The Last Son of Krypton

The pasta had long since stopped steaming. The television droned quietly in the background, though you couldn't have said what was playing. Every few minutes your eyes drifted back toward the digital clock on the oven before reaching automatically for your phone. No missed calls. No messages. You typed out three different texts asking where he was before deleting each one. Clark hated making people worry. If he hadn't reached out, there had to be a reason.

The sound of a key finally scraping against the apartment door pulled you to your feet before you even realized you'd moved.

Relief came first.

Then it disappeared just as quickly.

"Hey," you started, a smile already forming.

It faded the moment Clark stepped inside.

He was still dressed for work. Blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie hanging loose around his neck, messenger bag slipping carelessly from one shoulder. His hair looked windswept, though not in the usual way it did after flying. It looked as though he'd been running his hands through it for hours.

But none of that was what stopped you.

It was his face.

Every bit of warmth had drained from it. His skin looked almost gray beneath the apartment lights, his jaw tense enough to ache, his eyes unfocused as they wandered across the room without really seeing any of it. He looked like someone who had walked home in a dream and wasn't entirely certain where he'd ended up.

"Clark?"

He looked at you then.

Slowly.

As though he'd forgotten you were supposed to be here.

His expression didn't change. No tired smile. No quiet "Hi, honey." No teasing apology about being late.

He simply stared.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

He closed the apartment door with unusual care, one hand lingering on the handle long after it clicked shut. His fingers loosened around his keys. They slipped from his hand, clattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp metallic echo that filled the silence between you.

Clark didn't even look down.

You crossed the room in seconds.

"Hey." Your voice softened instinctively. "Talk to me."

He blinked as if your words had reached him from somewhere far away. Only then did you notice how bloodshot his eyes were. They weren't red from exhaustion or lack of sleep. They weren't irritated from smoke or dust after some rescue.

He had been crying.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.

"Baby, what happened?"

For several long seconds he said nothing.

His mouth opened.

Closed again.

His throat worked around words that refused to come, and you watched his chest rise in one uneven breath after another. Clark Kent, who always seemed to know exactly what to say, suddenly looked like language itself had abandoned him.

Then, barely above a whisper, he managed one word.

"...Pa."

Your mind refused to process it.

"What?"

He swallowed so hard you saw it.

"My dad."

His voice cracked around the second word, splintering into something so raw it hardly sounded like him anymore.

"He..."

Another breath.

Another failed attempt.

"He died."

The apartment became impossibly quiet.

Jonathan Kent?

No.

That couldn't be right.

Not Jonathan.

The man who greeted everyone with a smile that reached his eyes. The man who insisted on sending you home with leftovers every time you visited the farm. The man who hugged you like family before you and Clark had even said the word love to each other.

He couldn't be...

Clark gave a tiny shake of his head before you'd spoken a single word, almost as though he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone.

"It was his heart."

His voice sounded hollow.

"They said it happened fast."

He stopped.

His lips trembled.

"They..."

The sentence never finished.

His hand came up to cover his eyes as if hiding from the words would somehow make them less real. His shoulders, broad enough to carry collapsing buildings and crashing airplanes, suddenly folded inward.

It happened so quickly you barely caught him.

One second he was standing.

The next his knees gave way.

You wrapped both arms around him before he reached the floor, feeling the full weight of him sink against you. Clark clung to you with both hands, his forehead pressing into your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly come apart.

"I'm sorry."

The words were barely audible, carried into the fabric of your sweater more than spoken aloud. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder, his hands clutching the back of your shirt with surprising desperation. You had never felt Clark hold onto anything like this. Usually, whenever life knocked him down, he was careful not to let too much of his weight settle on anyone else. Even exhausted, even bruised, there was always something restrained about the way he leaned on people.

Not now.

Now he seemed to be holding onto you because he wasn't entirely convinced he could stay standing without you.

You slid one hand slowly into his hair, your fingers combing through the dark curls at the nape of his neck. "Clark?"

"I'm sorry."

Your brow furrowed.

The apology sounded genuine. Not polite. Not automatic. It was the kind of apology that came from somewhere deep enough to make your own chest ache.

"What are you apologizing for?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his grip tightened almost painfully around your sweater. You felt him inhale, but the breath caught halfway into his lungs, breaking apart before it ever became steady.

"I should've known."

His voice was hoarse, scraped raw.

"I should've..." He swallowed hard. "I don't know."

The confession seemed to frustrate him as much as the grief itself. He let out a humorless laugh that lasted less than a second before it dissolved into another shaky breath.

"I just..." His fingers flexed against your back. "Something should've felt different."

You stayed quiet.

You'd learned a long time ago that Clark didn't need someone to finish his sentences. He needed someone willing to wait for them.

"I always know they're there."

His words came slowly now, as though he was trying to explain something he'd never had to put into language before.

"Even when I'm here."

He lifted his head just enough to look somewhere over your shoulder instead of at you.

"If I wanted to..." His voice cracked. "I could focus and hear Ma humming while she's making coffee. I know the sound of the porch swing when Pa sits outside after dinner. I know which floorboard creaks in the hallway because he never remembers to step over it."

His lips trembled.

"I never listened because I was checking on them." A sad smile flickered across his face before disappearing again. "I listened because..." He stopped, struggling to find words large enough for the feeling. "Because they were there."

Silence settled between you.

"I always knew they were there."

The last sentence came out almost childlike.

Small. Lost.

His eyes finally found yours, red-rimmed and impossibly tired, and something inside them seemed to give way. "And now..." His breathing faltered. "I keep reaching for him." Almost unconsciously, his hand lifted toward his own chest, as though some instinct still expected to find his father there, before falling uselessly back into his lap. "I keep... trying to listen."

He stopped, swallowing around words that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry.

"And there's nothing."

The word barely rose above a whisper, but it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. You watched the realization settle across his face all over again, not simply that Jonathan was dead, but that the silence wasn't temporary. It wasn't the kind that ended when someone came back from the store or walked in through the front door after finishing chores. There would never again be a heartbeat to find if he reached for it. Never another laugh drifting across the Kansas fields while Clark worked beside him. Never the absent-minded whistle Jonathan always seemed to do while repairing the tractor, or the familiar creak of the porch steps beneath his boots at the end of the day.

That was the grief written across Clark's face.

Not one terrible moment.

A lifetime of ordinary moments that had ended all at once.

"I know that sounds ridiculous," he whispered.

"It doesn't."

"I flew there."

His eyes drifted toward the apartment window as if he could still see the farm from here.

"They'd already..." His jaw tightened so hard you thought it might hurt. "The paramedics were packing up."

His voice grew quieter.

"The house was so loud."

You frowned slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"People."

His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the apartment walls, seeing a place hundreds of miles away instead.

"The sheriff," he said quietly. "The neighbors. Someone crying outside. The radio in the ambulance." His throat worked painfully. "So many heartbeats."

He swallowed, and for a moment you thought he was finished.

"But not his."

The words settled heavily between you, too final to push away. He closed his eyes as another tear escaped down his cheek. "I've never..." His voice faltered. "I've never heard the farm without him in it."

Your own vision blurred. Slowly, you reached up and cupped his face, brushing away the tears with your thumbs. His skin felt cold despite the warmth of the apartment, his breathing uneven beneath your hands. When he finally looked at you, there was nothing left of the man who stood in front of cameras or walked into danger without hesitation. There was no certainty in his expression, no quiet confidence that everything would somehow work itself out. There was only a son who had just discovered the world could become unrecognizable in a single afternoon.

"I keep thinking..." His voice was so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. "If I'd left work earlier... if I'd called him this morning instead of thinking I'd do it tonight... if I'd gone home this weekend instead of next..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I know it wouldn't change anything." His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the admission. "I know that." Another tear slipped free. "But my mind won't stop making bargains anyway."

Your heart ached because you understood exactly what he meant. Grief was cruel like that. It didn't care about reason or facts. It took every memory, every decision, every ordinary moment and turned it over in desperate search of one tiny change that might somehow rewrite the ending. It convinced you that if you looked hard enough, there had to be a version of the day where the phone never rang.

You rested your forehead gently against his, your hands never leaving his face. "You know what I think?"

He barely moved, only the smallest shake of his head.

"I think the little boy who used to race through cornfields looking for his dad still believes he can find him if he searches hard enough."

Clark's breath caught sharply.

"You're not trying to solve this because you're Superman," you whispered, your thumb slowly tracing beneath his eye. "You're doing it because you're his son. Sons aren't supposed to know how to lose their fathers. They look for reasons because the alternative is accepting that there wasn't anything they could have done."

The words seemed to stop something inside him. His face crumpled all over again, but this time it wasn't panic. It was recognition. As though you'd finally named the ache he'd been carrying since the phone rang.

"I just..." His voice broke into something heartbreakingly small. "I wasn't ready."

It was the truest thing he'd said all evening.

Not ready for the call from Martha. Not ready to walk into a house that had always felt impossibly alive and realize something essential had been taken from it. Not ready to discover that, for all his strength, all his speed, all the impossible things he could do, there were still moments that reduced him to exactly what Jonathan had always insisted he was before anything else.

Just his boy.

You pulled him back into your arms before he had the chance to retreat into himself again, and this time he came without hesitation. He folded against you completely, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his hands clutching the back of your sweater with the quiet desperation of someone trying to anchor himself to the only thing that still felt steady. His shoulders shook as another sob finally escaped him, softer now, exhausted rather than frantic, the kind that came after fighting against grief for far too long.

You didn't tell him it would get easier. You didn't promise that time healed everything or that Jonathan would always be with him. Those were truths for another day, when the wound wasn't still fresh enough to bleed with every breath.

Tonight, your only job was to carry what little weight you could.

So you held him.

The drive to Smallville passed in almost complete silence.

Clark had insisted on driving.

You hadn't questioned it, even though the trip that normally took hours could have lasted less than a minute if he'd wanted it to. Flying would have been easy. Effortless.

This wasn't about getting there.

It was about postponing the moment he had to arrive.

His hands never left the steering wheel. They stayed locked in the same position for mile after mile, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the leather that the skin across his knuckles had gone pale. Every so often you watched his grip loosen for the briefest second before tightening all over again, as though his body remembered how to relax only to immediately decide it couldn't afford to.

Neither of you reached for the radio.

The only sounds inside the truck were the steady hum of the tires against the road and the occasional click of the turn signal whenever the highway gave way to familiar country roads.

Outside, Kansas stretched endlessly beneath a fading evening sky.

Fields of corn swayed in the breeze exactly as they always had. Weathered fences divided acres of farmland. Windmills turned lazily in the distance. A farmer climbed onto his tractor as though this were any other day.

Everything was exactly the same.

That was the cruelest part.

The world hadn't changed to acknowledge that Jonathan Kent was gone.

The fields he'd worked were still standing.

The roads he had driven every morning were still there.

Life had simply... continued.

Clark's eyes never left the road, but you watched his jaw tighten as familiar landmarks appeared one after another. The old grain elevator. The church where the annual harvest festival was held every autumn. The diner where Jonathan insisted they made the best pie in Kansas despite Clark teasing him every single time.

You wondered if he was seeing what was in front of him.

Or remembering everything that had happened there instead.

When the farmhouse finally appeared over the hill, your chest tightened.

It looked exactly as it always had.

White paint.

Red barn.

The porch swing Jonathan had repaired himself after one particularly bad storm.

A light glowed warmly from the kitchen window, spilling across the front porch.

For one impossible second your mind expected the front door to open and Jonathan to step outside, wiping his hands on an old dish towel with that familiar smile already spreading across his face.

"There they are!"

You could almost hear him.

Instead, the front door opened slowly.

Martha stepped outside.

She had always seemed so steady.

The kind of woman who somehow made every room feel safe simply by standing inside it.

Tonight she looked smaller.

Not physically.

Grief had a way of folding people inward, softening the edges of them beneath a weight no one else could see.

She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself against an evening that wasn't particularly cold, her eyes searching the truck before it had even come to a complete stop.

Clark shut off the engine.

Neither of you moved.

His hands remained on the steering wheel long after the truck had fallen silent.

He stared at the farmhouse.

At the porch.

At the empty rocking chair beside the front door.

You reached across the center console and rested your hand gently over his.

Only then did he blink.

As though remembering where he was.

He climbed out of the truck.

For a single heartbeat, he and Martha simply looked at one another across the yard.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them smiled.

They didn't have to.

Whatever strength Clark had managed to hold together during the drive disappeared the instant he saw her standing there alone.

"My boy."

Her voice was soft.

Tired.

Full of a love that had survived one impossible day already.

Clark crossed the yard in two long strides.

He reached her almost before you'd registered he'd started moving, and the second Martha opened her arms, he folded into them without hesitation. He bent instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder like he had done a hundred times as a child, and for the first time since the phone call, he let himself be somebody's son instead of someone everyone else depended on.

"Ma..."

The word broke apart before he could finish it.

"I'm sorry."

Martha's own eyes filled immediately, but she only held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head exactly the way she must have when scraped knees and childhood nightmares had still been the worst things she'd ever had to comfort him through.

"Oh, Clark."

His shoulders shook beneath her hands.

"I'm so sorry."

"No."

"I should've been here."

"No."

"I should've come home sooner."

She pulled back just enough to cup his face between both hands, making him look at her despite the tears running unchecked down both their faces.

"This is not yours to carry."

"It should've been."

"It isn't."

Her expression softened in a way that somehow made your own throat tighten.

"If I'd known..." he whispered.

"I know."

"No, Ma, if I'd just..." His voice cracked. "If I'd come last weekend instead. If I hadn't kept saying next week..."

She shook her head before he could finish.

"Clark."

The way she said his name was gentle, but it carried the same certainty that had guided him since he was a little boy.

"Listen to me."

He did.

"Your Pa spent every single day of his life making sure you understood one thing."

She brushed away a tear with the pad of her thumb.

"He loved you because you were his son."

Not because he could fly.

Not because he could lift tractors or outrun storms or hear heartbeats from miles away.

Just because he was Clark.

"He never looked at you and saw someone responsible for fixing everything."

Her own voice wavered now.

"He saw the little boy who tracked mud through my kitchen, who stayed up too late reading with a flashlight under the covers, who still called every Sunday just to ask if we needed anything from Metropolis."

A watery smile touched her lips for only a moment.

"He never expected miracles from you."

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

"He just..." Martha's voice finally broke. "He just wanted his son to come through that front door."

She rested her forehead against his.

"And you did."

For a long moment neither of them spoke.

Mother and son simply stood in the middle of the yard, holding onto each other. both grieving the same man in different ways, each trying to be strong enough for the other while quietly falling apart themselves.

You stayed where you were beside the truck.

It didn't feel like your place to step into that moment.

Jonathan had welcomed you into this family without hesitation, had always greeted you with a hug before you'd even crossed the threshold, had somehow managed to make the farmhouse feel like home every time you visited. Even so, this grief belonged to them first. You folded your hands together, giving them the privacy they deserved, your own heart aching as you watched Clark's shoulders shake beneath his mother's embrace.

Martha who noticed you immediately.

She slowly lifted her head from Clark's shoulder, her eyes finding yours across the yard. Even through the exhaustion written into every line of her face, something softened.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Her voice was quiet, but it carried across the evening air.

"What are you doing all the way over there?"

You hesitated, suddenly feeling unsure of where to put your hands, your feet, yourself.

"I just..." You offered a small, uncertain smile that disappeared almost immediately. "I wanted to give you both a moment."

Martha's eyes filled again.

"You never have to stand over there."

The invitation wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

It was the same warmth she'd shown you from the first day Clark had nervously brought you home, insisting you call before making the drive because she'd "have something in the oven by then."

You crossed the yard slowly, almost reluctantly, stopping a respectful distance away. Suddenly, you weren't sure what to do with yourself. Jonathan had always been the one to close that distance first, waving you over before you'd even reached the porch, pulling you into one of his warm hugs while insisting you come inside because dinner was nearly ready. Standing there now, with only the wind moving through the fields, the absence of that familiar welcome felt almost tangible.

"I'm so sorry, Martha."

The words felt painfully small the moment they left your mouth.

"So, so sorry."

Martha reached for your hand before you could say anything else, holding it gently between both of hers. Her hands were cooler than you remembered, but the gesture was exactly the same as it had always been, warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

"I know," she said softly, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart."

You blinked back the sting behind your eyes.

"I wouldn't have been anywhere else."

Something fragile passed over Martha's face, the corners of her mouth lifting into the faintest, saddest smile.

"Jonathan would've been happy you were here. He couldn’t stop talking about you, and how proud he was of Clark that he chose you as his life partner."

Your throat tightened. Without thinking, your eyes drifted toward the porch, almost expecting the front door to swing open and Jonathan to appear with that familiar grin, asking why everyone was still standing outside when there was coffee getting cold on the kitchen table. Instead, the porch swing rocked gently in the evening breeze, empty except for the memories attached to it.

"I keep expecting him to come out that door," you admitted quietly.

Martha followed your gaze. For a long moment she simply looked at the farmhouse, at the windows glowing warmly against the coming dusk, at the home she'd shared with Jonathan for decades.

"So do I."

She didn't try to hide behind comforting words or quiet strength. She didn't pretend she was coping better than she was.

It was simply the truth.

Clark’s hand searched for yours with quiet instinct, fingers finding yours almost immediately before weaving themselves between them. The gesture was so natural, so unconscious, that it made your chest ache. He didn't look at you. He didn't have to. The small squeeze of his hand said everything he couldn't put into words.

You squeezed back just as gently.

Sometimes love wasn't knowing the right thing to say.

Sometimes it was simply refusing to let someone grieve alone.

For a long while, the three of you remained exactly where you were, standing together beneath the porch light without moving toward the house or away from it. Eventually Martha drew in a slow, unsteady breath and looked toward the front door.

"We should go inside," she murmured, her voice catching almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't feel much like home right now."

Clark finally lifted his eyes to the farmhouse. They lingered on the porch, the empty swing, the kitchen window where the light still burned, before he gently squeezed both your hand and his mother's.

"It still is," he said quietly. "It just... needs us in it."

Martha smiled. It was small and exhausted, but unmistakably real.

"Your Pa would've said exactly the same thing."

Clark lowered his head with a broken smile of his own.

"I know."

The funeral took place three days later beneath a sky so painfully blue it almost felt cruel.

Smallville seemed to empty itself into the little white church on the edge of town. Every pew filled long before the service began, and people continued standing quietly along the back walls and outside beneath the open doors. Farmers arrived in polished boots that still carried traces of dirt from the fields. Elderly couples walked in hand in hand. Teachers who had retired years ago. Mechanics. Cashiers from the grocery store. Children Jonathan had once coached in little league who now had children of their own. Men spoke in hushed voices about the time he'd helped rebuild a barn after a tornado. Women remembered casseroles that had appeared on their porch after difficult winters without anyone ever asking for them. Someone quietly laughed through tears about the old tractor Jonathan had somehow managed to keep running decades longer than it should have.

You realized, listening to the conversations around you, that half the people in this room weren't here because Jonathan had done one extraordinary thing for them.

They were here because he'd spent an entire lifetime doing ordinary things with extraordinary kindness.

One fence repaired.

One meal delivered.

One conversation on a front porch that lasted longer than it needed to because someone looked like they needed company.

One life at a time.

Clark accepted every hug offered to him. He thanked every person who stepped into the receiving line, shook every hand, listened to every story about his father with quiet patience, even when you could tell he barely heard the words. His smile never quite reached his eyes, but he gave it anyway because that's what Jonathan would have done. Watching him was like watching someone move through water. Every gesture looked slightly delayed, as though grief had slowed the world around him by just enough to make everything feel unreal.

When the pastor quietly announced that Jonathan's son would like to say a few words, Clark froze.

You felt his hand tighten around yours.

He hadn't wanted to speak.

The night before, he'd sat awake at the kitchen table long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at a notebook that remained mostly blank.

"I can't do it," he'd whispered.

"Yes, you can," Martha had answered gently as she rested a hand over his. "You don't have to say everything. Just tell them about your father."

Now, standing in front of the church, Clark unfolded the piece of paper he'd carried in his jacket pocket all morning.

He looked down at it for several long seconds.

Then he smiled to himself.

Small.

Sad.

He folded it back up.

"I wrote something," he admitted, his voice carrying softly through the sanctuary. "I even practiced it." A few quiet smiles appeared around the room. Clark glanced toward the casket, his eyes lingering there. "But..." His smile trembled. "...Pa would've spent the entire service making fun of me if I stood up here reading from a script."

A gentle wave of laughter rippled through the church.

Not because the joke was particularly funny, but because everyone could picture Jonathan doing exactly that.

Clark let the sound settle before speaking again.

"My dad believed every problem had a solution."

He rubbed one thumb nervously against the folded paper still in his hand.

"If your fence broke, you fixed it. If the crops failed, you planted again next season. If your neighbor needed help, you showed up before they had the chance to ask." He smiled faintly. "And if something couldn't be fixed..." His eyes drifted downward. "...he still believed nobody should have to carry it alone."

Silence settled over the room.

"When I was little," Clark continued, "I honestly thought my dad knew everything."

Another soft laugh drifted through the pews.

"He always had an answer." His smile grew just enough to soften his face. "And when he didn't..." He looked toward Martha. "...he had a way of making you think we'd figure it out together."

His voice became quieter.

"I got older."

A slow breath.

"I realized he didn't have every answer," Clark said with a faint, bittersweet smile. "He just never stopped trying to become the kind of man who could help."

He lowered his eyes for a moment, gathering himself before continuing.

"When I found out I was adopted..." His voice tightened almost immediately. "I spent a long time wondering who I was. I wondered if I belonged here. I wondered whether being different meant I'd always be different."

The church became impossibly still.

Clark looked toward Martha, whose eyes never left him.

"My father never wondered."

The words came out rough, his voice catching around them.

"Not once."

A tear slipped free before he continued.

"He found me abandoned in a field, brought me home, and..." He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That was it."

He looked down at the folded paper in his hands, turning it over between trembling fingers.

"He didn't ask where I came from. He didn't spend his life waiting for me to become somebody else. He never looked at me and saw a burden or a problem that needed solving." His throat tightened. "He looked at me once..." He paused, swallowing hard enough that the microphone picked it up. "...and decided I was his son."

His hand closed around the paper until it crumpled beneath his fingers.

"That was enough for him."

No one moved.

The room had become so quiet that somewhere near the back of the church you could hear someone trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears.

Clark stood in that silence for a moment before drawing a slow, uneven breath.

"I've been called a lot of things."

A small smile touched his face, fragile enough that it looked like it might disappear at any second.

"Reporter."

A few knowing smiles spread through the congregation.

"Boyfriend."

His eyes found yours.

The look that passed between you lasted only a heartbeat, but it said everything Jonathan never needed to say aloud. The way he'd always pulled out an extra chair for you at Sunday dinner. The way he'd hugged you goodbye every single visit. The way he'd quietly welcomed you into the family long before anyone made it official.

Clark looked away before his composure disappeared completely.

"I've been called other things too."

His voice softened.

"But none of those titles ever mattered as much to me as one."

He stopped.

The sentence refused to come.

His mouth opened once.

Then closed again.

He pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his lips, fighting for a breath that wouldn't shake, and the entire church waited with him. No one looked away. No one hurried him. They all seemed to understand that this wasn't a speech anymore.

It was a son trying to imagine introducing himself to the world without his father in it.

When Clark finally managed to speak, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"The title I've always been proudest of..."

His eyes filled completely.

"...was being Jonathan Kent's son."

The words hung in the sanctuary long after he'd finished speaking.

Clark lowered his head, unable to say another word.

He didn't have to.

There wasn't a single dry eye left in the church.

Long after the last car disappeared down the gravel road and the quiet murmur of voices faded into the distance, Clark remained where he was.

The cemetery had emptied hours ago. Fresh flowers rested against polished headstones, their colors softened beneath the golden light of late afternoon. Somewhere beyond the rows of graves, the wind carried the rustle of cornfields and the distant cry of birds settling for the evening. It was peaceful in the way cemeteries often were. Too peaceful.

Jonathan's headstone looked impossibly small.

You stood several steps behind Clark, close enough that he would know you were there if he reached for you, far enough that this moment could still belong to him. He hadn't spoken since everyone left the church. He hadn't cried either. He simply stood staring at the stone carved with his father's name, as though his mind still hadn't accepted that a lifetime could somehow be reduced to a few dates separated by a dash.

Eventually, he lowered himself onto one knee.

His fingertips brushed carefully across the engraved letters, tracing each one with the same quiet concentration someone might use to memorize a face they were terrified of forgetting. His hand lingered there for a long time before he finally spoke.

"I keep listening."

His voice was barely louder than the wind.

"I keep thinking..." He stopped, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "I keep thinking if I focus hard enough, I'll hear him."

Silence answered him.

Not dramatic silence.

Just the ordinary sounds of Kansas continuing exactly as they always had.

The grass swayed.

Branches shifted overhead.

A pickup truck rumbled somewhere in the distance.

Clark let out a quiet laugh that broke apart almost as soon as it escaped him.

"You know what's stupid?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"I can still hear Ma back at the house."

His gaze never left the headstone.

"She's making coffee because she doesn't know what else to do with herself." His lips twitched faintly before the expression disappeared. "I can hear the porch swing moving every time the wind catches it." He drew in another slow breath. "There's a freight train about twelve miles east." Another pause. "Lois is probably arguing with Perry about a headline right now."

His voice grew softer with every sentence.

"The whole world is still..." He searched for the word. "There."

Another long silence settled over the cemetery.

"But not him."

The words seemed to leave something hollow behind.

"I spent my whole life knowing that if I wanted to..." He pressed his fingertips more firmly against the cool stone. "I could find him."

His eyes closed.

"I never needed to."

A tear slipped quietly down his cheek.

"I just knew I could."

His shoulders sagged beneath a weight that no amount of strength could lift.

"And now I keep reaching for something that isn't there anymore."

That was the sentence that finally made you move.

You crossed the few steps separating you without saying a word and lowered yourself into the grass beside him. The earth was still warm from the afternoon sun. You sat close enough that your shoulders almost touched, but you didn't reach for him immediately. Grief had a rhythm of its own, and you'd learned over the last few days not to interrupt it.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable.

It was simply shared.

Eventually, almost absentmindedly, Clark leaned sideways until the weight of his shoulder rested against yours.

It was such a small movement that anyone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

"So..." he whispered after a while. "This is what people mean."

You turned your head slightly.

"When they say someone's gone."

You nodded.

He stared out across the cemetery, his expression distant.

"I always thought..." He exhaled slowly. "I don't know."

"You can say it."

"I thought there'd still be..." His brow furrowed in frustration. "Something."

He laughed softly at himself.

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It does."

He looked at you for the first time since sitting down.

"There is something left."

He frowned.

"What?"

You reached over, gently taking his hand where it rested against the grass. His fingers were cool despite the warmth of the evening.

"The way you laugh."

He blinked.

"The way you stop to help people even when you're exhausted."

Your thumb brushed slowly across the back of his hand.

"The way you make pancakes every Sunday because that's what he always did."

A tiny, surprised breath escaped him.

"The way you hold doors open. The way you always ask if everyone got home safely. The way you call your mom every week because you know she'll pretend she doesn't worry if you don't."

Another tear rolled down his face.

"You think those things came from nowhere?"

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Clark... your father isn't only buried here."

You nodded toward his chest.

"He's walking around inside you."

Clark's eyes drifted back to the headstone.

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

There was no shame in the admission anymore.

Only exhaustion.

You leaned your head carefully against his shoulder.

"You don't."

He frowned.

"What?"

"You don't know how."

You looked out across the endless Kansas fields stretching beyond the cemetery.

"Nobody does."

"I feel like..." He searched for the words for a long time. "...like somebody picked up the whole world and put it back down crooked."

"It probably feels that way because they did."

He let out a shaky breath.

"I can't fix this."

You nodded once.

"No."

"I hate that."

"I know."

He was quiet for a long time before speaking again.

"So..." His voice had become very small. "What am I supposed to do now?"

You thought about Jonathan.

About the way he'd always laughed with his whole chest. The way he'd insisted everyone stay for another slice of pie. The way he'd looked at Clark with uncomplicated pride every single time he walked through the farmhouse door.

Then you answered as honestly as you could.

"You miss him."

Clark closed his eyes.

"You let yourself cry when it hurts."

Another silence.

"You tell stories about him until they stop feeling like stories and start feeling like memories you get to keep."

Your fingers remained intertwined with his.

"And you let the people who love you carry you for a while."

He didn't answer.

So you continued.

"One day, somebody will say something that sounds exactly like him, and you'll laugh."

A faint smile appeared despite the tears.

"And then you'll remember why it sounds like him."

His throat tightened.

"And you'll cry."

You smiled gently.

"For a while, yes."

He looked at you.

"And then?"

You looked back toward the stone.

"And then one day you'll laugh first."

Clark considered that for a long time.

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do."

His thumb slowly brushed across your knuckles.

"My dad used to say..." His voice was steadier now, though still fragile. "'Grief is just love that doesn't have anywhere to go.'"

You smiled through your tears.

"That sounds exactly like Jonathan Kent."

A real smile found Clark's face then.

Not a happy one.

Not even an unbroken one.

But unmistakably real.

"It does."

His gaze lifted toward the endless Kansas sky, where the first hints of evening had begun to soften the horizon.

"You know..." he said quietly, "I spent my whole life believing I was sent here to save the world."

His eyes returned to the earth beneath which his father rested.

"But Pa..."

His voice caught for only a moment.

"He spent his whole life showing me why it deserved saving."

The sun slipped lower, washing the cemetery in amber light.

Clark reached for your hand before you reached for his. His fingers threaded through yours with quiet certainty, holding on not because the grief had become any lighter, but because, at last, he had stopped trying to carry it as though it were his alone.

He finds her on the balcony, arms folded on the railing as she looks out over the city. She pretends not to hear him coming, but the way her heartbeat quickens with his footsteps gives her away. His lips turn up into a soft smile. That excited, delicate fluttering is one of his favorite ways to be welcomed home.

He slides the glass door open, and for a moment, it’s all he can do just to take her in. The faint silver glow of the moon leaves a halo shining in her hair. Her perfume dances lightly on the summer breeze, an intoxicating swirl in the air. And then she turns her head, just enough to flash him that smile, carefree and warm and all for him. 

It all comes together to tug at his heart, and finally he takes the few steps left to close the distance between them. He wraps his arms around her, his head dipping to rest his chin on her shoulder. But only for a moment. He can’t resist pressing a slow, languid kiss to her cheek…her jaw…her neck... Every movement is so effortless, so instinctual. It’s hard now to remember that there was ever a time before this. Before her.

The low vibration of her amused hum tickles against his lips. She turns in his arms, framing his face in her hands as she guides him down into a real kiss. And as they linger there, whatever else might have weighed on him fades away until all that’s left is her solace. It settles over him in a familiar wave.

She separates from him first. One hand drops to his shoulder, and the other carefully pushes back the mess of curls that have fallen into his face. This hand he takes in his own, holding it to his chest, right over his heart. Her fingers splay out over the spot, laying claim to that which belongs only to her.

He leans down again, his forehead against hers, their noses just grazing each other. And then he begins to sway with her, moving to some melody that exists solely and silently between them. She lets out a long breath, fully relaxing against him with her head on his shoulder. He thinks to himself, well aware of the cliché but paying it no mind, that he’d like to stay just like this forever. Nothing to define him except that he belongs with her.

The bullpen was never truly quiet, even on a slow news day. Phones rang like background percussion, television newsfeeds looped overhead, and coffee mugs clinked against desks in a rhythm so familiar it was almost comforting. 

Clark Kent had always liked that—noise meant life. It meant the world kept spinning.

What he didn’t like was gossip. Rumors.

It crept between desks like cigarette smoke, clinging to the air, to people’s voices, until the truth was impossible to recognize. He didn’t care for it, didn’t participate in it, didn’t even like hearing it. Too many times, people’s reputations had been chewed up and passed around this newsroom, and Clark Kent—farm boy, reporter, sometimes a little too earnest for his own good—had vowed he wouldn’t take part.

But, over the last three years, there had been one persistent rumor he could never entirely ignore. It had started as a joke among interns, gained traction in the copy room, and occasionally resurfaced in offhand comments: you and he—romantically involved. That you loved him.

Clark had always dismissed it with a polite chuckle, an internal eye-roll. You and him? Impossible. You're … too kind. Too brilliant. Too untouchable in the ways that matter. 

And yet, there was a small, stubborn part of him that had wondered. Not in a selfish way—he’d never let himself—but in that quiet, aching way that made him notice when you laughed at his jokes, or when your gaze lingered too long.

Gossip wasn’t real. Not facts. Not truth. 

So when Lois’s voice carried across the bullpen, sharp as a match strike, he tried to tune it out.

Operative word: tried.

"I still can’t believe she decked him," Lois said with a whistle to Cat, trying (and failing) to keep her tone casual. "Right there in the middle of Stag’s. Jimmy had to pull her off before the police got a call from the bartender."

"Damn, who knew how rowdy she could be," Jimmy groaned, massaging his shoulder, "Nothing like an impromptu Friday Night Smackdown match on a Wednesday night."

"Our sweet little sunshine reporter—," Cat gushed your name gleefully. "She can’t even kill a spider without crying for help, but she can for sure go twelve rounds if she had to."

Until he heard your name.

"Wait, what?" 

Three heads turned instantly. Cat blinked, caught mid-sip. Lois’s mouth twitched, like she was fighting a smirk. Jimmy froze halfway through twirling the pen in his hand.

Clark froze at his own interruption, his hands hovering above the keyboard. He didn’t mean to part-take, not really. His hearing was too sharp for his own good sometimes. But your name hit him like static and he couldn’t not.

"Clark," Lois said slowly, "how much of that did you hear?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh—enough to be concerned?"

He knew about the after-work plans, he’d been invited too. The group planned for Stag’s just down the street for a quick bite and drinks optional. Lois, Cat, Jimmy… and you. You’d turned to him before leaving, eyes bright and smile hopeful.

"I hope you come, Clark. We can share those loaded fries I’ve been craving."

He’d laughed it off, tugging at his tie, and adjusting his glasses with a shy smile. "Rain check. I’ve got something I need to handle tonight."

You’d known what something meant. You, Jimmy, and Lois were the only ones from work who did. You’d given him that wide and warm understanding smile—the one that always twisted something behind his ribs.

"Aww, I get it. You save the city. I’ll save you a seat next time."

And now—

Cat leaned back, all mischief and perfume. "Relax, Clarkie. Nobody’s dead. But our girl might’ve rearranged Harlow’s jawline last night."

Clark’s chest went cold. 

"Harlow? As in Grant Harlow?"

"The one and hopefully only!" Cat confirmed. 

Clark opened his mouth — then closed it again. Grant Harlow had been at the Planet for barely a month and had already managed to rub everyone the wrong way: smug, arrogant, the kind of reporter who thought "collaboration" was a threat to his ego. He’d spent the past month sniping at Clark in every editorial meeting, rolling his eyes whenever Clark spoke, muttering about "soft journalism." He’d made a few barbed jokes at Clark’s expense, too — calling him "farmhand," "Superman’s lapdog", once even "Lois’s charity case." Clark was irritated but let it all slide; words didn’t bruise.

But you?  

You were always the kind of person to brush off bruises with a joke, to laugh off a shove or a mean comment. Not confront it. So you? Throwing punches?

"Honestly," Lois pressed, a hand over her heart and hardness in her voice. "He had it coming. He’s been running his mouth for weeks. I didn’t know what he said or did really, but he got off easy that’s for sure."

"I heard Perry’s calling them in the office sometime today," Jimmy added solemnly. "HR will probably be in sometime. They’ll have a whole list, we’re probably on it, too."

"What did he do to her?" Clark urged, his voice strained.

Before anyone could answer, the elevators to the bullpen opened, and movement caught his eye.

The noise in the room shifted, just slightly. Conversations dipped. Eyes flicked up from screens. 

Grant Harlow, usually first in line for self-congratulatory banter, walked in stiffly, sunglasses in place. He was stoic, a faint bruise blooming along the side of his face. He avoided Clark’s gaze entirely, clutching his messenger bag like it contained state secrets, and dumped his belongings onto his desk. He hesitated for a brief moment, then slid his sunglasses off. His eyes flicked up — as if challenging the bullpen to comment on his shiner, but whatever brevity he had left drained away.

Because you had just walked in.

You crossed the floor with your bag slung over one shoulder, chin high, smile pinned in place, greeting everyone "Morning!" like sunlight bouncing off the marble floors.

Your smile was as if you practiced it in the mirror this morning, testing the limits of the split on the bottom of your lip. Your long-sleeve blouse hugged your frame in a way that always made Clark’s chest tighten, until he noticed the buttons tight on your wrist. You straightened your hair and framed it strategically along your face more than usual.

But up close, Clark saw the details you hadn’t written down—the faint purple shadow beneath your makeup. Your wince when you smiled at Lois and Cat, who came to greet you quickly with hugs and knowing looks. The way your wrist moved a little too cautiously waving back at Jimmy and when you smoothed your skirt.

Clark’s stomach dropped clean through the floor.

He rose from his desk in a heartbeat.

"Morning? That’s all I get?" he teased gently, standing beside your desk before you sat down.

"Hey, Clark!" you greeted, startled, sliding down to your chair. "You get a good morning."

He crouched beside your desk as you pretended to rummage through a stack of folders. He was eye level with you, observing. "You okay?"

You blinked, too quickly, turning your monitor on. "Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"

His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. He’d seen you walk into burning buildings for a quote, hold your recorder steady in the middle of chaos. He knew bravery when he saw it—and he knew when it was covering fear.

"You’re wearing long sleeves in July."

You glanced down at your blouse like you’d forgotten, then laughed—a little too bright. "Guess I’m cold."

His eyes dropped to your hands that rested on the desk. The edge of a brace peeked from beneath your cuff. You tried to tug the sleeve lower, but he caught your hand gently before you could snatch it away. His large thumb brushed over the black brace, frowning.

"What happened?"

You swallowed. "Slipped on my rug this morning. Real graceful, I know."

Clark’s brow furrowed, knowing it was a lie. "You should get that checked—"

"Already did," you interrupted softly, licking your sore lip. "I’m fine, Clark. Really."

He exhaled, but didn’t push. His hand lingered a second too long, then moved up, brushing your hair out of the way and skimmed a finger along the curve of your jaw where your concealer was thinner.

The contact was feather-light, but it silenced everything in you. Heat pooled low in your stomach, and you unconsciously rubbed your knees together. Clark didn’t touch people often; he was always careful, always respectful, always aware of his own strength. When he did, it meant something.

"How was last night?" he asked quietly, leaning in so close you could see your reflection in his glasses.

Across the bullpen, Lois muttered something about "unresolved tension," earning a pointed look from Cat.

"It was fine, I’m fine," you repeated, voice shrill from the contact. You smiled nervously, the corners trembling. "Promise."

He wanted to press, to keep holding your hand until you told him the truth, but you quickly excused yourself, mentioning needing to speak with the editing team at the back of the bullpen.

Clark stood there, palms open at his sides, heart hammering against his ribs. When he finally turned back to his desk, his eyes met the man sitting a few feet away— the one who’d made a sport of mocking Clark the past month— staring a hole through his skull.

Clark looked at him for a long, steady moment. Harlow dropped his gaze first.

You hit him, Clark realized, equal parts astonished and horrified, tight ache coiling in his chest. He did something to make you hit him.

He didn’t know the details. But the split on your lip, the brace on your wrist, the bruise along your jaw, the look in Harlow’s eyes—they told him enough.

And his mind was still stuck on the shape of your wrist beneath his palm and the way your voice trembled when you promised you were fine.

For the first time in three years, Clark felt the full weight of the rumors he’d ignored—the whispers, the offhand jokes, the persistent murmur about you and him—and realized they weren’t about gossip anymore. They were a warning. Something he could no longer pretend to dismiss.

Because now, he knew: the rumor had some truth. Not about who you were with—but about how he felt when it came to you.

.

Morning dragged in long, tense swaths of hallways, elevator rides, and breakroom collisions.  

Every time you passed him, your fingers brushed against his how it usually did—not enough to be noticed by anyone else, but enough to make heat pool low in his chest. He wanted to stop you and ask more about last night, but he couldn’t. Not with all the prying eyes and ears. 

Later, Lois leaned against the pillar next to his desk, lowering her voice as she stirred her coffee.

"Harlow pushed her last night at Stag’s. Not physically, at least, but he said—she—" she glanced at your currently vacant desk, "—She kept yelling at him to shut up."

"What did he say exactly?" Clark asked, careful not to let his voice carry.

"He—look," Lois said, exhaling. "I can’t tell you everything. I stepped away for the bathroom, next thing I know, he was creeping on her. I did see her punch him."

That was it. Not enough. His fingers flexed at his sides, nails pressing into the palm of his skin until it left little crescent moons. The story didn’t add up, and he could feel the worry gnawing.

By midmorning, the bullpen had turned into a living organism — murmurs running from desk to desk like veins carrying caffeine and speculation. Clark cursed his superhearing. 

At the reception desk, one of the interns whispered, "No, I swear, he spilled his drink on her. Like, all over. She tried to clean it up and everyone thought she was wasted."

Another intern leaned in. "No, no — I heard she tried to save him. He was choking on a fry, and she went full nurse-mode, Heimlich and all."

The first scoffed. "Please. Since when does she carry that much upper-body strength?"

Over by the windows, two columnists exchanged knowing looks. 

"Well, I heard she was on a date with him," one said, clicking her pen. "And it went… badly."

"How badly?"

"Bad enough to throw a punch."

"Poor girl," the other murmured, stirring her coffee. "But really, what was she doing with Harlow anyway? I thought she was with Kent."

"I thought so too! I wonder how he’s taking all this."

Their eyes flicked toward his desk, and he could feel their eyes.

Clark heard it all. Every fragmented half-truth, every version of events that made you sound smaller, messier, unrecognizable.

He stared at his monitor, screen blank, and tried not to break the pen in his hand.

Lunch was worse. Jimmy and Cat were both perched on a stool near the counter leaning in with a conspiratorial tilt of their head.

"I didn’t know he was there, too," Cat started, chewing on her kale salad. "I went to close my tab for just a second, and he’s there calling her all sorts of names. Tease. Flirt. I swear he called her a slut. Ugh, Clark, you would’ve been so mad."

Clark clenched his thermos until the metal bent, unheard amid the lunch chatter. Yes, he would’ve been mad.

She patted her lips with a napkin, excusing herself to fix her makeup and to make sure kale wasn’t stuck in her teeth. Jimmy sidled up closer beside Clark, voice low.

"I heard more. He… he said some awful things about Superman, too. Brought you into it. Trashed your work."

"My work?"

"Your ‘interviews’," Jimmy supplied with a raised brow, shaking his head. "He’s still on that Superman-hate train Luthor put out there months ago. Even though we cleared it up! Talk about a shitty reporter, right? Like who hired the man?"

Clark rolled his eyes, unphased by the scrutiny he faced as Superman, but didn’t comment. 

"And…"Jimmy swallowed, lowering his voice. "I…I think I saw him try to kiss her."

Clark’s hand tightened around the thermos until it crushed like an empty soda can, the faint metallic crack masked by the hum of conversation. Irritation mixed with the ache in his chest. 

You were okay, though. He told himself that. You were fine. You’d always been stronger than anyone expected. But the idea of someone hurting you—taking advantage of you—made him clench his jaw until it ached.

He return to his desk after lunch, trying to bury himself in work, but another thread of gossip reached him from the coffee bar.

"I heard she threw the first punch.

"Good for her, he’s a jackass"

"Still — Kent can’t be thrilled. You think there’s truth to the rumors about them?"

"Oh, come on, you’ve seen them together. If they’re not in love, I’ll eat my badge and shit it out in Perry’s trashcan."

"Two things. One: that’s gross, dude. Two: maybe this’ll make them finally admit it."

Laughter again, careless and sharp.

Clark exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus on the blinking cursor. The bullpen’s hum blurred into a low roar in his ears. He didn’t move until Lois brushed past him, a firm hand on his shoulder— the kind that said I know, but don’t.

Still, his pulse didn’t settle. The metal thermos sat mangled on the counter beside him, evidence of everything he wouldn’t say out loud.

.

A little after two in the afternoon, Perry’s door opened, his thunderous voice finally calling your name as Jimmy predicted that morning.

"My office!" Perry barked, his eyes and everyone else’s focuse on you.

You froze and swore to yourself, "Shit."

Clark glanced past Perry and to the HR rep already sitting inside, manila folder in their hand. You stood up, straightened your blouse, shoulders squaring, mask slipping into place again.

Clark stood to his full height and reached out as you passed him, catching your sleeve. Just for a second.

"Hey."

You stopped short, startled by the gentleness in his voice. "Sorry, Clark, I gotta go—I’ll be back soon—"

His voice softened around your name. "We have to talk after, okay?"

Something unreadable flickered in your eyes—fear, relief, maybe both—was enough to make him want to sweep the office clear, to take you somewhere safe and ask you to tell him everything.

You nodded once, placing a hand over his, "Okay."

Then you turned and walked toward Perry’s office, heels clicking against the linoleum.

The bullpen noise continued around him, but Clark’s eyes were fixed on your empty desk. 

You re-emerged fourty minutes later, cheeks faintly flushed, hair just slightly mussed, hands folded in front of you like armor.

Clark was halfway out of his chair before you caught his gaze, but waved him off with that brilliant, careful smile that had always softened something inside him.

"All good," you said quietly as you passed his desk, voice lilting in that practiced, warm way. "HR stuff. Nothing to worry about. We can talk after work."

Something in you—even just the tone, the slight shrug of your shoulders—reassured him. You hadn’t been fired. You weren’t in trouble. Still, he felt the pull of need to ask more, just to make sure.

But before he could move, the door opened again. Grant Harlow was called into Perry’s office. 

There were a few snickers from across the bullpen.

Clark swallowed, fists clenching briefly. Harlow had the gall to saunter past his desk, smug under the fluorescent lights, a silent smirk that didn’t reach his swollen and bruised face. He didn’t look like the same arrogant reporter all month, not now. He looked…worried.

Clark noticed the door to Perry’s office was closed for far longer. 

.

The newsroom had emptied to its after-hours hum, the golden light outside dimming against the glass. Most desks sat abandoned now, monitors off, stray papers curling at their corners from the air vents.

Clark was returning from the breakroom, lingering around to hopefully catch that promised conversation with you. The hallway stretched long and fluorescent, reflecting his own faint silhouette in the glass panels. 

At the far end, Grant came striding out of the bullpen, a box of his belongings in hand.

Grant’s expression was pinched, mean, like the taste of something sour he couldn’t spit out. His tie hung crooked, his eyes ringed with exhaustion and fury.

Clark hadn’t meant to stare. He’d only paused a moment, his gaze catching on the box, the man’s black eye, and hid expression—resentful, mean around the edges. But Grant noticed.

"What the fuck are you looking at, Kent?" Grant snapped, his voice carrying down the empty corridor.

Clark blinked, the words landing sharp in his ears. His instinct was to de-escalate. He drew a breath, exhaled slowly, and kept his voice even.

"Nothing, man. Just heading back to my desk."

Clark passed him, meaning to walk away.

"Hey!"

He ignored it.

"Hey, Lois’s charity case!"

He almost faltered, but kept walking.

"Hey, farmhand! Tell your bitch of a girlfriend to keep her hands to herself!"

Clark’s spine went rigid. He turned then—slowly, deliberately. His expression was calm, but the stillness in his eyes had changed. 

"Excuse me?"

Grant laughed, a short, bitter sound.

"You heard me. Because of your little reporter princess, HR decided to make me their example! On my first month, Kent. I’m booted. My career here’s over, and it’s her damn fault."

Grant shifted his box from one arm to another, and marched to close the distance. Clark smelled cheap aftershave following him. He then jabbed a finger at Clark’s chest, the motion careless and too close.

"That sweet little thing, always smiling, wearing those clothes. Everyone trips over themselves for her. She bats those damn eyes just to plays victim all the way to HR."

Clark’s jaw flexed. He could hear his own heartbeat, a low, steady drum under the hum of the lights. He told himself to stay calm. He had to. Grant Harlow was human. And Clark Kent didn’t start fights.

Grant went on, voice dropping into something acidic.

"I was just trying to be nice to her at Stag’s. Told her she could do better than some nobody reporter who hides behind his glasses and writes puff pieces on Superman. Guess that touched a nerve."

Clark’s stomach dropped.

He mimed a flinch, almost mocking. "I was just trying to make her see reason. She wouldn’t even stay still long enough to listen. She’s shoving me! Wailing on me! Makes a whole damn scene."

Grant kept talking, as if trying to convince himself, "Whole thing got blown out of proportion. Perry’s breathing down my neck, and now I’m canned by HR for harassment! Because of her!"

"You put your hands on her," Clark said quietly. "And you think that’s her fault."

"Fuck yes, man! It is her fault—"

"Stop talking," Clark cut in, voice low and steady. "Right now."

The hallway seemed smaller, air denser, the overhead lights too bright.

Clark took a step forward before he could stop himself. The air seemed to tighten around them. The mild-mannered posture he wore every day slipped, replaced by something steadier, heavier—the same quiet authority that people heard when Superman spoke.

"I gave you two passes," he said firmly. "One, when you called her that."

"What? You mean bit—" Clark towered over him, pining him with a heated, unavoidable glare, silencing him.

"Another, when you admitted to putting your hands on her. You won’t be lucky on your third."

For a moment, Grant froze, eyes darting up to meet Clark’s. Whatever he saw there—immutable authority that came from someone who’d faced far greater evils than office bullies and harassers—made him falter. 

Clark straightened, adjusted his glasses, the moment already past.

"She’s stronger than you think, but you already know that. And she obviously doesn’t need me to fight her battles—but if I ever hear that you bothered her again, you’ll wish losing your job was the worst thing that happened."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving the newly unemployed man rooted in place, the lights humming overhead.

.

You were packing up slowly, fingers moving through the practiced ritual of shutting down your computer, slipping your notes into your bag. The motions helped; they gave your nerves something to do while you waited.

You’d promised Clark you’d talk later, and part of you had rehearsed a dozen ways to downplay the day—to make it sound normal, forgivable, fine. But when you heard his footsteps before you saw him, that plan unraveled.

There was something different about Clark—something still. The easy warmth that usually followed him into a room was muted now, replaced by a quiet, controlled storm that clung to his shoulders.

You smiled anyway, wide enough to be convincing. The motion pulled at the split in your lip, and you tasted iron.

"Hey," you managed, sucking on your bottom lip to hide the blood. "I was waiting for you."

Clark didn’t answer right away. His gaze moved over your face just like this morning—searching, cataloguing—the faint swelling along your jaw, the way you were holding your wrist like it hurt to move. When his eyes finally met yours, there was no judgment, only something that felt heavier: sorrow, anger carefully contained, and a tenderness so fierce it made your throat tighten.

He crossed the distance between you before you could try again, his presence swallowing the space in a way that didn’t feel threatening, only inevitable. Without saying a word, he reached up—large hand hovering near your cheek but not quite touching, as though afraid to hurt you.

"Clark?" you whispered, nervous, because everyone else had gone home and the bullpen lights were low and there was so much feeling sitting between you it almost buzzed.

He just looked at you for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. "Come with me," he said.

His hand settled lightly at your back—barely there, just enough to guide. The warmth of it bled through your blouse as he steered you down the adjacent hallway, the one that led toward the small single-occupancy restrooms tucked behind the copy room. His touch never tightened, never assumed. But you felt it like an anchor, quiet and sure.

No one stopped you. The hallway was deserted, humming only with the sound of the building settling for the night.

At the door, he paused, glancing at you as though asking permission without needing to speak. You nodded once, pulse loud in your ears.

He opened it, gestured you in first, then closed it behind you. The small restroom smelled faintly of paper soap and the sharp tang of disinfectant. The soft click of the lock sounded too final, too intimate.

You turned to face him, words catching behind your ribs. Clark just pocketed his glasses and leaned against the door, head bowed enough that the light haloed his dark hair. He didn’t speak, and the silence stretched, steady and soft, but his eyes—those impossibly bright blue eyes— looked down at you like they were trying to make you whole again.

You stood by the sink and turned the faucet on, a folded paper towel pressed to your lip, watching the water stain bloom red before fading to pink then nothing.

Eventually, you caved with a sigh. "I know you want to talk. Before I say anything, I want you to know that you’re a good man, Clark."

His brows knit, a quiet breath leaving him. "T-thank you. I try to be."

You shook your head, dabbing once more at the cut before meeting his eyes. "No, Clark. You are a good man."

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat moving like he was holding back more words than he could manage.

You threw the paper towel away, gripping the edge of the sink. "At the bar, everything was fine…" you began, the words fragile but unstoppable. "Then Lois went to the bathroom. Cat went closing her tab. Jimmy was flirting with a girl a few booths down, and I—" You laughed once, brittle. "I was just minding my business, eating my fries."

Clark didn’t move. He just listened, eyes fixed on yours.

"Harlow came up from nowhere," you continued. "Asked me out, and I told him no. Said it nicely the first time, then firmer when he wouldn’t let it go." The next words trembled.

"He put his hand on my jaw, made me look at him, and tried to kiss me. I pushed him off, but he held on long enough for me to bruise." You gestured toward your jaw, toward your split lip.

Clark’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. "Was that all?"

"I emailed Perry right away. I didn’t want to make it a thing, but it felt wrong to keep quiet," you murmured. "I just wanted it to stop."

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The air shifted—warm, charged. "What I don’t understand," he said quietly, "is why it hit you so hard when he started talking about Superman. About me."

You groaned. Of course, he knew about that. 

"Why?"

The silence that followed was sharp enough to hear your pulse in it.

"I couldn’t stand hearing that idiot talk about you that way," you went on, eyes on the tiled floor. "Not when I know who you are. How kind you are because of your parents. What an incredible journalist you are because you care. What you’ve done as Superman. I’ve watched you be so good—believe in people—and he tried to tear that down like it was nothing. He’s so lost in those rumors, the gossip about you—Superman you."

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, "I lost my temper, Clark. I punched him, and we fell to the floor, but I couldn’t stop yelling at him to just shut up. I know everyone else at work was itching to do it, too. But I was so mad he touched me, and I couldn’t bear to hear anyone say those awful things about you."

You laughed softly, embarrassed, playing with the velcro of your wrist brace. "Ugh, I feel so immature. Like I was part of an afterschool fight at the flagpole."

He chuckled softly and took a step forward, so close now that the fabric of his shirt brushed your sleeve, and said your name. "Look at me," he said gently.

You did.

His eyes were steady, ocean-deep, and his jaw flexed once, twice, as though he was trying to work through the right words before he spoke. "Don’t talk about it like you did something wrong."

You looked up, surprised.

"You were defending yourself," he went on, eyes searching yours. "You were defending what you believe in and that’s… that’s never wrong." He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Then he continued, "I won’t lie, I didn’t expect you to ever get into a bar fight. That wasn't on my bingo card." A grin bloomed across his face, equal parts fond and entertained. "But I also can’t pretend I don’t understand it."

"I didn’t want to tell you what happened," you pouted. "You’d feel guilty, beat yourself up. I’ve known you a long time, loved you for a long time. No way I’d let you—," you said before you could stop yourself.

Your breath caught. "Wait—I mean! Uhh—"

Clark shook his head, cutting you off. "You love me? Like as friends or..."

You breathed. There was no turning back now. "More than a friend, Clark. I love you."

The sound of your own voice made your stomach twist, your head dipping. You braced, expecting him to recoil, to say you were mistaken, that this was all wrong.

"You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that," he whispered, voice low and steady.

The confession landed like an exhale you’d both been holding for years. The restroom felt smaller, brighter. You saw the corners of his mouth soften, saw the storm in him ease just enough to let the warmth through.

Then he leaned in—slowly, giving you every chance to pull back—and kissed you, soft, careful, at the corner of your mouth where the skin wasn’t broken. It was over in a heartbeat, but the air afterward felt different: charged, alive, full of everything you’d both been holding back.

"I love you too. As more than a friend."

You don’t remember deciding to move, only the pull.

One moment Clark was still close enough that you could see the tremor in his jaw post-confession; the next, your fingers were curling around the front of his dress shirt, tugging him down. The second kiss was hungry, shameless.

Clark’s hands wrapped instinctively at your waist. When he deepened the kiss, you melted into him, the cool porcelain of the sink pressing against the backs of your thighs as he lifted you to sit there. You could feel the restrained strength in him, how hard he was trying not to grip too tightly, not to lose control.

His nose traced the line of your jaw, and you flinched where the bruise was darkest. He pulled black slightly and held your jaw with care, a stark contrast to how it was treated the night before.

"I’m sorry, does it hurt here?" Clark murmured, voice low, almost hoarse, stroking your jawline. You nodded. He pressed a slow kiss there—barely a touch.

Then his lips found the curve of your throat, the line where your pulse fluttered against his breath. One hand splayed on your hip and the other against your knee. His thumb brushed your inner thigh just where your skirt ended in slow, absent circles that sent burning heat through you.

"Where else? Tell me, wanna make it better," he asked tenderly. 

You let out a short laugh, soft and breathy, tilting your head just enough to meet his heated gaze. "Now that you ask," you whispered, teasingly, your fingers brushing along the fabric of Clark’s sleeve. "Jimmy had a strong grip on my….my shoulders… collarbone…and here…"

Your hand brushed along your sternum, where the valley of your breast rested.

"Gosh, you’re a mess, darlin’," Clark breathed, a mixture of amusement and concern flickering. "An incredible rowdy mess."

Clark leaned back in, his large hands moving to the buttons of your blouse. His touch was careful, tender—never rushed, never forceful. One by one, he eased the buttons open to allow him to press lingering, reverent kisses along the tops of your shoulders and the curve of your collarbone, his hair tickling the underside of your jaw. Each kiss was a promise, gentle and full of warmth. 

Then his nose traced the hollow at the top of your chest, slow and purposeful. You shivered, leaning into him, heart racing with the tension between them. Each kiss was a quiet exploration, intimate and charged, a dance of trust and desire, letting him map the places that hurt, the places that ached from bruises, and somehow turning that ache into warmth.

You tilted your head back, letting the fabric slip a little more under his touch. His hand stayed steady at your waist, grounding you, while his lips trailed down, lingering just above the swell of your breasts. Tasting, claiming, and stretching the moment with every heartbeat.

You let out a soft sigh, pressing closer. "…my knees hurt, too."

Clark’s deep chuckle vibrated through you as he crouched, pressing delicate, feather-light kisses along your knees and inner thighs. 

"There’s a little bruise here," he murmured with displeasure, lips tracing the mark with reverence rather than force. Your eyes fluttered shut, shivering at the intimacy and letting yourself melt into him.

He straightened slightly, hands moving to gently cradle your thighs as he peered up, holding your gaze. "You’ve been through too much, sweetheart," he whispered. "But I’m right here. I’ll take care of you."

You sighed, breathless, heart racing, letting your hands weave into the fabric of his tie, tugging him up to hold him close. 

"Are you okay? Was this okay?" he asked quietly, not prying, just wanting to know every mark, every ache, every part of you he could soothe without words.

You smiled, breathless, "Yes, this was perfect."

Something in him shifted at that—his expression softening, tension bleeding away until all that was left was wonder. He rested his forehead against yours, a quiet affirmation that he was here and he was yours. 

You pressed a hand to his chest, the one with the wristbrace, and felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. "You’re a damn good man, Clark," you repeated, letting your lips brush his again, slow and lingering, sealing your devotion to him.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.  Every whisper of contact made it impossible to remember the world outside that tiny restroom. There was only the quiet hum between heartbeats, the faint taste of him still on your lips, and the way his thumb brushed your cheek as if memorizing you.

.

The bullpen was nearly empty, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the distant echo of custodial carts the only sound. Security lingered near the front doors, and you and Clark walked side by side, the evening light from the windows painting your paths in gold.

You tugged your bag tighter over your shoulder, glancing at him with a mixture of relief and lingering disbelief. 

"I’m so happy Harlow’s gone," you sighed. "Honestly… he was such a jerk. Especially to you all month. I’m glad HR listened to me. You know how rare that’d be elsewhere?"

Clark’s lips curved, a faint blush creeping up the back of his neck. "Yeah, honestly, I’m glad too. I wouldn’t want to work with a creep," He hesitated, then admitted, voice quiet, almost sheepish. "I actually… had a little confrontation with him before I came to see you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He scratched the back of his neck, looking every bit as bashful as he sounded. "I may have… suggested very strongly that he should never, ever bother you again."

You stifled a laugh, touched by the protective undercurrent. "Claaaark, no!" you moaned scandalized, nudging him gently with your elbow, "threatening someone? That doesn’t seem like Clark Kent’s style."

"He started it first!" He exclaimed, a wide grin tugging at his lips. "And…well, maybe I made an exception."

You shook your head, amused, but your chest felt warm. "I guess some things are worth bending the rules for," you said softly.

For a moment, the two of you fell into a companionable silence, the kind that comes from trust, relief, and the quiet aftermath of chaos. Then you snorted, remembering the gossip that had started it all.

"Just promise me," you said, voice light, "if you ever hear anything juicy about me getting into another scuffle, you’ll at least let me tell the story first."

Clark laughed, a deep, warm sound, as he brushed a strand of hair from your face, careful not to touch the bruised skin. "Deal. As long as you tell me it’s not another tussle with your rug."

You leaned into him, smiling, feeling the tension of the day melt away as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder.