i just live for harry styles

You’d avoid mentioning the anxiety curdling in your stomach from the very moment you woke up in your apartment – the one you’re still trying to get used to calling home – following your journey all the way to the building. The way your fingers almost hesitated when you pressed the button for the top floor, shoulders bumping into those who worked there on their way to catch a lead on a story, your new colleagues. Each ping felt like a countdown, echoing in your ear and making your heart drop just a little more until you took that first deep breath past the doors.

Another thing you’d talk about is the stark difference between the Daily Planet and the Gotham Gazette. The Daily Planet was all sun and warmth, while the Gotham Gazette was dark, suffocating you with article after article about yet another obituary, another robbery gone wrong, another crime. Not to say Metropolis didn’t have any crime – every city does – but Metropolis had what Gotham could never.

Superman.

You had grown used to Gotham – maybe too used to it. The murky skies, rain, and the symbol of the bat in the sky that had only appeared at night. But you needed change, needed to reignite the passion you once had when you graduated with your degree all those years ago.

So you packed your bags and left, moved out of the city you’d called home your entire life, said goodbye to Gotham's edge and gritty reporting, and went to where hope was born – or well, where hope suddenly appeared after thirty years.

But that’s neither here nor there.

It was terrifying, arriving at the Daily Planet for the first time. The Gotham Gazette was no walk in the park, a fighting cage in the field of journalism – but at least you knew who you were competing against there; you knew their weaknesses and used your strength against them.

Here? It’s a whole new system, a whole new cage with new rules, new competitors, and the same old you.

God, you’d felt like an intern all over again. Trembling as you made your way through the threshold to Perry’s office, the receptionist had to repeat the directions twice because your mind was all over the place, too busy spinning stories in your mind on everything that could go wrong. They were understanding, of course, having seen the look on your face on many other journalists before you.

You’d been at the Gotham Gazette for years, so you assumed you’d be ready for Metropolis, but there was something about this place, whether it was the high ceilings, the clacking keyboards, or the constant hum you felt vibrating from everyone around you – the knowing of doing something you’d only ever dreamed of doing, for the greater good. You’d skip the boring stuff, meeting Perry and getting a rundown on where everything is and who is tasked to do what, polite introductions, and all the usual new-hire details. What you couldn't forget was meeting him for the first time.

Clark Kent, a fellow journalist. At least, that’s who he was then. Now? He’s someone you can’t stand and can’t trust – but that’s getting too far ahead of ourselves.

It was about an hour and a half after arriving; you were still unpacking your bag, making sure the picture frame of your family, of home, was at the perfect angle, and already feeling a pang of homesickness. Your head bowed down as you began shuffling things in the desk drawer when the overhanging light above you was blocked. Looking up to see a rumpled suit – while sitting – you had to crane your neck to see the face of who blocked the light, soft blue eyes meeting yours behind a pair of crooked glasses, a hesitant grin on his face.

“Hi,” he says, his voice mild with an accent you couldn't pinpoint. Your eyes flickered from his tie to his eyes – did he know his tie brought out the hypnotising shade of blue in his eyes, or was it just a coincidence? “Clark Kent – uh, my desk is over there.” He begins what you later realised to be one of Kent’s usual rambles, fingers adjusting his glasses and fiddling with the material of his slacks as he spoke. “Welcome aboard. I’m one of the reporters here.”

You knew that; of course you did.

While doing your research for the Daily Planet, you’d seen his byline more times than you could count, always tucked neatly behind the headlines about Superman, always impossible to ignore.

He had gently placed a cup of coffee on your desk without you realising, until the flash of orange of the ‘Jitters Coffee’ logo caught your eye; you glanced down at it hesitantly while Clark continued.

Did that tray of coffees in his hand just appear, or were you that much of a mess today?

“I didn’t know how you took it,” Clark said, his voice a little sheepish. “Cat assumed cream and sugar, so… I guessed.” His lips curled into a smile, soft and warm, the kind that could slip past your defences before you could even put them up.

You looked away quickly – too quickly – missing the slight furrow of his brows as you did so, trying to stifle the flutter in your stomach, the warning bells ringing in your mind.

No distractions allowed in Metropolis. Especially not ones with a smile that could melt ice.

But still, your parents taught you manners, so you turned back towards him, spine straightening almost instinctively as you reached your hand out to shake his.

“Thanks.” You said, offering the words like a truce before introducing yourself; his hand was warm, steady. You could faintly feel the calluses on them.

He smiled again. Shy. Slow, like the interaction meant more to him than it did to you – before moving to the next desk, leaving you with the strange sense that you've possibly shaken hands with the newsroom's golden boy.

Later that week, after a week of struggling, you’d manage to find your footing as a Daily Planet reporter, Perry White called you to his office to discuss the printout of your first article, moments before saying the words that tilted your world on its axis.

The sunlight was dimmer in his office, muted by the blinds. You shifted your weight anxiously as he read the article, his shirt sleeves rolled up, reading glasses hanging from a cord around his neck. Even the slightest shuffle of papers in the room broke the deafening silence of the room, your heart pounding in your ears when you see him write small notes down in the margins every couple of seconds.

“Good work,” he says finally. “Solid reporting, tight writing. Still room for some improvements.”

You nodded, the relief unfurling in your chest. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad here. Maybe you could make a name for yourself here.

Then, Perry added, almost casually. “Not Kent-level good, but you’ll get there eventually.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You were used to comparisons back in the Gazette; there was always someone to beat. But hearing this in your first week? Comparing you to the man who, for the past week, had been giving you and the rest of his colleagues coffee every morning despite not knowing much about you.

The same man, the photographer you met on your first day – Jimmy – had been described as the “human embodiment of manners.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” You responded, keeping your smile fixed, refusing to let it falter before taking the notes and moving back to your desk. From across the bullpen, you could hear the sound of Clark’s laughter filling the room as Jimmy cracked yet another joke.

—

It’s been two months since you joined the Daily Planet, a month of headlines, late nights, early mornings, keeping up with what extraterrestrial creature Superman fought off the night before, and thanking the gods above for deciding not to get a car – one wrong turn and you could've been a collateral victim.

Two months since Perry White told you your work wasn't “Kent-level good,” and the words have yet to stop echoing in the back of your mind every time you hear his bright, easy laughter cutting through the newsroom. Every time he handed you the coffee, despite your repeated protests, the envy you felt towards him as a journalist became enveloped by guilt. I mean, how could you hate someone who’s been nothing but kind to you?

Oh, you could.

In the back of your mind, you refused to buy his all-good-do-no-harm act. Come on. No one acts like that without an agenda.

So, naturally, the investigative reporter in you made theories.

Obviously, you kept them to yourself; I mean, no one would believe you if you admitted that you think your angel of a colleague, Clark Kent, probably spends his free time scheming evil plans, because how else can he be so…polite? Impossibly good?

So yes, it's been two months of watching Clark – Metropolis’ golden boy – glide through the bullpen like the sun itself follows him wherever he goes. Like he embodies it.

Two months of filing stories, chasing leads, pretending that you couldn't feel the sting every time you see his name on a byline, every time your work came back to you from Perry’s desk covered in corrections – “improvements”

Because you don't meet the standard.

You're not Clark Kent level of good.

And every time his laughter drifts across the room. Warm. The kind that fills every corner of the room, making its way into your system, causing a stutter in your heart that you try to convince yourself is for another reason, but a flash of anger quietly flares in your mind. It burns a little too sharp and quiet, like the ache of a bruise you didn't know you'd gotten or where you'd gotten it from.

You’ve tried to convince yourself it's irritation. Jealousy because you're subconsciously comparing everything you've ever written to his front-page work. It’s safer that way. Easier. Because if it’s irritation, you can build walls against it and maybe convince yourself that you do hate him. But the flutter? That’s harder to defend against. That flutter is dangerous, crumbling your walls the moment his bright eyes meet yours across the bullpen, unable to avoid his easy-going smile that breaks down all your defences.

You shove your pen into the spiral of your notepad – you had been doodling stars and that specific symbol of hope anyway – harder than necessary, drawing the attention of the person at the desk next to yours.

“Hey,” Jimmy says, messing around with the settings on his camera at the next desk, spinning around in his chair with the kind of ease you’ve never possessed but wished you could. “You good?”

“Peachy,” you mutter, flicking through your notes to make yourself look busy, like your body is physically struggling not to look in Clark’s direction, but your mind refuses to cooperate.

He grins like he doesn’t believe you. “Kent just cracked a joke about Steve’s golf swing. Didn’t think you’d be the type to grimace at comedy.”

You glance up. Clark’s standing by Lois’s desk, hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders relaxed. He’s laughing – of course he’s laughing – like the world is a little less cruel for him than it is for the rest of you.

You look away before your face gives you away.

When Perry calls your name from your office, it's too early in the day for bad news and way too late to pretend you didn't hear.

So you step inside, already preparing yourself to receive notes – improvements on your latest piece – when you notice Kent’s broad frame already sat in one of the chairs intentionally placed in front of Perry’s desk. He straightens up when he sees you, offering that infuriatingly heart-stuttering smile. You try to offer one back in return, although you know it probably landed somewhere between awkward and stiff.

Perry doesn't waste time. As soon as you sit down. “We’ve got a story.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as he tosses a manila folder onto the oakwood desk between the three of you. Inside are articles, crime reports, and a handful of photographs that smell faintly of ink.

If this is about a story, why are the two of you here?

Is he getting Clark to babysit you now?

Is your writing that bad?

“Mob money. Gotham and Metropolis. Someone’s moving a lot of cash and making it look clean,” he continues. Your chest tightens at the mention of Gotham City. Like a ghost reaching out from the place you thought you’d left behind, nostalgia and homesickness slide into your system with an unwelcome familiarity.

“You’ve got contacts there,” Perry says, pointing at you. Then he points at Clark. “And Kent’s got Metropolis locked down. I want the two of you on this. Deep dive. Front page.”

Front page?

You.

On the front page.

A month after joining the Daily Planet.

That would look amazing on your resume.

But… you’d have to share that page with him, with Clark Kent.

You open your mouth before you can stop yourself. “Perry, with all due respect—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You’re both damn good at what you do. If I just send either one of you alone, I get one half of a good story. I want the whole damn thing.”

You feel the words before you process them, the slow sink in your gut, like the ground is shifting beneath your feet. “Together?”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Perry answers, already turning back to his computer, effectively ending the conversation and dismissing you both.

You finally give in and glance at Clark. He looks… not smug. Not even pleased. Just steady. Like, this is the most natural thing in the world. Like this was bound to happen.

Destined, even.

“Guess we’re partners,” he says softly. And God help you, it doesn't sound like a threat. It sounds like possibility, like hope.

You crossed your arms, subtly steadying yourself – grounding yourself.

“Guess so.”

Then, Clark smiles. He had the nerve to smile. Like you weren't internally combusting at the idea of working closely with the guy you supposedly dislike, the same guy who you thought about even when you shouldn't. It was small, shy, comforting even. Like he always did when he wasn't trying too hard.

You hate that stupid smile.

Soft. Warm. Like sunflowers would turn towards him instead of the actual sun.

You hate that you didn’t actually hate it.

Later, as you sit back at your desk, the manila folder is open in front of you, pages scattered across your desk like a map you were trying to figure out. Pen hovering over your notes, not knowing where to start, it was like you couldn’t really see the words.

Clark’s voice cuts through the hum of the newsroom like a beacon, pulling you out of the haze in your mind.

“Hey.”

You glance up. He’s standing a few feet away, suit rumpled as always, his jacket slung over one shoulder as he holds it, his free hand shoved in his pocket.

“We should meet after work.” He says, there's hesitation in his voice, like he's not too sure you’ll accept.

“Go over the notes. Gotham connections. My contacts are here. Figure out a plan.” Clark explains, trying not to ramble.

The practical part of you, the one that built those high walls and armour, wants to say no. Wants to keep him at arm's length. Keep your peace.

But the reporter in you? The one who is still so desperate to prove herself? She won the debate in your head. She leans forward and says, “Fine.”

And what did he do in return? That one thing that made your heart flutter. Each. Goddamn. Time. No matter how much you willed it not to.

He smiled, slow and warm. It lands somewhere behind your ribs, where your defences are thinnest.

And as if on cue, the twisted feeling in your gut returns.

—

The two of you began planning that afternoon, wanting to get a head start on things – ignoring Clark’s eagerness when you briefly mentioned going over things at lunch.

Together.

A map of Gotham and Metropolis sprawled across the table in one of the free conference rooms – after bribing the guy at reception to let you in one of the rooms without booking at least a couple hours in advance as per Daily Planet rules with a coffee and ‘homemade’ cookies, that is, if ready-to-bake cookie dough counts as homemade (it doesn’t.)

Red pins were marking the suspected routes – neat, deliberate, all of which felt very cliché, like some goddamn black and white detective film.

You were focused, or well, at least you really tried to be, while in the same vicinity as Clark Kent. Just within arm's reach, with his suit jacket hung over the back of a chair and his sleeves rolled up as he flicks through one of the folders scattered in front of you. Occasionally, he glances up at you – and when your eyes catch his, he looks back down too quickly, like he's embarrassed he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

You keep talking, trying to explain to Clark how certain warehouses in Gotham’s east side could be tied to the transfers, but your words keep overlapping with the irritating sound of his pen tapping against wood over and over again.

Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

“Do you always do that?” You snap before you can stop yourself, words sharper than you mean for them to be, especially to Clark Kent out of all people.

Clark blinks, startled, as if you’ve actually hit him, causing a pang of guilt in your chest.

“That… tapping thing. It’s kinda distracting.”

“Oh,” He sets the pen down immediately. “Sorry… It’s, uh, it’s a habit.”

And just like that, polite, apologetic, and unbothered, he goes back to looking at the map. God, you hate that it’s so hard to despise him.

Thankfully, just seconds later, Jimmy sticks his head through the door halfway through, grinning knowingly like someone watching a rom-com play out in real life. “Well, you two look cosy.”

“We’re working, Jimmy,” you shoot back, although there’s no denying the grin you’re trying to disguise by burrowing your head further into the stack of papers.

And what does Clark do? He laughs – well, chuckles. The sound causes that oh-so-familiar warmth to spread throughout your body, lodging itself under your ribs.

“Right,” Jimmy said, drawing out the word like a tease.

“Working.”

Although he didn't do it, you could practically feel the quotation marks burning a dent into the part of your heart you blocked out years ago.

As if he didn’t just suddenly bring some awareness to the tension the two of you were pretending didn’t exist, he disappeared down the hall. You try to busy yourself with your notes, willing your heart to ignore the sound of Clark’s laugh ringing in your ear.

—

It wasn't like Gotham; you understood that now.

Gotham was dark alleys and cold weather, and stories you had to wrestle your colleagues for.

And Metropolis?

Metropolis is bright lights, overpriced coffee from the cart just outside the Daily Planet, and people like Clark Kent – kind, helpful, and didn't have to wrestle for every headline. People who were given them because they were born with pure luck – or talent, you weren't too sure on that one.

And yet… somewhere between tracing possible routes on a map and divvying up interviews – Clark surprisingly offering you the high-profile interviews – you realise something unsettling.

Clark wasn't trying to outshine you, not one bit.

He listens.

Like, really listens.

When you pointed out a connection he’d missed, he didn’t get defensive – unlike a certain Davis back at the Gazette, no, he just nodded, eyes bright with something like admiration – well, that’s what you let yourself believe it was.

And maybe that was worse, much worse.

Because if he’d been arrogant, if he had been this horrible asshole that undermined his peers, you could’ve hated him.

But deep down, you knew that wasn't Clark Kent.

And maybe your heart was slowly figuring that out, too.

Maybe.

But by the end of the week, the two of you are working in a rhythm that almost feels natural – which, of course, you don’t want to admit because that means admitting all the other things your heart is trying to tell you. It’s you in Gotham leads and him in Metropolis sources, somehow finding links and connections between the two until the threads tying the two cities together become one story.

That Friday evening, it happens again. Most of the newsroom had cleared out, and only a couple of people were left, either finishing up last-minute things or already packing up to head out.

He laughs again – really laughs, like… head tilted back, glasses slipping down his nose, shoulders shaking kind of laugh. All because Jimmy told him some ridiculous joke – probably not even that funny, but maybe you're annoyed because you’re not the one making him laugh.

Wait –

Of course, you’re not annoyed; that would be stupid.

Ridiculous, even.

But then the sound spread through the nearly empty newsroom, landing where it always did – where you always pretended didn’t exist. In that space beneath your chest.

You told yourself lies: that it stung because you hated how Perry compared you to him and how you didn’t buy his fake nice guy from Kansas persona; that’s all.

No other reason.

—

Gotham hasn’t changed.

You notice it the moment you step off the train. Of course, you didn’t expect anything else, but it still felt weird, not like coming home but like coming back to a place you no longer fit in anymore. The air feels heavier here, like the city has been holding its breath for years, which, considering how toxic the air can get sometimes, thanks to a certain redhead, you don’t blame it for. Rain gathers in the cracks of the pavement that the council refuses to give money to fix because, apparently, ‘fixing infrastructure’ ranks lower on their list of things to deal with, unlike the Bat in the night. Neon lights that keep spilling onto puddles, which rippled every time an angry cab driver or reckless speedster flies past. The skyline looks the same as it always has been, as you remember it to be – sharp, suffocating, and frankly, a bit morbid.

Clark’s beside you, standing just far enough that your sleeves don’t brush, but you could still feel his heavy presence anyways. His coat is buttoned as much as it could be, with his tie peeking underneath the material, crooked from the rush of getting here after grabbing the two of you the morning edition of the Gotham Gazette. He’s quiet, gaze lifted towards the outline of the city like it’s a puzzle he’s still trying to solve, his admiration for the city itself unmissable when he begins to ramble about different things he heard about the city. ‘Did you hear they’ve opened a Jitters here?’ And other painfully optimistic tidbits. You don’t have the heart to tell him that no one really understands Gotham. You just survive it.

“Colder than Metropolis,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s trying to fill the silence between the two of you.

You huff a short laugh, shoving your hands into your pockets to keep them warm from the bite of the wind. It’s only been a couple of months since you moved from Gotham to Metropolis, and yet you’re already forgetting things about the city you called home for years – how you always needed to leave the house with knitted gloves at this time of the year unless you enjoy losing circulation in your fingertips.

“It doesn’t pretend to be,” you mutter.

He smiles at that – not his usual soft one, you know, the one that reminds you of summer at the beach, warm and comforting, but something smaller, like he’s restraining himself, trying not to show too much.

The car ride from the station to the hotel is uneventful except for the wipers dragging across the windscreen. You don’t mean to, but you’re watching him – keeping an eye on what he’s doing like he’s more interesting than the book in your lap, the one you brought on the train ride but never opened – too busy pretending like you can’t feel his eyes on you every couple of minutes. You catch him watching the streets as they pass, the flicker of red lights reflecting on his glasses that somehow, for a second, makes him look more annoyingly handsome.

Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

Ever.

He looks like he’s almost cataloguing everything outside the window, locking it in a box in his mind, his jaw tightening slightly when he sees the graffiti on the walls protesting yet another government scheme or the bundled figures hurrying down the darkened alleys despite it being midday. He looks ridiculous, like he’s trying to find something hopeful in a place that doesn’t offer much.

When you finally pull up to the hotel – the kind of place that smells faintly like bleach, stale air, and cheap detergent – you suddenly realise how tired you really are. The two of you have been running on coffee and headlines for days, trying to pin down threads of a story that keeps slipping through your fingers.

You can tell Clark is more frustrated than you if the last couple of days proved anything. You had found traces of LuthorCorp involved in some of the shady transfers occurring under the table between Metropolis and Gotham, but it wasn’t enough; it wasn’t concrete evidence. It wasn’t enough, not for an exposé at least. Clark has never shown anger, not since you’ve joined here, and according to some of your colleagues, not even before then. Yes, he occasionally got frustrated – well, passionate – but never angry.

But seeing firsthand how Lex Luthor covers his tracks through multiple bank accounts, under-the-table payments, and secret dealings, whilst being allowed to campaign for president. That was probably the first time you’ve heard Clark Kent almost curse.

God, you wished you got that on video.

The lobby light buzzes overhead. Clark takes the keycards from the receptionist, passes one to you without a word, and you take it, your fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Warm, always warm.

And so much larger than yours.

God, imagine those fingers–

Nope. No.

Not thinking about that.

He’s your colleague, for god's sake. Your annoyingly saint-like colleague who wouldn’t even harm a fly.

You can’t think of him like this; you shouldn’t. You won’t.

“Rooms next door to each other,” he says, cheeks now flushed a shade of red that makes your fingertips itch to touch his face.

You blink, suddenly averting your gaze from his hands. Why the hell were you staring at his hands like some creep?

“Good,” you manage, though your throat’s suddenly dry.

Okay, you can stop nodding now; he’s going to think something’s wrong with you.

You fumble your keycard into the lock whilst avoiding his eyes. He hesitates like he wants to add something, then decides against it, offering only a small smile before heading down the hallway. When he’s a few feet away, you watch him go until he disappears around the corner, and for a reason you can’t name, you don’t move right away.

—

You’re both back on the street the next morning. The rain hasn’t stopped, but it never does here. The air tastes faintly metallic. You’ve got your notebook open, notes scribbled all across the page, as well as doodles on the margin when you can’t keep your brain focused, all because of a certain man with cerulean eyes that Shakespeare himself could write ballads about.

Speaking of Clark, he stands across from you, half leaning against a newspaper stand, jotting something in his own notebook. You tried to take a peek, to which he grinned, tilting the page away from you to make it difficult, like a child hoarding answers on a test.

He looks annoyingly unfazed by the weather, which is unusual for someone who is the poster boy for a small-town Kansas sweetheart: all good looks, charm, kind smiles that make your heart flutter, and the type of manners that make mothers want to adopt him into the family. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, his tie crooked again. He catches you staring – like he always does – and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, an unconscious gesture you’ve seen a hundred times now. It shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

You tell yourself it’s just nerves. The case. The cold.

Anything but him.

You’re waiting for a source, a contact of yours from your Gazette days, someone who hopefully still owes you a favour, and the minutes stretch longer than they should. Clark’s quiet beside you, but it’s not the uncomfortable type of quiet; no, it’s just steady. Grounding.

Infuriating.

You’ve built your life around knowing how to read people, and Clark Kent remains the one person you can’t – won’t – get a proper headline on.

“Did you always know you wanted to do this?” He asks suddenly, voice low, breaking through the sound of rain hitting metal.

You glance at him. “Journalism?”

He nods, eyes still on the road, watching the pedestrians walk by. You could see his eyes soften when he sees a young girl swing her linked hands with her father.

“Yeah,” you admit after a moment, drawing his attention back to you. “Or maybe, I just didn’t know what else I could do.”

He smiles faintly, turning his head towards you. “You’re good at it.” He says it like it’s certain, a fact, not just his opinion.

You arch a brow. “Not Kent-level good.” You try to keep the bitterness out of your tone. You fail.

The corner of his mouth lifts, as if he’s in on a secret you have no idea about. “You’re better. At seeing people... and at reading in between the lines. I struggle with that. I tend to take things people say at face value.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, but you don’t look away for once, meeting his gaze. You don’t know how to describe the look on his face; he looks hopeful, like he believes you’re close to meeting him halfway.

The streetlights flicker above you, and the rain keeps falling, and Clark doesn’t push. He just stands there, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to speak.

Like what you say, what you think matters to him.

When your source finally shows – a man in a dark grey, worn coat with tired eyes, someone you’ve occasionally crossed paths with – Clark steps back, letting you take the lead. He listens carefully, jotting down notes, but doesn't interrupt, not even once. When the man leaves, muttering something about watching your backs, you catch Clark's gaze again. There's something unreadable in it. Not pity. Not admiration.

Something in between.

"Good work," he says softly.

The compliment lands somewhere deep, somewhere you can't shake loose.

—

By the third night, the case somehow starts bleeding into your dreams. You've filled half a notebook with strings of notes that, in your opinion, don't quite fit together, names that feel too familiar, and numbers that now start to blur when you stare too long at them. Clark’s room is next door, and sometimes, when you can’t sleep and you’re stuck with the thoughts running in your mind, you swear you can hear the sound of him pacing – slow, measured steps, like he’s thinking the story through the same as you are.

Or maybe that’s just what your brain tricks you into thinking you’re hearing when it’s two am and you can’t stop thinking about your colleague who is just through that wall.

You find him at the hotel lobby one night after midnight, having decided that you were sick of pacing in your room and accidentally disturbing the sleep of the people below you; one of you should be getting some sleep at least. He’s sitting at one of the small tables, no tie, but he’s wearing the same shirt you saw him wearing earlier in the day, soft blue – and god, it’s tight around his biceps, especially when they’re rolled up like they are now. The glow from the desk lamp keeps catching in his glasses, there’s a half-empty mug in front of him, and his notebook is open, filled with his painfully neat handwriting.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” He asks without looking up, eyes locked onto his screen.

You shrug, dropping into the chair across from him with a tired huff. “Gotham doesn’t exactly put you to sleep.”

He smiles at that. “Guess not.”

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable; it never is with Clark. It's the kind that hums, low and quiet and slightly heavy, like something unspoken sits between the two of you. You glance at his notes – there are long lines of names, arrows, and dates, the kind of meticulous detail you’d started to recognise in his work.

“You missed a connection,” you murmur, voice uncharacteristically soft, leaning forward, tapping your pen against the page where you spotted the mistake. “That supplier used to work for the Kane syndicate.”

Clark leans in too, following your gesture, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, even through the fabric. God, is this man a journalist or a human radiator?

“Good catch,” he says, voice quiet enough that you can feel it rather than hear it.

Your throat goes dry; the space between you feels smaller than it should. Nothing good happens after two am; you knew this, so why did you come downstairs?

It's not like you knew he'd be here at this table, right?

But then you remember a comment he made offhandedly a day or two ago about how the wifi at this table is better than the hotel room wifi. You didn't think much of it at first. Or well, you didn't think you did.

You don't even notice that he doesn't move back right away. Neither do you; like, you're both waiting to see who breaks first.

You're both still for a beat, but then someone passes through the lobby – a blur of movement and giggles before the couple climbs into the elevator, and all that’s left is the soft chime of the elevator. You both pull away, like waking from a trance, clearing your throat as you look down at your own notes to pretend to read them.

You eventually build up the courage to look up, not at him, but around him – behind him, doing anything but meeting his eyes with your own.

“Should probably get some rest,” you say, though your voice doesn’t sound like your own.

Clark nods, gathering his notebook, and stands. “We should—you should,” he says gently. Then, after a beat. “You’re doing great work.”

It’s the kind of praise that shouldn’t mean as much as it does; people have said it offhandedly to you all the time, brushing you off with a wave of their hand because they had more important things to deal with.

But Clark? He means it. And you're starting to realise that.

You watch him walk towards the elevator, the soft click of his shoes on the tile fading, and you realise your chest somehow feels lighter – and heavier – all at once.

All because of his words.

—

Two days later, the two of you are back on the streets again, following yet another lead. The case is gradually starting to come together; the threads are finally aligning with one another. You and Clark move almost in sync now – you interview, he observes, you write, and he fills in the gap. Somewhere along the way, the one-sided rivalry you forged in your mind has started to blur at its edges.

At one point, while you're both waiting out in the pouring rain under a street awning, Clark laughs – something small and sudden, escaping before he can stop it, given the fact that the two of you were standing in silence besides your few comments about Gotham’s unbearable weather. You glance at him, startled, eyebrows furrowed. He’s already looking at you.

“...What?” You ask, slowly.

“You,” he says simply, that same damn smile tugging at his lips; you could see his dimples peek out slightly. “The way you talk about Gotham, you talk as if you miss it, even when you say you hate it.”

You don't know what to do with that, his words – and his smile – embedding themselves somewhere beneath your chest where everything else he has ever said or done has been kept. So you roll your eyes, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck. “Don’t start profiling me now, Kent. Got to focus on the case.”

He laughs yet again, and just like clockwork, the sound sinks beneath your ribs and stays there.

It’s not fair, the way he does that. Like he’s unknowingly recreating the system you created in your mind, by the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing worth looking at, even with Gotham’s chaos swirling around the two of you.

And yeah, you hate that you don't hate it.

Not anymore.

You’re both quiet for a while. The city hums outside, Gotham's skyline flickering through the rain-streaked windows, the cheap curtains pulled back. The clock on the bedside table, the one that never says the correct time, ticks too loudly, marking every second of silence neither of you seems brave enough to fill.

Clark sits across from you at the small round table by the window, arms crossed, biceps straining against the plain white T-shirt he decided to wear instead of his usual button-up shirts. His notebook, the one you've grown used to seeing, sits on the table – open, but untouched. He’s writing nothing, just tracing the same line with his pen, a small curve that never becomes a word, ink bleeding through the page.

You should be reviewing your notes.

You should have been thinking about the meeting earlier, about the new lead that just slipped through your fingers, and about how this whole trip feels like chasing ghosts and how this trip just reminds you of everything you tried to run away from in Gotham.

But all you can think about is him – sitting there, his head bowed, the faint curl of his hair catching the neon lights shining through the window.

It’s infuriating how calm he looks, the perfect picture of serenity.

“You always do that,” you speak up suddenly, the words surprising even yourself.

His head lifts, eyes meeting yours. “Do what?”

You nod towards the black ballpoint pen in his hand. “That thing. When you're thinking. The line you keep drawing over and over again.”

He blinks, surprised, and glances down at the page, then gives a small – almost embarrassed – smile. “Guess I do… helps me think.”

You hum, pretending not to notice how your chest tightens at the sight of it – how human he looks, how normal. Like someone who carries the world on his shoulders but still fumbles with something as simple as a ballpoint pen

A few months ago, you wouldn't have seen that if you looked at Clark. But these late nights, these trips to Gotham, allowed the two of you to somehow delve into the topic of your own personal lives, Clark confiding in you about the guilt of moving into a big city and never seeing his parents as often as he could – and you, surprisingly, opening up about the reason you moved to Metropolis and what you were running from.

The rain softens against the window. The air between you stretches, something quiet and unspoken resting in it, slowly becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

“You miss it,” he says finally, voice so low – so soft – that it almost gets lost under the sound of the city outside.

You frown. “Miss what?”

“Gotham.” He looks at you, and there’s no judgement in it, no pity. Just knowing, recalling what you told him, but memorising the look in your eyes as you did. “You get this look when you talk about it, like you’re trying not to.”

You exhale. Damn Clark and his intuition. You lean back against the chair. “I… I don’t miss the city,” you say. “Just… the parts of it that made sense, the community.”

Clark studies you for a long moment, his eyes soft behind his glasses. “You make sense here,” he says, and the words are so quiet, so easy, that they slip past your guard before you can catch them.

“But you belong in Metropolis.”

His words settle somewhere beneath your chest – what he said and what he didn't.

Something in your throat tightens. You look away first; you always do.

“I make sense when I get a story done,” you mutter. “That’s it.”

He smiles, that small, patient smile that makes you want to both throw something and also fall apart. “You’re more than that, you know; you're more than just a byline.”

Your words come quickly but are not sharp. “Don't start psychoanalysing me, Kent.”

“Not psychoanalysing,” he says simply, still nursing that goddamn smile. “Just… noticing.”

God, you want to laugh – you really do – to tell him that he doesn't get to notice you like that, not while his words keep throwing you in a loop. But when you look up, his eyes catch yours, and it's like the air leaves the room.

There’s nothing romantic in the moment when you look back at it – not really. It's quieter than that, heavier. It’s the type of silence that feels like you’re standing on the edge of something you’re not ready to name.

And he’s on the other side waiting for you.

You can't look away, and like usual, Clark doesn't try to.

And then, just for a heartbeat, the noise of the city fades. There's only him, just Clark and the rain, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours in the shitty hotel the Daily Planet put you in. You don't know how long you stay like that, seconds or hours, but it feels like the kind of stillness that comes just before something breaks.

Finally – after what felt like forever – you stand, the chair legs scraping softly against the tufted carpet. “We should get some rest,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel on the inside. “Big day tomorrow.”

Clark nods, slowly. “Right.”

He doesn't move right away, just watches you as you gather your papers, the same faint smile tugging at his mouth. There’s something behind it, something unreadable but gentle.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and move towards the door, pausing with your hand on the knob. “Don’t stay up too late,” you say, a slight teasing tone in your voice. You don't look back.

“I’ll try,” he answers, softly.

You suddenly, as if a magnet is pulling you to do so, glance over your shoulder and find him still watching you. Not with expectation, not even with hope. Just… quiet certainty. Like he knows exactly how this story between you ends, and he’s not in a rush to get there.

And like you’re back to square one, you look away first.

The hallway feels colder when you step out, the faint hum of Gotham’s night filling your ears. You tell yourself you’re thinking about the case, about leads and deadlines, and your first front page at the Daily Planet.

But when you close your door behind you, leaning back against it with your eyes shut, all you can see in your mind is Clark Kent’s face in the dim hotel light, and all you can hear is the echo of his voice.

Steady, soft, and far too close.

You can tell yourself it's just exhaustion; you've had a long day and not enough sleep.

But you know it's not.

-

It’s quieter than usual in the newsroom today.

No ringing phones, no frantic shouts about breaking news, no hurried footsteps across tile, no Cat arguing with Jimmy about the tackiest restaurant to take a date to in Metropolis. There’s just the soft hum of printers and the faint buzz of the lights above.

The story’s been out for three days.

Your story.

Okay, fine. Your and Clark’s story – but you let yourself have that small lie for now.

Front page. Bold headline. Your name next to his in the byline.

Perry said it’s one of the cleanest pieces the Planet’s run in months. Lois even nodded when she passed your desk the other day, and she doesn't hand out nods easily; Jimmy made you aware of that.

The compliments have been constant all week, with people you’ve never spoken to patting you on the back and whispering some praise in your ear, but none of it quite lands the way you thought it would – the way it should. You should feel lighter. Triumphant, even. But instead, there’s this strange ache in your chest, the kind of ache that comes when something ends – even when it ends well.

You tell yourself it's just the post-story crash, the one every journalist goes through after a story like this one. The exhaustion, the adrenaline burn-off.

It’s not like it has anything to do with him, with how you guys aren’t going to be working close together again. No more of those late nights, the impromptu coffee dates, or the way you began to get so used to his presence beside you.

Not at all.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark Kent shows up beside your desk.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft and warm, his presence as unassuming as always. You look up, startled, wondering whether you keep accidentally manifesting his presence each time you think of him. He’s holding two things in his hands that definitely don't belong here – a bouquet of wildflowers and a paper bag that smells faintly of butter and sugar.

You blink. “What—”

“Congratulations,” he interrupts before you can finish. “For the story.”

You stare at him, then at the flowers. Sunflowers and daisies, bright, messy, completely mismatched – and honestly, not your favourite flowers if you had to pick one. They're not the kind you'd expect from a florist. They look…well, personal.

You don't think he… No, it can't be.

You feel the flush creeping up your neck as you stare at them.

“You know this was half your story, too, right?” You ask, trying to sound teasing, but your voice comes out a little softer than you meant, eyes widening slightly – like you can’t believe what’s right in front of you.

Clark shrugs, slightly bashful. “Half mine still makes it half yours.”

You hate that your heart does that small, traitorous flutter thing again.

You don’t notice Clark’s lips twitch upwards half a second later.

He sets the bouquet on your desk carefully, like he’s afraid of crushing it, then opens the paper bag and pulls out a tin of cookies. The faint smell of butter and sugar hits you immediately, and you recognise it – the kind only homemade cookies could have. No fancy label, no store brand, just a simple tin – and you recall what he told you about his mother.

How she loved to bake. Pies, cookies, cakes – you name it. One night, after eating cookies from a cafe close to your hotel in Gotham, he let it slip how he practises baking whenever he’s back home, learning her recipes so if he’s ever suffering from homesickness, he could have a piece of home – of Smallville – with him.

You glance up at Clark. “Did- did you make these?”

He nods; you watch as a flush on his neck creeps upwards, ears tinged red as he brushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I thought you might like them.”

The weight of the gesture sits in your chest, heavy and warm all at once.

And this time it didn't make you feel scared.

You stare at him for a moment, the silence stretching between the two of you too long for it to be deemed comfortable. And then it clicks. That small, careful attentiveness he’s always shown you, the quiet ways he’s gone out of his way to be there for you, the way he notices the smallest details about you, things your closest friends barely notice.

All of it makes sense.

You’ve liked him this whole time.

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you don't breathe.

Finally, finally your mind is catching up with your heart.

-

It’s late when you finally pack up for the day. The bouquet sits awkwardly under one arm, your bag weighs a ton with all your notes, and the tin of cookies refuses to fit anywhere else without toppling everything else.

And of course, because of the luck you have, that’s when it starts raining.

Metropolis rain.

Sharp and sudden. The kind that feels personal.

You're standing at the front entrance, trying to juggle everything you're carrying, when a familiar voice calls out your name.

Clark’s there in all his glory. Holding an umbrella, tie loosened, rain speckling his shoulders like he didn't bother to shield himself on the way here.

“You look like you could use a hand,” he says.

You hesitate. You could tell him you're fine, that you'll manage, that you don't need any help. But god, your arms are already aching, your bags are digging into your shoulder, and he's already there – like a guardian angel.

“Fine,” you mutter, pretending – and failing – to sound reluctant. “But only because the flowers might drown.”

He grins knowingly, stepping closer. You can smell the faint trace of rain on him mixed with the comforting smell of him. He takes half the load without asking, balancing it effortlessly, and opens the umbrella over both of you.

The walk to your building isn't long, but it feels longer than usual with Clark by your side. The streets are quiet for once, the city lights blurring through the drizzle. His shoulder brushes yours once, twice, and you try not to read too much into it and fail miserably.

You don't talk much. You don't need to. The silence between you isn't awkward anymore; maybe it never was. Maybe you were seeing something that wasn't there. It’s something else, something comfortable.

When you reach your building. You turn to him, shifting the flowers awkwardly in your arms. “Thanks,” you say. “For the…everything.”

He looks down at you, his glasses fogged slightly from the rain, his tie damp, that familiar warmth softening his expression. He looks like the love interest of every romance movie you've ever watched. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. He just stands there, as if he’s always known this moment would come.

You take a deep breath.

You don't look away, not this time.

You lean in, your faces only an inch or two apart.

Clark lets out a shaky breath, breaking the distance and pressing his lips to yours. You thought you’d freeze, tense up, and run – but you don’t. Instead, somehow the bouquet drops onto your welcome mat as you relax into the kiss to return the affection, palms coming to rest against his side of his neck as you tug him closer.

You’re kissing Clark Kent.

You.

Him.

Kissing.

You feel his arms circle your waist, the faint sound of a metal tin dropping on the ground – muffled by the way your heart is beating out of your chest. He lets his hands fall to your hips, tugging you closer – pressing you up against him as the kiss deepens. He whispers your name against your lips like a prayer before pressing his back to yours hungrily.

His hands stay at your hips, holding you close but not rushing – you had all the time in the world for that – just grounding you. You could feel the quiet certainty in his touch, like he’s been waiting for his moment longer than you realise.

You tilt your head slightly, and he mirrors you, soft and unhurried. His glasses are fogging up slightly, but he’s too busy savouring this – you – to notice.

For a brief second, there's a pause, just to catch your breath, your mind replaying every stolen look, every word of his that you kept locked away beneath your chest – it all coming out of you as you reconnect your lips.

This time it's lighter, like neither of you could believe this is happening.

Is this real?

Are we really doing this?

Eventually, you slowly pull back, grinning when you see him try to chase your lips with his own, noses brushing – and you see that smile, the soft smile you've been seeing all this time.

And you finally understand: he always knew; you just caught up.

The rain lightens; you step back, picking up the flowers and metal tin, his warmth still clinging to your skin, the taste of his lips still lingering on yours.

“Goodnight, Kent,” you murmur, and god, it feels more like a promise than it does a goodbye.

He smiles and watches you as you unlock your door and step inside. Closing it behind you, you can't help the small smile that curls at the corner of your mouth.

That warmth in your body? The indescribable one you always felt since Clark Kent laid his eyes on you.

Now you know how to describe it.

What it felt like

What he felt like.

Sunlight.