: Martha Kent. Whitepages.

After scrolling for a moment, your heart skipped when the number came up. You quickly copied it down on a scrap piece of paper from the desk. Your heart tightened with every didget before clicking off the site and ripping the scrap paper. Stuffing it in your pocket, you slide out of the chair and make your way back into the room.

You hand shakes as it picks up the phone. You are now sat on the edge of the bed as you dial the number and bring it to your ear. Your mind was blank with what you even wanted to say to her. Maybe you just needed to hear a somewhat familiar voice, and then you would hand up after she said hello.

It rang three times before the line picked up.

“Hello?”

Your throat closed but somehow you pushed words through it. “Hi,” your voice is quiet and raspy from crying. “This is the girl who visited you weeks ago. About Clark.”

Silence stretched on the other end so long it felt like it might crush you.

Martha finally spoke, her voice low and careful. “The government came here a few days ago. They searched the house top to bottom.” She paused, her tone softening. “Are you… are you okay, sweetheart?”

You tried to say yes, but it broke into a sob. “I-he went back,” you whispered through your tears. “He went back and I… I don’t know what to do. I’m lost. I have nowhere to go.”

The line went quiet again. You imagined her there, sitting at her kitchen table with her hand pressed over her mouth, holding back her own pain.

Finally, her voice returned. “Stay where you are. We’ll come to you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You felt a wave of something unexplainable wash through you. You were quiet as you just took a shaky breath. People who didn’t even know you were about to drive half way across the country just to sit with you. You nodded before realizing she couldn’t see you. After giving her a quiet thanks and telling her where you were, you placed the phone back down, leaving you in silence once more.

~

Clark’s chest felt like a crater. It was emptied, hollow, and raw. Every breath scraped against him like glass. His heart had not stopped pounding since you let go of his hand, but now it thudded with a broken rhythm, each beat reminding him of what he no longer had. He carried the ache with him into the ship like it was chained to his ribs.

The air inside was thinner, metallic, and hummed with power. His senses registered it as it reminded him deeply of the facility. But the agony in his chest was too intense for him to feel any level of unease.

His eyes adjusted to the bright interior where new faces awaited him. His biological parents stood among them, composed and stoic. His mother’s face softened when she saw him. She crossed the distance, pressing him into a firm embrace that was more ceremonial than tender.

“My son,” she whispered against his ear, though the word didn’t warm him.

Clark’s arms remained stiff at his sides. He felt nothing but the ache that gnawed at his ribs. All he wanted was to go back and bury his face against your neck to pretend the world around didn’t exist. But you weren’t here. And you wouldn’t be again.

The others began to speak in low, clipped tones, their voices weaving throughout the ship like static. They called him Kal-El, their eyes brightening with pride and expectation. But their pride wasn’t for him, it was for what he represented. A tool and weapon. Just a means to an end.

When the machines stirred around him, Clark’s jaw clenched. A wave of cold electricity slid across his temples like hooks sinking in behind his eyes. His stomach dropped with nausea burning low in his gut as the technology clawed through his head. He tried to push back but the grief had left him too raw and unguarded.

“It is okay,” his father tells him. “We just need to see what Earth is like.”

And he couldn’t stop it. Images spilled from him: the sterile walls of the facility, the endless tests, the restraints. The whole ship watched the monitors in silence as Clark’s memories flooded through their technology.

“They know too much,” someone declared. “The humans tried to tether him. They cannot be trusted.”

Another turned toward the armored soldiers standing guard. They were bred for obedience, strictly following orders.

Clark’s mother’s eyes narrowed as she watched the way her son had been restrained for all of these years. He was sent to bend the humans of earth beneath his will. To be their ruler. Instead, he had been met with containment.

“Erase it,” the order came from her. “Erase the whole base. The facility must be ash.”

The rangers saluted together before exiting the ship. Clark couldn’t even react as his face twisted in discomfort from the invasive wiring that pulled from his brain.

The facility that caged him for nearly three decades was destroyed before any military force could even think about reacting. The rangers obliterated the base with ease before going to return to the ship that still hung fairly high above the earth.

It is important to note that Jimmy, the research assistant, had been out sick that day.

The rest of the ship continued to watch his memories until a new face began to show many times. The visions spilled like water, unstoppable now: your laugh as you beat him at a game, the way you pulled various items from your bag, you leaning over to buckle his seat belt, the gentleness of your lips brushing his for the first time, and finally, your bodies tangled, bare, your name leaving his throat in ragged breaths.

His mother’s head tilted as the images skipped across the screen. For a moment her lips parted, almost puzzled. Then her expression twisted. Anger sharpened her features, her eyes narrowing as a growl crawled from her chest.

“This one,” she hissed. “She poisoned our son. I will strike her from existence myself.”

Before Clark could react, her cloak swirled as she disappeared in a streak of light, breaking through the ship’s barrier and hurtling toward Earth.

Clark’s head throbbed as the machine’s circuits flared again and burned through his skull. He gritted his teeth, chest heaving, the grief and rage inside of him building until something snapped. He managed to tear through the restraints as he shot after her.

The motel’s neon sign buzzed faintly as the early morning light crept across the sky. Civilians scattered into the street, their voices sharp with panic as an alien figure descended. She landed with a crash as the pavement cracked beneath her feet. Her eyes scanned the building before settling on your room.

Without hesitation, she drove herself through the entrance. The door splintered into shards as she easily broke through it.

“You,” she hissed as her words broke through the quiet like static. “You have deceived my son. You place snares around his mind. You have binded him using your body.”

Her hand shot out before you could react. Cold fingers wrapped around your throat as she lifted you effortlessly. The wall slammed against your back as you dangled in her grasp while your lungs screamed for air.

A thunderous boom cracked through the motel as Clark hit the building like a comet. His eyes widened as he saw you trapped in her grip with terror washed across your face. His world went red.

With a snarl tearing from his chest he slammed into his mother with unstoppable force. The impact sent her flying, ripping through the wall and out the other side. They hurtled together across the field, the ground tearing beneath them as they collided in a storm of dust.

His mother gasped under his weight, her limbs trembling against his strength. Her arrogance faltered with eyes widening as she realized her son was much stronger than she was capable of handling.

Clark’s hand pressed hard against her chest, pinning her down as fury poured off him. His jaw was clenched as he trembled with rage.

His mother’s eyes narrow before she sneers up at him.

“All this… for her?” She manages to spit out. “She opens her body for you, and you mistake it for love. Does she whisper poison into your ear until you forget what you are? She is nothing but a weak, distracting whore that drags you from your throne.”

Clark’s vision turned an even deeper red. His fist slammed into the soil beside her head, sending a shock wave that rippled across the field. “Don’t,” he snarled as his voice trembled with rage. “Don’t speak about her.”

His mother’s smile was sharp and cold. She lashed out with sudden strength as she managed to throw her son off of her. He barely even flinched at her attempt to strike him as their fight tumbled across the field in a blur. Clark’s blows were fueled not by training, but fury. Each strike had her stumbling back.

She spat blood, her eyes lifting to her son as she realized the truth. He was stronger. Much stronger than any other Kryptonian.

“Your weakness will eventually destroy you, Kal-El,” she hisses. Without another word, she shots back into the sky to retreat to the ship.

At this point, the world is buzzing with reports on the first attack in history by an alien force. There are waves of shock and panic that ripple through the entire planet, but Clark is only focused on one thing. His head turns back to the motel before he shoots across the field and straight back to the room. Dust and debri swirled around him as he landed in the room where you were still against the wall now on the ground, your body trembling from shock.

He rasps out your name before crossing the distance in a blur. He gathers you in his arms carefully and clutches you to his chest as he holds you.

You blinked up at him, dazed and your throat aching. But when your gaze met his tears pooled in your eyes. Weakly, your arms lift to wrap around him.

“I’m so sorry, Clark,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “I didn’t mean what I said to you. I want you more than anything.”

His body trembled against yours. You felt his hand cradling the back of your head as he buried his face into your neck. His heart cracked at the sound of your apology but he only tightened his hold, his voice cracking as he murmured, “Safe with me. Always.”

As Clark continued to cradle you against him and press kisses to your head, the sky above groaned as the Kryptonian ship lowered closer to earth.

Inside, his mother staggered through the sterile doors as her chest heaved in strain.

“He will be useless to our plan,” she breathes to the rest of the council. “The boy has been poisoned by this planet. He clings to a creature of weakness. As if her heartbeat matters more than his history. He rejects what he is. Rejects us.”

A low murmur moved among the council full of disapproval.

“Perhaps one day, he will see our planet’s truth. But until then, we cannot wait. Krypton’s survival cannot rest on the delusions of one boy.”

One of the council leaders steps forward.

“Then we proceed without him.”

The council hummed with conversation as someone pulled up the map of the universe, highlighting only earth in red. Machines awakened as Kal-El’s mother swallowed.

“If he will not rule them, we will. The humans will be purged and this planet will kneel beneath us as the new Krypton.”

~

What felt like hours later, Clark sat on the bed as his back leaned against the headboard. He held you on top of him, gently stroking your back. You knew something was going to happen. At any moment, it felt like someone or something would show up to tear the both of you apart again.

The motel shook slightly with a distant blast. You felt Clark shift under you as you both looked up. Outside, the fire of missiles from human forces attempted to attack the ship that was now sitting even closer to earth. The explosions barely flicked at all against the ship as it sat in the sky unfazed.

The ship did nothing until in one moment, a blast came from it as it took out several pieces of military equipment at once. Clark began to move under you as he shifted from underneath you.

“Clark,” you called quietly after him as you got up and attempted to grab his hand. “Don’t go. Please don’t leave me.”

His chest rose and fell before he turned to you once more. “I have to,” he says just as quiet. His head leans down until the both of your foreheads were pressed together. “For you. Always for your safety.”

Your fingers twisted into his shirt as if you could hold him here. But when his lips brushed yours, you felt the goodbye in it. He pulled back and the look in his eyes showed his choice was already made.

Then he was gone. The wind tore past you as he shot into the sky.

He hit the shield like a meteor. For one heartbeat, it held. And then, under the sheer force of his body, it shattered.

His fists tore through metal that no human weapon could do. The ship groaned as its frame buckled around him when he ripped through its armor. Kryptonian soldiers rushed toward him, but he was so overtaken by rage they were no match from what they were up against. Their blows barely staggered him. His fists sent them flying. His heat vision carved through walls and engines.

Eventually, he got to the deepest part of the ships wiring. The hum pulsed against his bones as the core of the ship buzzed with power.

He bared his teeth, muscles straining before plunging both of his hands into the motor.

It burned. Kryptonian energy seared through his veins trying to tear him apart. But Clark only gritted his teeth, his muscles straining as he pulled. Metal screamed. The motor split under his grip as light spilled out in violent pulses. The ship sounded with alarms wailing. Soldiers scrambled, but it was already too late.

Clark ripped the core free with a final, guttural roar and the entire ship began to collapse.

From the ground, you saw it happen. A couple miles away the ship crashed into the ground with a large explosion. It was unlike anything anyone had ever experienced before. Both soldiers and civilians stared at the scene in both awe and terror.

Clark had managed to escape the ship before it even crashed. Thankfully, he was the only to survive. People watched in silence as he exited the cloud of smoke and debris. Then, he disappeared through the sky as he flew himself right back to you.

He landed a few feet in front of you as your lips parted, trying to find the words to even say. He was worn, battered, and scorched. His legs stumbled slightly until you both embraced each other right in front of the motel.

Tears blurred your vision once more as you shut your eyes and let yourself sink into his chest. He held you tightly as he stroked your back.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity as his grip around you never faltered.

“I love you, Clark,” you tell him quietly.

His breath catches as he hears your words. No one had ever told him they loved him before.

“I love you. More than anything.”

You let out a breath as you open your eyes. In the parking lot, you see the familiar face of Martha. Her and Jonathan had just arrived as they stand outside their car in awe, seeing Clark after so long.

You shift in his arms slightly as you look up at him.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” you tell him softly, a small smile curving against your lips.

You take his hand and guide him gently over to them. They are both frozen in shock as they don’t know what to do. Martha suddenly steps forward, wrapping her arms around him as she lets out a small cry.

Clark only hesitates for a moment before his arms encircle her too. Jonathan does the same as his eyes fill with tears.

Epilogue

The world owed its survival to him. Though the details were carefully kept behind government doors, it didn’t take long for stories to spread from people who were there. About a man who had torn a ship from the sky with nothing but his own body.

For once, the government didn’t seek to contain him. They reached agreements instead. Papers were signed and information was locked away, promising that his real name never be revealed. He would be able to live amongst humans freely.

Instead, the world came up with a new name for the man who saved them. Superman.

In the year that followed, he became what the planet needed. He was a guardian, dressed in blue and red, soaring into disasters. He pulled survivors from wreckages and disarmed threats before they spiraled into something bigger. But when the cape came off, he slipped back into the quiet life he had chosen.

You had built that life with him. After everything settled, you were offered a position at NASA in Kansas. Much of the word was fairly stale, just countless of hours of data and small discoveries. But at the end of each day, you had something far greater to come home to. To him. To the small house you shared that was right down the road from the Kent farm. Martha and Jonathan had continued to build a bond with Clark, who found it easy to feel comfortable around them.

Clark had taken to writing. It surprised you at first the way his large hands could be so careful over a keyboard but he loved it. He filled page after page, not with reports, but romance. That also surprised you, but it was so him at the same time. He had even finished one long piece. Something a publisher had agreed to release.

One night after spending the day in another country pulling survivors from an earthquake’s rubble, he landed softly at home, cape still swaying behind him. When he stepped into the kitchen, he found a large package on the table. It had already been opened. Inside sat stacks of freshly printed books. Dozens of them. One was missing. He continued into the house to find a lamp on in the living room.

You were curled on the couch with the missing book open in your hands. On the cover read the title E.T. by Clark Kent.

It was the familiar story of a human and alien that had fallen in love. Obviously leaving out many self identifying parts, it told the story of how it all happened. It was your story, hidden in fiction, his love for you written into every line.

You glance up at him with a smile tugging at your lips. “Hey,” you say softly.

He crosses the room with the same smile on his face before sinking down onto the couch next to you. His arm snakes around you as you are pulled into his lap, your side pressing to his front.

“Hey,” he replies, pressing a kiss to your temple before glancing down to the book now on your legs.

“I don’t know if I like how harsh this girl is with his feelings,” you tease, resting the side of your head on his chest. “She told him she didn’t want to go with him.”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest as he leaned down and pressed a kiss against your lips. When he pulled back, there was amusement mixed with adoration in his eyes.

“Oh,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Is that not how it happened?”

“Not exactly,” you laugh, smiling at him before he presses another kiss to your lips.

Eventually, you fall asleep against him as Clark stays awake. His lips rest against your head as he listens to the sound of your heart, which is still the best in the world to him. He eventually picks up one of your hands, intertwining your fingers as he looks down at them. He smiles faintly, pulling you a little tighter against him as he holds his whole world.

notes: Oh don’t mind me I’m just in the corner crying :,) I’m sorry this took so long, it was so HARD to write. I still feel like the fight/battle part is so awkward. But seriously, thank you so much for reading this whole thing. Like I’ve said before I’ve literally imagined this type of storyline for years and years so it was so fun to write. Love you so much!!

© aliendickrocks 2025

“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”

“Well, aren't you smart?”

“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”

Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”

Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”

“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”

Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”

“So there’s this girl—”

“Here we go again.”

“—which is totally your type.”

“You said that last time.”

“But this time I mean it.”

“You said that the time before last time.”

“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”

“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”

Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.

Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.

Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”

Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”

“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”

That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.

It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.

They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.

“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”

In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”

If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.

As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”

Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”

Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”

That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.

In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.

The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:

Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.

Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.

Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.

Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.

Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.

Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.

Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.

Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.

The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?

Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I can always create you a Hinge account—”

“We’re definitely not doing that.”

Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”

Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”

Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”

Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”

“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”

A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”

“Well—”

“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”

Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”

“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”

“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.

Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.

“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”

“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.

Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”

“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.

Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”

Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.

Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.

While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.

You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.

Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—

“Clark?”

His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Golly.

He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.

You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”

Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.

Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.

“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”

Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”

He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”

“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.

A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?

Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.

“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”

“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”

“You’re right. They look good together.”

“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”

“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”

His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”

“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”

“I’m no better. Want proof?”

“Go on.”

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

You lift your brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”

“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.

“And lie to you? Never.”

“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”

“… Which is?”

“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”

You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.

Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”

He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”

At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.

Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”

“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.

“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”

His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”

“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”

That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”

You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”

His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”

You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”

“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”

“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”

In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?

“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”

There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.

It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.

You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”

He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.

But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?

Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.

Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.

He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”

His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”

“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.

“I manage just fine.”

“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”

Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.

His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”

While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:

You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.

He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.

As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.

When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.

The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.

“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”

His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”

A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.

He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.

“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.

The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”

“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”

You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.

You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.

God, he’s already in so deep.

You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”

You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.

He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.

Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”

You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”

Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.

“I need all the details!”

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”

Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”

Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.

“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”

“I will not be silenced.”

“You’re gross.”

“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.

Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”

“Did you kiss?”

“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.

“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”

A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”

“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.

He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”

Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.

“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”

Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.

“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”

“In my defense, she did it first.”

“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”

Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.

He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.

Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”

Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:

I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.

Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”

He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”

Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.

Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?

The typing dots appear right after.

You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?

Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.

You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.

Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.

You: Your eyes do work wonders.

Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.

You: But is your memory always this good?

Clark: Only on important occasions.

Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.

Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.

He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.

He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.

It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?

As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.

I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.

Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.

You’re kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.

All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.

The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.

You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.

“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.

“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”

“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”

He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.

“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”

It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.

About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.

The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.

Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.

Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.

He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.

What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.

His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.

He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.

From then on, it all happens in slow motion.

Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.

The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.

Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.

There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.

And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.

Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.

The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.

All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.

He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.

In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.

Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.

He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.

His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.

Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.

Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.

He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.

From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”

Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.

“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”

“Well, I most certainly am.”

“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”

On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”

His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.

Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”

Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”

“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”

“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”

Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”

Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”

After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.

But then—

“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”

“You mean Jimmy told you.”

Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”

Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”

You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.

Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.

“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”

“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”

That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”

“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”

Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.

He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?

“What—I don’t—You’re here?”

“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”

Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”

“I was getting something for myself as well.”

“But—”

You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”

That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”

Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”

You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.

“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”

You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”

Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—

“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.

“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”

He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.

You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.

You: Hello?

You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.

You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?

You: I’m trusting my instinct.

All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.

There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.

Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.

Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.

“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”

You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”

“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”

Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.

How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?

That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.

A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.

Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.

The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.

His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.

“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.

Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.

Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.

He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”

For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.

Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.

“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”

This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.

Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.

He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.

But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.

At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.

He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.

That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.

His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”

“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Are you nervous?”

He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”

“You’re finally getting laid!”

Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”

“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, do the math, dude!”

“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”

“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”

“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”

The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.

His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.

He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.

Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.

Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.

When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.

His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.

“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.

You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.

His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.

“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.

You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”

“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.

You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”

Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.

“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.

“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.

Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”

“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.

You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”

Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”

“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”

Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?

“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”

You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”

“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”

Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”

“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”

You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”

Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”

You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”

His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not roasting you for free!”

“I’m literally asking you to!”

“Clark—”

“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.

Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”

He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.

Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”

You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.

“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”

He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.

“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.

It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.

You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.

You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.

His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.

“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”

This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?

He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.

Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.

“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”

He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”

“You mean the library scene?”

“Yeah.”

“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”

“I had no idea there was a movie.”

“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”

There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.

Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.

“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.

His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.

Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.

As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.

Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.

Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.

He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.

The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.

His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.

He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.

He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.

The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—

Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.

His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”

Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”

“What if it’s important?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“But what if it is?”

Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.

Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.

In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.

You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”

Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.

He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”

“Clark, it’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”

“I actually feel flattered.”

Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.

Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”

“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”

“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”

That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.

There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”

“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”

“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”

He snorts. “Gosh, no.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Trust me, it isn’t.”

“You could want to explore other connections.”

“Are we on Love Island?”

“You get what I’m trying to say.”

In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”

What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.

The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.

You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.

You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.

You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(

Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.

Clark: At least let me cook for you.

You: Nooooooo!!!

You: I don’t want you to get sick.

He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.

Clark: I won’t stay for too long.

Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.

That should be enough to soften you.

You: Alright…

When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.

The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.

Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.

“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”

Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”

You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”

“Turns out I’m the exception.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.

“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.

Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.

Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.

“You never take them off?”

“Take what off?”

You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”

Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”

“Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”

“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”

“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”

Another minute passes without you uttering a word.

But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”

“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”

Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”

He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”

“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”

“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”

“Want to call it a day?”

“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”

Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.

By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.

Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.

“Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”

He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?

“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”

Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”

His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”

He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”

You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.

“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.

He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

His first loss shouldn’t look like this.

As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.

All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.

Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.

He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.

The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.

All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.

Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.

“Is he dead?”

“He can’t die, you dummy.”

“My dad said he could beat him up.”

A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”

Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.

It’s a school uniform.

He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.

“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”

Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.

“But Miss—”

“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”

Oh, God. It’s definitely you.

He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.

From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.

The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…

“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”

When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.

The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.

The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.

Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.

“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”

Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.

The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.

Another ordinary day in Metropolis.

He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.

He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.

“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”

“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.

“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”

That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”

“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”

If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”

You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”

It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.

He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.

When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.

You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?

Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.

“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.

Right. The party.

Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”

The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.

The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”

Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”

“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”

Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”

She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.

For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.

He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.

Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”

It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.

Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.

But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.

Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.

The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.

When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.

And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.

It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.

At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”

Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”

He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.

The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—

But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.

Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.

“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.

With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.

He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.

He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.

He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”

“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”

He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—

Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.

Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”

Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”

Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”

“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.

He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”

Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”

“I’m not—”

“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.

You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”

“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.

“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”

Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.

Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”

“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”

“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”

“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.

“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”

A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.

At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”

Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”

“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”

“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”

“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”

As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”

Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.

The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”

You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”

“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”

10…

“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”

9…

He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”

8…

He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.

7…

You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”

6…

“—over Superman?”

5…

“Clark, will you please look at me?”

4…

He does, but stays silent.

3…

“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”

2…

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”

1…

The look on your face is beyond devastating.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!

The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.

When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.

Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.

Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”

“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”

Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.

“Wait!” he shouts.

You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.

“Let me walk you.”

It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.

You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”

“Please, let me.”

“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”

He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”

You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.

When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.

A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.

The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.

“What was that back in the bar?”

The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.

Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.

“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”

In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.

But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”

Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.

“Even still, you won’t look at me.”

He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.

You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”

There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”

A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. I asked him.”

“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”

“What are you implying?”

“Does he pay you for the interviews?”

The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”

“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”

“He’s not a bad person.”

“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”

“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”

“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”

“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.

You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.

“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?

You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”

It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?

His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.

“Holy fuck.”

It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.

You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.

“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”

“Please, don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”

“I know.”

“I’m not drunk,” you insist.

“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.

Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”

He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”

You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”

“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”

Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.

He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”

“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”

“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”

“Clark, I swear—”

“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.

“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”

His voice softens, almost breaking.

“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”

He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.

“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”

“I don’t want that.”

Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”

“I said I don’t want you to go.”

He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”

You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”

“I seriously don’t understand—“

“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”

“Even after all this?”

“I guess I’m really stubborn.”

“So… you don’t want me to go?”

“No.”

“You don’t hate me?”

You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”

“You don’t hate… Superman?”

“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”

Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.

“You know what I would hate?”

“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.

“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”

He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”

“Please, tell me.”

“You’re gonna make fun of me.”

You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”

For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.

“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”

You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”

He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”

“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”

“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”

“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”

“Sort of.”

“Is not touching me one of them?”

“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.

“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”

Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”

“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”

“How interesting.”

His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”

Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”

A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”

“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”

Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.

And suddenly, he has a goal.

This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.

Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.

It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.

Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.

RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.

Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.

The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.

He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.

But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”

Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”

You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.

Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.

No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.

His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”

Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.

He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.

One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.

His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”

You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.

You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.

“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.

He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.

“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”

He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.

You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”

Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.

“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”

He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.

When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”

He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.

So instead, he drops to his knees.

Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.

He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”

You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.

“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”

Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.

“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.

“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”

Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.

As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.

With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.

He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.

You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.

He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.

Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.

“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”

His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.

Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”

“Yeah? Who is it?”

The answer is simple. “You.”

You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”

He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just… say it however it comes.”

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”

You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”

“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”

You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”

He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.

“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”

Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.

The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.

You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”

Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.

“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”

“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”

His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.

As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.

The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.

His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.

That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.

And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—

The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.

Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.

For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.

Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.

He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.

At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.

Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—

“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”

“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.

“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”

He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”

“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”

He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.

Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.

The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.

“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”

With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.

Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.

“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”

He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”

His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.

You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.

“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”

“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”

And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.

His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.

Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.

He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.

Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”

“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”

You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.

But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.

After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”

“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”

He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.

You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”

No answer. Just pure silence.

You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”

He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.

“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”

He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.

You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.

“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”

This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.

He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.

His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”

His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.

“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.

“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”

Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.

The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.

“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.

“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”

You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.

He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.

To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.

Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.

Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.

Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”

“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”

You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.

You’re writing the same letters, over and over.

I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.

“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”

“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”

He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”

“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”

“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”

The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.

Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.

What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.

Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.

Metropolis seemed to be the place that never slept. Even after midnight, neon lights continued to flicker, traffic hummed along many streets, and sounds of people laughing spilled from the bars and restaurants that were littered on every corner. You were used to it by now after your first semester at Metropolis University. The energy was overwhelming at times, but it beat the staleness of your small hometown.

That night wasn’t much different. You were walking back to your dorm after a night out with your friends. Your heels clicked against the pavement as the hem of your skirt needed to be pulled down every once in a while. The city was always a little brighter after a few drinks as your ears still pounded slightly from the loud music of the club.

Passing a random alleyway, you caught him in the corner of your eye. You slowed slightly as at first you thought it was just a shadow of a man slouched against the brick. When the light caught him, your breath caught in your throat. The cape was unmistakable. Superman.

You had only ever seen him from a distance. A few times flying over some skyscrapers, and the rest of the time just through shaky news footage on your phone or tv. Never like this, where you were close enough to be able to count the bruises across his jaw or hear the strained sound of his breathing. His large frame was pressed against the wall, fingers curling into the brick as if he was steadying himself. His head was bowed, mumbling words under his breath that were too low for you to even make sense of.

Any other time, you were the type to mind your own business and keep walking. Maybe you could blame your curiosity on the alcohol. Before you knew it, you had taken a few steps into the alley.

“Are you okay?” The sound of your voice causes him to freeze. He hadn’t even heard your footsteps as he was so lost in the fog of exhaustion and thoughts. Slowly, he lifted his head.

Blue eyes found yours. They were sharp and piercing, but they held the same amount of startle as yours now did.

“I-“ his voice cracked before he steadied it. He straightened, standing at his full height now as his cape rustled before falling back into place. “Yes. I’m fine.”

His voice returned to the same deep tone he always carried as Superman. You blinked, realizing you were just staring as you nod. “Okay.”

You kept it pretty simple as you turn to continue on your way. Something flicked inside him at the way you had accepted his answer so easily. It was a mix between amusement and disappointment that you were walking away so quickly.

Your beauty had stunned him, but of course he’d never admit that to a random woman in a dark alleyway. It wasn’t like he was trying to creep you out. But he also couldn’t stop the way his steps followed after you.

“You’re walking alone?” He calls after you.

You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes catching his and offered a small, friendly grin. “Yeah. I live a few blocks away.”

He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll walk with you.”

Before you could even let the argument slip past your lips, his long strides fell into place beside yours. The cape trailed just enough to brush the air behind him as he towered over you. The few pedestrians out at this hour slowed, stared, whispered. You knew it probably looked odd.

You bit back a laugh as your face felt hot. “This is embarrassing.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and your eyes widened as you winced slightly. “I mean- sorry. That sounded rude. I didn’t mean it like that.”

His lips curved slightly into a faintly bashful smile that softened his entire face. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

It is quiet between the two of you as you cross the next street before you speak. “So you talk to yourself?” Your eyes glance up to him.

His brow furrows slightly as his eyes meet yours. “What?”

“In the alley,” you clarify, grinning slightly. “You were mumbling. It kind of sounded like a conversation, but you were the only one there.”

Color crept faintly into his cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze darted away for a moment. “…I do that sometimes.”

You laughed softly. “I do too.”

You made him feel so out of his element already, which worried him. Just the sound of your voice caused his heartbeat to increase.

You sigh as you slow down to pause in front of the building. “Well, this is me. Thank you for walking me home.”

He looks down at you with a small smile on his lips. “Don’t thank me. I wanted to. Goodnight,” he pauses after the last word, lifting his gaze slightly as if he wanted your name. You tell him and his chest flutters at knowing something else about you. He repeats it, telling you to have a good night once again.

That was how it started.

You didn’t know what urged you to stop that night. But from then on, Tuesday nights became yours. Superman would land on the roof of your dorm, the gust of wind announcing his arrival, and you’d already be waiting. Sometimes with takeout, sometimes with homework sprawled around you, sometimes with just tons to yap about. The most confusing part was you weren’t sure what this was. A friendship, sure, but you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t look forward to those nights a little too much.

He felt the same way. He wanted nothing more than to see you more often, show you who he truly was, even ask you on a date. There were several times where he wanted to plan an “accidental” run in as Clark. But he was terrified you wouldn’t give him the time of day as someone so dorky and awkward. So the late night hang outs continued. You didn’t ask who he truly was, and he didn’t bring it up either.

You were sitting on the roof of your dorm building, back pressed against the brick wall as two containers of chow mein sat next to you. You had a textbook opened into your lap, the cool breeze of the night brushing past your legs that weren’t covered at all in your pajama shorts. Your teeth held one of your hoodie strings between them out of habit.

The familiar rush of wind came shortly after as you didn’t even have to look over to know he was here. His landing was always quiet but never subtle.

“Hey Supes,” you tease, turning the page. “I got you some Chinese in case you’re hungry.”

When you did finally glance over, your lips curve in a half smile. Because there you were with your takeout, and there he was standing a few feet away holding his own bag of food like a person arriving late to a gathering.

“I did the same for you,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth curving in a sheepish smile.

“Oh, we’re trying to out-nice eachother now?” You grin, watching as he settles about a foot away from you. For a moment it almost feels unreal as it did in the beginning. Superman, a world known figure, sitting criss cross near you with takeout between the two of you.

“We might have to start setting up dates for who brings what,” he responds.

You reach over to look through the bag that he brought as you begin to speak again. “So you remember that paper you helped me write last week?” You ask, pulling open the container to find falafel. You tap your finger with your thumb as you make an excited face since it was one of your favorites.

He grins, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he had no idea what you were doing. He would have to add that into his phone notes of the various gestures and phrases you used so he could look them up later. You made him feel so out of touch but he loved every second of it.

“The one where your contribution was typing your name at the top?” He asks, and your eyes flicker to his face as you can’t hold back a grin. He had been growing more comfortable with teasing you as time passed.

“Yeah, if that’s how you want to remember it,” you laugh lightly. “Anyway, I got 100 on it. Like, my professor had no corrections at all and said it was the best thing he’s read all semester. How are you so good at writing?”

He ducked his head slightly, trying to disguise the flush creeping up his neck. “Oh, you know… I’m just good with words, I guess,” he replies, hoping you wouldn’t notice how nervous he was around you again. “Lots of practice.”

Your nod as your eyes narrow slightly, taking a bite of food. You would have to circle back to his last comment later.

He glances down at the textbook in your lap as he tries to change the subject. “Economics, huh? That’s some pretty heavy stuff.”

You sigh as you glance back to the book. “Yeah. I have a test tomorrow.” You pause for a moment before speaking again. “When you say you have lots of practice, does that mean through your job? Like your day job I mean?” You ask simply, going back to what he said. You were always trying to subtly pull information out of him in hopes you could find out who he really was without him telling you. It was like a game. “Maybe you went to school for it?”

His lips parted like he’d been caught in the middle of something. For a split second, his eyes flickered away before he leaned back against the brick wall with you.

“My day job,” he repeated. He adjusted the carton in his hands like it demanded his full attention. “Yeah, something like that.”

You tilted your head, chewing thoughtfully as your eyes stayed locked on him. “So you do have one.”

That nervous little smile tugged at his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not really,” you smile. “I mean, Superman doesn’t exactly strike me as the clock in, clock out type.”

He chuckled under his breath and you felt a small thrill that maybe you’d managed to crack his composure. “Maybe I like blending in,” he offered.

“So it has something to do with writing,” you continue, watching as he takes a bite.

He swallows before giving you a look, but the slight smile is still there. “You ask a lot of questions. I really don’t even have the chance to get to know you.”

You grin, shaking your head as you continue to eat. “You know me. You know my name and where I live. That basically means you know me more than a lot of people.”

He sighs and shakes his head with a grin, and he swears he is about to open his mouth to tell you his real name before you keep talking.

“But fine. I’ll ask easier questions for now. Do you have a girlfriend?”

His heart thuds in his chest for a different reason as he meets your gaze again, pausing. “No. No girlfriend.”

His response amuses you for a second as you laugh. “Uh oh. There was a pause. I’ll rephrase, does your secret identity have a girlfriend?”

That makes him laugh this time as he shakes his head.

“No, no parts of me have a girlfriend. I promise.”

You smile as you pick up the other container, still amused. “Boyfriend? You know there’s talk on the internet that you and Batman might have something going on,” you tease.

That did it. His head dropped instantly as another laugh escaped him, covering his face with his hand. “Oh my gosh,” he mutters, his shoulders shaking slightly in amusement. “You are… what is that word you called me last week?”

You smirk widely. You always loved the way his voice got higher when he couldn’t stop laughing. “Insufferable?”

“You are insufferable,” his grins, his laughter dying down as he looks up at you again. “But no. I only spend time with one person that I look at in more than a platonic way.”

Your grin falters for a second and your lips part as you blink at him. “Oh yeah?” you say softly, your tone playful but your pulse quickening. “And who’s that?”

His gaze lingers on you, unflinching, until the air between you feels heavy. “You already know,” he says softly.

You feel your breath catch, your heart clenching in your chest. Before you can even think of a clever reply, he leans in. His lips find yours gently, testing at first, but the warmth of his lips rushes through you so fast your head spins.

You almost forget to breathe at how unreal this feels. Your hands gently find his shoulders as you kiss him back. He pulls back just enough for you to see the faint flush over his cheeks before his voice rumbles against your lips.

“My name is Clark Kent,” he admits, and before you can even react his lips are on yours again.

“I work at the Daily Planet,” he murmurs between another kiss, his mouth curving into a smile before pressing them against yours again.

You try to laugh against his lips, giddy with amusement and disbelief before he is pulling away again. “Clark?”

But you are cut off as he kisses your jaw. “I live at 344 Clinton street,” he returns to your lips as pecks them again. “Apartment 3D.”

You can barely breathe, partly from laughing but also the way this large man you had been falling for over the last few weeks was kissing you so intensely. Your hands have now found his nape as your fingers glide into his hair.

He pulls away once more to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You’re insane,” you giggle.

“My phone number is 555-5185,” another kiss. “And I wear glasses.”

By the time he pulls back properly, you’re breathless with laughter and your lips tingle. He’s smiling, but rests his forehead against yours as he nuzzles your face.

“Seriously, anything you want to know about me, I’ll tell you. Anything,” he says softly as his large hand holds your face gently.

“You’re not real,” you whisper with a small smile.

“Neither are you,” he counters, brushing his thumb over your cheek before stealing another kiss.

Glasses he didn't need, unbeknownst to you for the first couple months of your friendship.

They rested heavy in your pocket, where they always did since the night of the gala. You'd meant to give them back immediately after and perhaps use them as some sort of conversation starter.

But then he showed up with replacements and the words died on your tongue. Somewhere along the line you stopped trying.

You felt them in the back pocket of your worn denim. Maybe they were a lucky charm now.

Regardless, this pair of thick framed glasses was all you had left of Clark. And you knew in your heart you would never get rid of it.

Around you, the apartment was in various stages of undoing. Knickknacks you’d picked up across the city sat in small piles, waiting to be boxed or abandoned. You had forgotten how tedious packing was—yet it felt like you had just been here unwrapping it all, full of energy, ready to make a home in Metropolis.

Lois abandoned the 'Jimmy' box and crossed the room to the corner where a heap of freshly laundered clothes sat in a chair. She crouched down, already rifling through with zero hesitation.

“Alright,” she said, holding up one of your sweaters. “Which of these are you keeping, and which ones are you donating to the Lois Lane Permanently Borrowed Closet Foundation?”

You snorted. “Go crazy, you shopaholic. Just don’t take the flannel—that one’s mine.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at you, already piling your shirts into her arms. “You’re very generous in your time of need. Consider this my parting gift.”

Her antics drew a laugh out of you, soft but real. It was the least you could do after everything she’d done these past few weeks.

Lois hadn’t left your side since the accident—whether staying over at your place or insisting you crash at hers. Too accident-prone, she’d teased, but you knew it was her way of not letting you spiral.

Now, a month later, the final pieces of your Metropolis life were being taped into boxes. You’d ended your lease, called your parents to tell them you were moving back into your childhood bedroom, booked movers to haul the big stuff across state lines. All that was left was this: sifting through what parts of your life you’d carry and what you’d leave behind.

And Lois was there through every second, talking a mile a minute, never letting the silence grow heavy.

The TV murmured in the background, news anchors droning over footage of Superman bracing himself under the weight of a collapsing bridge. The crowd’s cheers echoed through the speakers as the bridge steadied, lives spared.

You reached for the remote and muted it. The sudden hush pressed against your ears, too loud. You tried to keep your hands busy, shoving another pile of clothes into a box, tugging tape over the cardboard flaps.

With the same determination you used to force overstuffed boxes shut with tape, you tried to convince yourself you were making the right decision.

You looked back up. Clark's shiny grin and unforgettable blue eyes made you doubt.

When you looked down from the television, you saw the packing tape already peeling up at the edges.

---

Clark’s apartment was dark when he finally stepped inside, the faint smell of smoke still clinging to him.

His suit lay crumpled in the corner where he’d stripped it off, singed at the shoulders, soot staining the deep blue until it looked nearly black. His neck throbbed where the beam had landed on him. It was an ache he knew would fade eventually, but it anchored him in the memory of the fire. The weight pressing down, the sickening crack as the ceiling gave way, the fear in your half-lidded eyes.

The pain was nothing if it meant saving you.

He sat down heavily at his desk, pulling Cat’s chicken-scratch notes toward him.

Perry had tossed him the “Metropolis’s Most Eligible” article as remedial work, he had called it. Normally, Clark would’ve laughed. Now, he just stared at the words until they blurred.

Every note, every half-legible scribble dissolved into smoke and flame. Into your face. Into the sound of your voice calling for him—not Superman, not anyone else.

Him.

He rubbed at his temples, trying to force himself into focus. But the truth pressed in, suffocating. He could save you from a burning building, carry you through falling debris, put his own body between you and the fire. But he couldn’t save you from himself, from Clark Kent. His broken promises, his clumsy attempts at distance, the lies stacked so high between you that they’d finally caved in.

He shoved the notes aside, dragging a hand down his face. His apartment felt wrong tonight. Too cold. Too empty. Too dark.

It didn’t smell like coffee grounds or the faint sweetness of your perfume. There weren’t stacks of photographs lying around, or antique lamps casting warm golden light across the walls. He missed that. He missed you.

Ideas tumbled through his head. He ran through ways to fix this, to explain, to somehow undo the hurt. He could tell you the truth, all of it. He could write you a letter. He could show up at your door and beg you not to give up on him. But each thought unraveled before it formed, collapsing under the weight of what he didn't know to say.

His phone sat on the desk, screen black. He stared at it for a long time before reaching out, thumb hovering just above the power button.

He could call.

He could hear your voice. He could explain why Superman had acted like you were a stranger to you—why he had to, why it broke him to do it. He tell you that every word left unsaid was killing him more than the fire ever could.

His chest tightened. He picked the phone up. Turned it over in his hand once. Twice.

Then he set it back down.

Because what could he say that wouldn’t only make it worse?

He could still see you in the hospital bed, pale and unconscious, Lois’s hand tight on yours.

Lois said he should stay, wait until you woke up. Maybe she was right. But as he stood under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room and stared at the bruise forming on your cheekbone and the soot buried into your hair, he couldn't help but feel like this was all his fault.

Clark leaned back in his chair, eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling. His hands flexed uselessly against his knees. The silence of the apartment closed in around him.

For the first time in years, he felt powerless.

---

The weather in Metropolis raged on, sleet cutting sideways through the streets, but the city had done its best to soften the edges.

Overnight, Christmas decorations had sprung up like defiance. Wreaths hung from lamp posts, string lights wound around railings, and even the Planet’s office hadn’t been spared—tiny Christmas trees appeared on desks, a menorah sat proudly at reception, and someone had gone so far as to tape paper snowflakes to the copy room door.

By the generosity of the building staff, single-serve cocoa packets now sat beside the break room’s perpetually burnt coffee, as though sugar could cover bitterness.

To say the least, you didn’t feel festive.

Your own apartment stood as proof. No twinkle lights, no scented candles, not even the sad little string of bulbs Lois swore she was going to force on you.

The place had been stripped bare. Aside from your couch, TV, and bed, there wasn’t much left. The walls felt naked without your photos. Books, keepsakes, and every piece of your life here had been carefully packed away, sealed into boxes that sat stacked in the hallway like silent witnesses. Your fridge was a joke—half-empty cartons of takeout and a box of donuts Lois had left behind when she refused to let you skip breakfast.

The unmistakable signs of departure. Or, as Lois liked to call it: “abandon ship.”

She'd always had more perseverance and grit than you did. You weren't ashamed to admit it.

You were ashamed, however, to admit that the reason you were leaving Metropolis was because you were haunted by Superman's cocky grin, Clark Kent's watchful eye, and your inability to fall out of love.

How were you supposed to put that in a letter of resignation?

The simple answer: you don't.

You make a phony excuse of your mother being sick so, despite having the most major career success in the nine short months you'd worked at the Planet, you would be quitting. Under total secrecy and discretion.

You'd made that part clear to Perry when he called you into his office to confirm the validity of your letter.

"L/n,"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, sir."

You shrank under his stare. His eyes flicked from your face to the neatly printed words on the page and back again, like he was waiting for you to crack and admit you’d made a mistake.

Perry let out a long, disappointed breath. “I can transfer you. Different department, different floor. Say the word and—"

“It’s done,” you said quietly, staring at your hands. “Lois already tried to change my mind.”

That got a short, rough laugh out of him. “Well, hell. If she couldn’t do it, no one can.”

“I’m afraid not,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips before it slipped away just as quickly.

He studied you, hard. Like if he pressed long enough, he could pin down why his best photographer in years was walking out the door.

Like he already knew the answer.

You looked away, out the window where the setting sun spilled orange light over Metropolis. Too much light for the weight in your chest.

Perry leaned back in his chair, rolling his unlit cigar between his fingers. “You’re not telling him, are you?”

Your eyes snapped back to him. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Clark doesn’t know,” you said at last, your voice flat. “And I’d prefer it stayed that way.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d already figured as much. Then, after a beat, his voice softened. “You ever want to come back, the Planet’s door is open. Always.”

You swallowed hard, nodding in return. “Thank you, sir.”

You stood, unpinned your badge from your blazer, and set it gently on his desk. It looked strange there—out of place. It didn't belong to you anymore.

Without another word, you turned and walked out of his office. The sound of the newsroom hummed around you, typewriters clacking, phones ringing, colleagues moving fast with deadlines to meet. For nine months, this had been your world.

Now, you were leaving it behind.

---

You ducked out of work as quickly as you could, slipping your bag over your shoulder before the storm outside grew truly unbearable. Most of the newsroom had already cleared out. It made sneaking away easier. You packed the last of your things into your briefcase, thankful Clark was busy elsewhere.

You didn’t trust yourself to face him.

Outside, the rain had turned the streets frantic. You hailed a cab, heart pounding as you hugged your arms closer to your chest. You fitfully tried to ignore the cold rain splashing your face, even under the awning.

One more night. Just one more night, and by morning you’d be gone.

It felt cruel—an Irish goodbye. But if Clark could string you along with half-truths and gentle evasions, then maybe you were allowed this. A single act of cowardice. Protecting your fragile heart however you could.

The cab slowed to the curb. You reached for the door handle—

And froze.

“Y/n!”

Your stomach dropped at the sound of his voice.

Clark jogged up, rain soaking through his shirt, his tie loose around his neck. His glasses had fogged, but his eyes shone clear behind them, wide with a kind of hopeful panic.

“I could walk you home if you’d like,” he offered breathlessly. “Save you the cab fare?”

You stepped back onto the sidewalk, forcing a weak smile.

Sweet Clark. Always trying. Always too late. What you would give to turn back the clock—for both of you.

You wanted to, but couldn't accept the offer. You knew if he walked you home, you'd invite him inside. And if you invited him inside, he’d see the packed suitcases, the missing furniture, the pieces of your life dismantled and ready to vanish.

You couldn’t bear to see the hurt on his face when he realized.

“Uh, I wish. Thank you though. I have… something. Across town.”

Something. A half-lie. Your turn to withhold.

Clark’s smile flickered, dimples breaking through even as the sting reached his eyes.

“Right. Well…” He shifted, fumbling for steady ground. “Perry asked me to pick a photographer for that ‘Most Eligible’ piece I’m doing... Stupid, I know. Anyways, I- well, I was gonna ask Jimmy if you didn’t want to, but he’s been helping Lois with her school system thing and—”

You folded your arms, trying to shield yourself from the longing in his tone. “So Jimmy was the first choice?”

“No! I just—” Clark cut himself off, staring at the ground.

The rain dripped from his hair onto his glasses, running in streaks.

You stood three feet apart, but it felt like an ocean had opened between you, impossible to cross.

“I told you I’m more articulate in writing,” he muttered, a helpless laugh slipping out.

Your eyes softened.

“I remember.”

Your voice went quiet without you meaning to, memories tugging at you. That night he’d walked you home, his words fumbling but so sweet, you’d thought your heart might float right out of your chest.

His lips parted, his breath catching. “I remember that night you—”

The cab driver cleared his throat pointedly, turning on the meter. The sound snapped the moment in half.

Clark looked back at you, eyes pleading. “So? Be my photographer again? Perry used to call us the ‘dream team.’”

Your throat tightened. Just months ago you wouldn’t have even needed the invitation. You would’ve said yes before he finished the question.

But not now. Not when tomorrow morning you’d be gone.

You bit down hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I can’t. I’m gonna be—” You stopped yourself. No. You didn’t owe him this, not when he’d kept so much from you. Maybe you deserved one secret of your own. “I just can’t. I’m sorry, Clark.”

Before he could say anything else, you slipped into the cab and pulled the door shut.

Clark’s reflection blurred in the rain-streaked window, standing helpless in the downpour as the cab pulled away. His hand twitched like he might reach out, like he might stop you, but in the end he stayed rooted to the curb, watching as the taillights disappeared down the slick black street.

And you didn’t look back.

Clark stood frozen on the curb long after the cab was gone, rain dripping down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead.

He told himself it was only water on his cheeks, but even he wasn’t that good at lying.

---

Clark sat slumped in the corner seat of the subway car, his soaked shirt clinging uncomfortably to his chest, his glasses fogged from the rain.

The article due at midnight weighed on him like a physical burden—an anchor dragging him deeper into exhaustion.

He rubbed at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Midnight wasn’t far away, and he had nothing. His only draft still blank.

His whole life felt blank lately.

The screen of his phone lit up, buzzing faintly against his thigh. His mother’s name glowed across it. He answered, trying to straighten his voice.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Clark!” Martha Kent’s warmth carried through the receiver instantly, bright and familiar. “How’s my boy? You sound tired. How’s work?”

Clark huffed a tired laugh and dragged a damp hand back through his hair. “Not well. Perry’s been on me the last month or two. Says I haven’t had any front-page material since… you know.” He trailed off, the weight of those weeks heavy between them.

“No?” Martha asked gently, her tone equal parts surprise and reassurance. “Well, I’m sure whatever you’re writin' is great. Perry’s always been a picky man.”

Clark shook his head, watching the reflection of the subway lights ripple across the window. “It’s just… nothing feels exciting, Ma. Not anymore.”

And he meant it. Since the ball, since you, every part of his life had dulled. Coffee breaks, red-ink edits, late nights in the office—none of it mattered without you at the center of it all.

You had made every ordinary thing feel remarkable.

Now, the world was flat and gray without you in it.

His articles showed it, too. His latest piece had none of the spark of his earlier work, none of the fire that had made Perry trust him with the big stories.

“Well,” Martha said after a pause, her voice lifting into that familiar note of encouragement, “not everything needs to be exciting, Clark. Sometimes the best stories are the ones that are true. Write from the heart—that’s what you do best!"

He smiled faintly, though it felt weak and cracked at the edges.

He loved her for it, loved how she always believed in him, but her faith only deepened the ache inside him.

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.

The truth was, the only thing in his heart right now was you—and that wasn’t a story Perry White could ever print.

The subway screeched as it slowed into the next station. Clark glanced up at the clock above the car doors. 6:22.

The minute caught him, sharp and taunting. It was still early enough to do something—early enough to fix things, maybe. Call you, find you, tell you the truth. But the thought of it froze him. You had made it very clear you were no longer interested in patching whatever was left between you two.

If there was anything.

Clark wondered if the love he still harbored for you was completely once sided. He had naively hoped that your feelings for him hadn't totally vanished.

However, months of civil silence had the power to undo months of quiet love. And maybe the past few months had done just that.

He closed his eyes, listening to his mother’s voice fill the hollow space inside him, trying to hold on to it like a lifeline.

---

The clock on Clark’s wall ticked steadily toward midnight, but the newsroom’s deadline didn’t care what hour it was.

His apartment was cloaked in quiet—the kind of quiet that made even the hum of his refrigerator sound loud. A mug of coffee sat cooling at his elbow, forgotten. He’d been staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop for nearly an hour, the glow of the screen painting the room in pale blue light.

On the desk beside him sat a crumpled stack of Cat Grant’s notes.

They were written in pink gel pen on the backs of cocktail napkins, sticky notes, even the edge of an old playbill. Hearts dotted the i’s, lipstick smudged the corners.

Scribbles like: “Bruce Wayne sighting?? Eligible bachelor No. 1.” Or “Is Superman single? (sigh).” Clark had skimmed them once, then shoved them aside with a humorless huff. This wasn’t his kind of writing.

Or maybe that was the point.

Perry's voice rang in his head, asking him to write like he had 'skin in the game'.

His phone call with his mother replayed in his head, clear as though she were sitting right there in his living room, knitting needles clicking while she spoke. “Maybe the reason she don't love you, Clark, is because she don't know you love her! You gotta shout it from the rooftops, son!”

For the rest of his ride home, she preached about grand gestures and holding onto the ones you love.

He’d laughed it off at the time, but now the words gnawed at him.

Shout it from the rooftops. How?

He’d been hiding in plain sight for so long, trapped between what he wanted to say and what he thought he was allowed.

The cursor blinked. Waiting.

Clark rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, leaning back into the couch.

He wasn’t Cat Grant. He wasn’t flashy or spunky or playful on the page. He was a reporter, trained to chase facts and strip away the embellishment. But facts hadn’t been enough lately. His drafts had bled red ink because they were lifeless, written without skin in the game.

And the truth was, he hadn’t been lifeless. He’d been brimming over—but with something he couldn’t print.

You.

His mind drifted. To your laugh that echoed in the back of his skull long after the sound faded. To the way your brow furrowed in concentration when you adjusted your camera lens. To the look on your face the last time you’d spoken—the hurt, the distance he had caused. He carried it like a bruise beneath his ribs.

He didn’t deserve you. Not after standing you up, not after the broken promises.

But maybe it wasn’t for him to decide.

Maybe it was for you. And you couldn’t decide a thing if you never knew the truth.

Clark leaned forward, hands hovering over the keyboard. He glanced once more at Cat’s scribbled notes.

Eligible bachelors of Metropolis.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

Fine. He’d write her column. But not the way she would’ve.

His fingers began to move, slow at first, then faster, words unfurling like they’d been waiting in him all along:

Metropolis has never been short on eligible bachelors. Cat Grant could give you a dozen names off the top of her head — billionaires with penthouses, athletes with crowds chanting their names, actors whose faces smile from every billboard in the city…

He paused, exhaled. His chest felt lighter already, as if every keystroke was bleeding out something he’d been holding in too long.

He wrote about lists, about Cat’s version of love, all shiny edges and camera flashes.

Then, gradually, eventually, his words curved inward.

But here’s the truth: I don’t belong on that list. I don’t feel eligible. Not really. Because being “eligible” implies you’re available… and that isn’t me. My heart isn’t up for auction. It’s already spoken for.

Clark’s throat tightened as he typed. He could see you in every sentence, hear you in every pause.

He wrote about the city’s noise, and the way one person could silence it.

He wrote about laughter, about light, about the small things that changed everything.

He confessed with every word without ever typing your name.

He sat back, finally, when the last line came:

She’s the reason this city feels worth writing about. She’s the headline that matters. And if she happens to read this, I hope she knows.

Clark stared at it for a long moment, the cursor blinking at the end of the sentence like a held breath.

His mother’s voice echoed again. “You gotta shout it from the rooftops, son.”

Maybe this was his rooftop.

He hit send and leaned back, exhausted, the silence in the room broken only by his own heartbeat. He could only hope Perry would actually approve of his writing this time.

For the first time in months, he felt like he’d been truly and totally honest.

As Clark lied back against his headboard with his eyes shut, his phone dinged. An email from Perry.

'Printing tomorrow. Good work."

And now it was out of his hands.

---

The Daily Planet morning looked normal, the way it looked every other morning.

Completely unfazed by Clark's love confession tucked quietly in the gossip column, between Steve's sports recaps and the weather report.

Clark rehearsed it in his head the whole way to the Planet.

He’d hand you the flowers, watch your brow furrow in confusion, maybe joke about his recent silence, in avoidance. Then—if he could manage it—he’d tell you that the article was about you. That it had always been about you.

He'd tell you he loved you.

Whether or not you accepted or loved him back or hated his guts was entirely up to you. But all you ever asked of Clark was honesty, and he would finally give it to you before it was too late.

So he thought.

Clark came bounding into the bullpen, breathless but glowing with nervous energy, clutching the bouquet and paper like it might anchor him. The newsroom buzzed with the usual clatter of phones and clacking keyboards, but something felt… different. Eyes darted toward him, too quickly. Conversations hushed, the air charged with a strange, unspoken tension.

Still, he hardly noticed—until he turned toward your desk.

Empty.

Not just empty. Cleared. Drawers shut, the surface bare. The chair pushed in neat and proper, like it had been stripped of you.

Clark blinked at it, his steps faltering. His brows knitted together, lips parting in confusion.

“What…?” He glanced around the bullpen, forcing a weak laugh. “Where’s Y/n? Did—did Perry move her?”

No one answered. Jimmy ducked his head, fiddling nervously with his camera. Cat suddenly found her nails very interesting. Even Steve, usually booming orders across the floor, shifted uncomfortably nearby.

The flowers sagged in Clark’s hand. His pulse ticked higher.

“Lois?” His voice cracked against the quiet. “Where is she?”

Lois was leaning against her desk, watching him with that steady, guarded expression she only wore when she knew something he didn’t. She set her coffee down, and Clark’s stomach twisted.

“Lois,” he tried again, more urgent this time, stepping closer. “Where is Y/n?”

Her mouth opened, closed. “Clark…”

“Tell me.”

Her eyes flicked to the bouquet, then back to him. She sighed, soft but heavy, like it pained her to say it. “She left.”

The words didn’t land at first. They just floated there, empty syllables. Clark blinked at her, confusion clouding his features. “What do you mean… left?”

“She’s moving back home,” Lois said gently.

He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head, gripping the flowers tighter. “No. No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t just leave. Not without—no, Lois, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

The bullpen was too quiet. Clark could feel every gaze on him, every ounce of pity pressing against his chest like a weight.

“When does she leave?” His voice was quieter now, frayed, desperate.

“Clark—”

“Please, Lois!” His voice cracked, sharper this time. Heads snapped up, people froze mid-keystroke, but he didn’t care. His heart was tearing itself apart.

Lois swallowed hard, then finally glanced at her watch. “It’s nine... You might—might catch her at her apartment. If she hasn’t already left for the airport yet—but Clark, wait—Clark!”

He didn’t wait. He was already gone, flowers clutched in his hand, legs pumping as he tore out of the Planet.

Hidden safely behind an alleyway, he took off flying, not bothering with the Superman suit. The speed with which he raced to your apartment building made spotting him nearly impossible anyways.

The city blurred beneath him as he cut through the streets and alleys.

By the time he hit the stairs of your building, his lungs burned, but he didn’t slow. He flew up floor after floor until he was at your door, hand shaking as it closed around the knob.

What if you were gone?

What if you were already boarding your flight?

He would follow—he knew that with bone-deep certainty. He would follow you to whatever corner of the world you ran to and tell you how he really felt. He would tell you he loved you, that he'd been in love with you since the day you met.

But then—another thought. A brutal, twisting one that hollowed him out. You left because of him. Because you didn't want to see him another day.

What if the weight of his silence, his half-truths, his cowardice made this too far gone to save?

He shoved the door open anyway, breathless.

“Y/n!”

The word cracked out of him, desperate, ricocheting off the walls of your small apartment.

But there was nothing.

No boxes.

No suitcases.

Not a scrap of proof that you’d ever lived there. Just the echo of his own ragged breathing.

Clark staggered inside, the bouquet slipping from his fingers to the floor. He leaned against the wall, head dropping into his hands as the weight of it crashed down on him.

He was too late.

Lois had been right. He had waited too long, always choosing safety over risk, fear over confession, and now you were gone.

Clark covered his eyes from under his glasses, pressing into his head as if willing time to turn back. To before you left. To before you fell out of love with him. To before he treated you like a stranger and not the woman he loved.

"Clark?”

The voice was fragile, tremulous—yet real. His head snapped up, heart leaping to his throat.

And there you were.

Stepping forward from the balcony, the sunlight haloing your hair, eyes wet with tears. You stood in loose denim jeans and an old shirt, ready to leave Metropolis.

The morning paper was clenched in your trembling hands, creased and crumpled from how tightly you held it.

The reason you hadn't left just yet.

For a moment, he just stared, vision blurring with tears of his own. “Y/n,” he breathed, your name spilling out like a prayer.

You didn’t move closer. If anything, your stance hardened, shoulders stiff as you clutched the paper like a weapon.

“Clark,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Relief crashed over him, so powerful he nearly dropped to his knees. But then you took a step back, retreating toward the balcony doors, and his heart seized.

“Did you mean it?” Your voice was fragile but firm, cutting through the silence.

He froze, blinking. “What?”

“I’m serious, Clark.” Your voice cracked in near anger, tears spilling as your knuckles whitened against the paper. “Did you mean what you wrote? Or are you just trying to make the front page again? Because I—I’m not—”

“Y/n, I—”

You shook your head, a sob breaking through. “Don’t you dare, Clark. Don’t you dare stand here and tell me words you don’t mean. Not after this. Not after everything.”

Something inside him broke. He tore the glasses off his face and crossed the distance in two strides.

“Did you—”

But before you could finish, his mouth was on yours.

Clark’s breath caught as his hands found your face, palms trembling against your skin as though he were holding something sacred. His touch was impossibly gentle, thumbs brushing your damp cheeks, tracing the salt of your tears.

He cradled you like you might break, like you were porcelain, precious beyond anything he’d ever known.

But his lips—his lips were anything but gentle.

When he kissed you, it was fierce, aching, unrestrained.

A dam bursting after nine long months of silence and longing. He kissed you like he had been waiting for this exact moment since the day you first walked into the newsroom. Every stolen glance, every half-swallowed word, every night he’d lain awake thinking of you poured into that one collision.

The paper slipped from your fingers, forgotten, tumbling to the floor with a soft crumple.

Your hands reached for him instinctively, curling into his shirt and diving into his hair, pulling him closer as your lips moved against his with the same desperate hunger.

You kissed him back like you’d been starving for it, like this was the answer to every question you hadn’t dared to ask.

The world seemed to narrow to the press of his mouth, the warmth of his body, the sunlight spilling over the two of you as he walked you backwards onto the balcony.

The morning air wrapped around you both, bright and golden, the city stretching out below—but none of it mattered. Not Metropolis. Not even Superman.

Just Clark, holding you like the most fragile treasure, kissing you like he’d never stop.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads resting together, his chest heaving against yours. His thumbs stroked your skin softly, reverent, as though he couldn’t believe you were really here.

“Y/n,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I meant every word.”

Your lips trembled against his as you tried to catch your breath, still pressed to him, still tasting him, still feeling him. The sunlight spilled over your shoulders, casting both of you in gold, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

Clark pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, the blue of his wide and unguarded, shimmering with emotion. His hands remained cradling your face, thumbs brushing away tears that had slipped down your cheeks.

“I’ve… I’ve never been more afraid,” he whispered, voice thick with vulnerability. “Not of villains, not of disasters, not even of the things I’ve faced as—as Superman. I’ve stood in the path of falling buildings, bullets, fires, storms, but the scariest thing I’ve ever faced,” He paused, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing to yours. “…was the thought of losing you.”

His hands tightened gently, holding you closer, anchoring himself to you. “I won’t let myself be a coward again. Not when it comes to you.”

He wiped a stray tear from your cheek with the back of his hand, letting his thumb linger, brushing tenderly over your skin. “I love you. I have since the moment I met you, since the moment you started to know exactly what I was thinking from just the look on my face, and I’ll keep loving you for the rest of my life,"

Clark's voice cracked from the sincerity,

"I won’t hide it. I won’t run from it. I won’t wait another second.”

For the first time, the vulnerability in his gaze wasn’t masked by Clark Kent’s cautious reserve or Superman’s heroic confidence.

It was just him, standing before you, entirely and unashamedly in love.

You searched his impossibly blue eyes—bright, somehow more alive than they ever had before—and looked for an answer to give him.

You couldn't ignore the fact that you were angry. So fucking angry. At his timing. At his inconsistency.

But still, you couldn't deny the fact that you loved him anyways.

Because you did.

You even loved the parts that hurt—the lies, the omissions. Because they made him human. Vulnerable. Afraid.

Just like you.

You were so angry at his fear but hadn't you been afraid too?

You’d spent so long second-guessing yourself, questioning Clark, wondering if love was worth the pain, the risk.

But he had seen every part of you. And he hadn’t left.

Now the choice was yours: could you do the same for him?

As you looked up at him, you could see the hope in his eyes. You could see the fear. You could see the growth it took him to be able to do this, despite the fear.

In that moment, you decided you could love him. Still, after everything.

You smiled, tilting your face up toward the morning sun. The light caught the gold in your hair, the warmth of it spilling over both of you, and for a moment the world felt soft and perfect.

And then, despite the tears, you began to laugh. A soft, bubbling laugh that shook you from inside out, and you dipped your head into his chest, laughing against him.

Clark frowned, confused, one hand still cradling your face. “What’s funny…?”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, sunlight sparkling in your tears and eyes alike. “You—Clark—you couldn’t have told me that months ago!”

He blinked, eyes widening as realization hit him, and then a small, sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I—well—I…”

You lifted your head fully and pressed a soft, steady hand against his cheek, your thumb tracing a gentle circle over his skin.

“You idiot,” you said, voice tender and teasing all at once. “I love you too.”

Clark’s lips curved into a wide grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. He leaned down without a word, capturing your lips again in a kiss that was softer than the first, more playful this time, but just as full of love.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, and you kissed him back, laughing against his lips, letting the relief, the joy, the sheer happiness of finally being together spill out in one long, endless moment.

The city hummed around you, unnoticed.

The sunlight, the balcony, the discarded morning paper—all of it faded away until there was only you, only him, only the warmth and laughter and love that had been waiting to be spoken for far too long.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads touching, noses brushing, both of you still laughing softly, you looked past him and into your empty apartment.

"Well," you started, suddenly more serious.

Clark turned around, his arms still wrapped around you, to stare into the room, completely bare.

"What are the chances those movers will turn back around?"

---

a/n: ladies and gentlemen there you have it, the final part of flash & focus.... unless of course you're interested in the epilogue i'm posting tmr ;)))) just a cute lil after scene

i'm definitely gonna keep posting for this universe LOL

i just have a lot of epilogue scenes that i could decide on (cat's birthday, clark helping you re-move in, etc) so. why not post them all...?

i will be started on my requests soon! so stay tuned and my requests are still open!!

i hope you've enjoyed this series as much as i have. until next time🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

taglist: @liuralibrar @icybarness @angel-dust-cb @crbpoetry @aim-formyheart @lavendermoons222 @10hrs26mn @linambc @casalucard @ticklish-leafy-plant @asteria33 @tati-the-fangirl @g4rb4ge-dump @yourmyonlyobsession @voidsxntry @my-little-secret-diaries @britttzy267 @nothere2478 @hagarsays @otakusimp1 @twsssmlmaa @kitten-daisy @qardasngan @writerreal @please-help-this-little-lesbian @brillitos-azules @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @pleasecallmeunhinged @materialgirl-97 @ldrfanatic @bellegirl16 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @khxna @rorysbrainrot @smolivin @screamingplastictoenail88 @slayerofthevampire @kneelarmhstrung @227777777333 @ifilwtmfc @loftilyviolentthunder @justp3achy03 @animegamerfox @nina-from-317 @sizzlingkryptonitetale @arcaichive @bamitzzsam @bellascrap @dntdltkss @livbonnet @scorpio-echo @bloodiedlusts @corenswetwife @lanasdolll @kai59999901 @ivegotdaddyissues @americanboz0 @ayy1234567 @jenneric2003 @areleine @turtle-in-a-tornado @keiralovesmoony @smellybad @shortandb1tchy @i1ovedeanwinchester @lando-scales @lilac-and-cherries @bananaminion678 @azrielsbbg @annabethboleyn @odevote118 @the-hist0rian @cyntsvmv @novausstuff @lecwife @reiofsuns2001 @renaeant @sleeplessskeleton @nanamilkbread @after8hore @abasnail28 @vanessalovesonedirection @annieaniya @nixandtonic @rhiannonhippiegirl @dvdsniffer @negasonic-teenage-asshole @jsjajsjsnannzjisjs @andriannag @booknerd62529 @imsonotweird @gwcses @infinitepersuasion @dreamer7black @sofia-1d @dazecrea @adoringanakin @trentknd @juskonutoh @sapphichotmess @callsignpxnguin @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @lleahhhhhh @xxreyofsunshinexx @1800-fight-me @hockeyboysarehot @coupdc @luvaerina @pulsingllamaartificer @8ella222 @voideren @people-go-crazy-sometimes @youroldfashioned @winterassassin1804 @lolurk @bemybabyxos @averyhotchner @maciejane @f4sh10n-m4v3n @nbhrhn @malikwolf @crowleythesexydemon @will-graham-1 @applepi405 @claireybeary13 @rue963 @cherriesherry @iyskgd @agentorange9595 @jadorelove @knife-wife042321 @merakifreedom @loverlygirl521 @zyncs-simphouse @dream-alittlebiggerdarling