The Last Son of Krypton

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. 

But then it kept happening. Night after night.

Now Dog was stretched fully across your lap by the low fire, his head heavy on your thigh, eyes half-closed in pure contentment as your fingers worked slow, steady circles behind his ears. The dog looked stupidly relaxed, like he’d found a rare bit of heaven in a world that usually offered nothing but dirt, blood, and hard ground.

Daryl stood a few feet back from the flames, crossbow slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dark tree line out of habit. He kept glancing over anyway, unable to help himself.

“Traitor,” he muttered under his breath.

You looked up from where you sat against the fallen log, a small smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. “You talking to him or me?”

“Dog,” Daryl answered, walking closer with that familiar loose stride. He dropped down across the fire from you, elbows resting on his knees as he settled in. “Definitely the dog this time.”

Dog flicked one ear at the sound of his voice but didn’t bother lifting his head. His tail gave one lazy thump against your leg, like he was too comfortable to do anything more.

You chuckled quietly, still stroking the dog’s side with slow, absent movements. “He’s got good taste. Warmth and company beat sleeping alone on the cold ground any night.”

“He’s got fur,” Daryl grumbled, pulling an arrow from his quiver just to have something to do with his hands. He checked the fletching even though it was perfectly fine. The fire crackled softly between you, pushing back the evening chill that had been settling in around the edges of camp. Somewhere out in the dark, a walker groaned once, low and distant. Nothing close enough to worry about tonight.

You shrugged lightly, glancing down at Dog with a fond look. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like a little extra attention now and then. You gonna sit over there all night pretending you’re not feeling the cold too?”

Daryl eyed the narrow space beside you. Dog was hogging most of it, sprawled out like he owned the spot, but there was just enough room left. He hesitated for a second, jaw tight, then stood with a quiet sigh and moved around the fire. He lowered himself down next to you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. Close enough to share some warmth, not so close that it felt forced or awkward.

Dog immediately shifted, stretching out lazily until half his weight rested against Daryl’s leg. The tail thumped again, slower this time, full of quiet satisfaction.

“Pushy bastard,” Daryl said, but his voice had lost most of its earlier edge. He let his hand rest on the dog’s back, fingers idly brushing through the thick fur. Not quite petting, just acknowledging the animal was there between you.

You leaned your head back against the rough bark of the fallen log, keeping your shoulder pressed comfortably to Daryl’s. “See? He’s happy now. Both of us here. Feels better than sitting alone on opposite sides of the fire, doesn’t it?”

Daryl grunted in response, staring into the dancing flames. The firelight played across his face, softening the usual hard lines around his eyes and mouth just a little. “Yeah. Suppose it does.” He paused, then added gruffly, “You’re good with him. Real patient. Most people lose interest in a dog like him pretty quick out here.”

You smiled a little, your fingers continuing their gentle path through Dog’s fur. “He’s not hard to like once you get used to him. Loyal. Quiet when it counts. Reminds me of someone else I know pretty well.”

Daryl bumped your shoulder with his own, the contact light and almost playful. “Shut up.”

But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he settled in a bit deeper, letting the comfortable quiet stretch between you for a while. The night felt calmer with the three of you like this, the steady crackle of burning wood, Dog’s even breathing, and the solid warmth of Daryl’s presence beside you. Small comforts like these were rare in a world that rarely handed them out willingly.

After a few minutes, you spoke again, keeping your voice low. “You know he still follows you every morning when you head out scouting. Looks for you first thing, every time. You’re still his favorite. I’m just… extra.”

Daryl glanced sideways at you, his expression guarded but with something warmer flickering underneath. “Didn’t ask for extra.”

“Too bad,” you teased lightly, the words carrying no real pressure. “You got it anyway.”

He snorted softly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in that tiny, rare almost-smile he sometimes let slip. Dog sighed deeply between you, completely relaxed, like he knew exactly what he’d accomplished by nudging the two of you closer together without trying.

Daryl’s hand shifted slightly, brushing against yours where it rested on the dog’s side. Neither of you moved away. His rough fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing a slow, absent line across your knuckles before settling comfortably.

“Still a traitor,” he muttered, looking down at Dog with a hint of reluctant fondness.

“Yeah,” you whispered, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder. “But a good one. Gets us sitting like this instead of freezing separately in the dark.”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. He just stayed right there, letting you rest against him while the fire kept the worst of the chill at bay. The distant groans of walkers felt farther off than usual, almost easy to tune out. For a little while, the whole world narrowed down to this simple moment: the dog warm and heavy across both your laps, Daryl’s shoulder steady under your head, and the quiet understanding passing between you that didn’t need big words or declarations.

“Guess it ain’t so bad,” he said eventually, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You smiled against the fabric of his jacket, the expression small and content. “No. Not bad at all.”

The three of you stayed like that long into the night, sharing the small stretch of peace and warmth while the rest of the uncertain world waited just beyond the reach of the firelight.

Despite everything people assumed about Daryl Dixon, despite the cigarettes and the silence and the rough edges that made strangers dismiss him before he even spoke, his first instinct had always been loyalty. “Ain’t runnin’ from it.” And you knew him well enough to know he meant it.

The months that followed were ugly in ways neither of you had expected. Not because of the baby, but because the world around you made it painfully clear how little faith it had in the possibility of people like you surviving together.

Your parents looked at Daryl the way people looked at storms rolling over the horizon when they'd just planned to go out: dangerous, inconvenient. Your mother cried quietly over dinner while your father spoke in measured, humiliating sentences about ruined opportunities and "so much wasted potential", about all the money spent on private schools, ballet classes, and piano lessons just to watch you throw your future away for some mechanic from the “wrong side” of town who barely spoke in complete sentences.

Daryl sat through every word with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack from the pressure. He never defended himself, raised his voice or begged. He simply endured it because you were pregnant, exhausted, and scared, and somewhere in that silence he had decided your comfort mattered more than his pride.

Your son was born during a thunderstorm after nine painful hours of labor. It felt like the weather itself mimicked your screams with thunder shaking the hospital windows. And against your parents’ wishes, Daryl stayed beside you the entire time.

The gentle nurse who spoke to you afterward admitted she had never seen a man more terrified in her life than when he heard you screaming in pain.

Once the baby was finally placed against your chest, Daryl felt his entire world change. He muttered something under his breath while staring down at the tiny screaming infant wrapped in blue blankets, looking stunned in the purest sense of the word. The baby had his eyes.

For a while, the two of you tried. God, you tried harder than most people ever knew. Daryl picked up extra work wherever he could find it, often coming home with grease on his hands and exhaustion dragging beneath his eyes so heavily it aged him years overnight, while you balanced college classes with motherhood and constant battles against your parents’ disappointment.

You were exhausted all the time, surviving on burnt coffee, interrupted sleep, and a stubborn love that refused to die even when life gave it every reason to.

But eventually the pressure became unbearable.

Your parents escalated from disapproval to ultimatums, threatening to cut you off completely — tuition, housing, every safety net you and your son had left.

You and Daryl had your final fight the night your son turned three, screaming at each other in the apartment kitchen while the little boy slept in the next room. You knew in that moment that you would remember the look in his eyes for the rest of your life, the exact moment Daryl realized you were drowning beneath expectations you could no longer carry.

“Ya think I wanna be the reason your whole damn life falls apart?” he snapped, voice raw with frustration and heartbreak tangled together. “Think I don’t see what this is doin’ to you?”

“It’s not you." you cried back immediately.

“But I’m in your way.”

“Daryl—”

“Yer family’ll never see me as one of ‘em, and they already said they’ll cut you out if ya stay with me.” He cupped your cheeks, taking a deep breath before continuing, calmer now. “I don’t want our son havin’ a life like mine.” a tiny pause. “He has opportunities here.” the last sentence was barely above a whisper.

You let out the most heartbreaking sob he had ever heard, simply because loving someone wasn’t always enough to survive the machinery of the world crushing down around you.

You separated six months later. There were nonstop tears, shaking hands, and promises to stay kind to each other for your son’s sake, and somehow, against all odds, you managed it. You became good coparents. Great ones, even. Better friends than lovers by the end of it, as you liked to lie to yourself.

Daryl stayed involved no matter how far life dragged him, showing up for birthdays with awkwardly wrapped gifts and scraped knuckles, teaching your son how to fish before he learned long division, how to track deer prints through mud, how to throw a punch without breaking his wrist, how to survive disappointment quietly.

Your son adored his dad with that fierce, uncomplicated love children reserved for fathers who made them feel safe, and Daryl loved the boy with a devotion so profound it terrified him.

You kept your relationship heartfelt, every time you asked him how he was doing it was genuine, and vice versa. Every year since your son turned four, you sat on the corners of his birthdays enjoying to catch up with eachother, slipping curious questions like "Are you seeing anyone?" after some alcohol kicked in and the answer was always no, of course it was no.

Truth be told, you kept expecting something change and finally get over eachother, but you weren't really willing to let go, some time after his 13th birthday party ended, you caved in, had a relapse, snuck out with Daryl like a teenager and had sex on his trailer. The next morning you came back home with the bitter taste you weren't allowing yourself to have more of him purely out of cowardice, that you should face it like an adult and allow yourself to be fully happy for once.

Then the world ended.

You had taken a trip with your son to visit your aunt Deanna miles away from where Daryl lived, the true love of your life, if you were honest enough to admit it. You were ready to be back and tell him how sorry you were that you didn't try harder, you didn't push more and you didn't face your folks for him. And then you grieved him again. So much harder this time. You spent two years believing Daryl Dixon was dead.

Alexandria smelled like fresh bread and woodsmoke the afternoon everything changed. The gates opened to receive Aaron back with another group of survivors. You'd grown fond of him in these years and he treated you and your son like his own family.

Aaron walks in first, dirt-streaked clothes and a tired look on his face. You were halfway through unloading crates with your son, he was talking about his last hunting trip when he suddenly froze mid-sentence beside you. Almost sixteen now, he towered over you already — all broad shoulders and long limbs, his sharp blue-gray eyes mirroring his father’s so painfully that sometimes you had to look away not to cry.

The abrupt tension that overtook him made you glance to where his eyes layed immediately. Then you understood why. It felt like a mirage. You had dreamed of this moment so many times before that your first instinct was to believe this was just another cruel fantasy made up by your brain, that it would disappear the second you blinked.

But it didn't. He didn't.

A group of strangers entered through the gates alongside him, people you had never seen before. They looked exhausted, starved, worn down by the world. And right in front on them, Daryl.

He stood only a few feet away near the gate. A crossbow hung oven one shoulder and he looked older now, older than you'd expect someone to age in two years. His hair was long, streaked faintly near the temples, his gaze was harsher and his face was scarred in ways visible even from a distance. Grief had settled like concrete into the lines of his face the way exhaustion settles into old soldiers.

But his eyes were exactly the same. And they locked onto you so intensely you felt it burn.

A woman with snow-white hair stood beside him saying something he clearly wasn’t listening to, because he had gone completely still. Completely, horrifyingly still.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved. The noise around you faded strangely, like the entire world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale again.

The crate slipped from your hands and hit the pavement hard enough to crack open one corner, canned food spilling across the ground, but neither of you cared because Daryl’s expression had already begun collapsing into something raw and disbelieving and dangerously emotional. You watched his gaze move frantically over your face like he was trying to confirm you were real before running to your encounter, he hugged you tighter than he ever did "You're alive." he kept repeating hoarsely, over and over like he genuinely could not process it. “Jesus Christ, you’re alive."

When he finally opened his eyes to look behind you, he shifted his gaze to your son. The boy stared back at him in stunned silence, every feature unmistakably Dixon beneath the years neither of them had shared together, and Daryl looked like someone had physically struck him across the chest.

The woman beside him glanced between all three of you once before realization visibly dawned across her face, then spread silently through the rest of the group nearby.

Daryl Dixon had a son, a nearly grown son. And somehow none of them had ever known. He'd mentioned having lost people, they all did, but nothing ever specific.

“Holy shit,” a tall, muscular redhead muttered somewhere behind them, not even trying to lower his voice, and nobody corrected him.

Daryl broke from your hug, finally took one shaky step forward, then another.

His breathing looked uneven now, chest rising too sharply beneath the worn fabric of his vest, and you realized with sudden overwhelming clarity that this man had mourned you. Deeply mourned you. Somewhere out there in the brutality of the apocalypse, Daryl had believed you were dead all these years, and whatever walls he had built around himself afterward were cracking apart in real time right in front of everyone.

His voice broke the second he spoke your son’s name.

He blinked rapidly, clearly trying not to look emotional in front of an entire audience, but his composure failed almost instantly. “Dad?”

The sound that escaped Daryl after that barely qualified as human. He crossed the distance in seconds.

And when he wrapped his arms around his son for the first time in two years, holding him so tightly it looked almost desperate, the entire courtyard fell silent around them because nobody there had ever seen Daryl Dixon unravel before. Not with tears visibly gathering in his eyes while his son clung back just as fiercely, laughing shakily despite himself because he could barely breathe beneath the force of the embrace.

When they parted he held you again, afraid that if he let go maybe you'd vanish on thin air. And just like that, the pain of the years apart disappeared between you. There was no more space for it. You had spent years regretting letting him go after believing the two of you had been permanently separated forever.

Now, standing in his arms again, you could physically feel the love that had lingered there all this time. Quieter now. Older now. Reshaped by time and grief and survival. But still there.