mina

That’s why you’re here now, standing out of apartment 5B at peak rush hour, desperately knocking on his door. Your boss had called you just a half hour ago, asking—demanding, really—that you cover someone else’s 6PM shift. Calum stands beside you, blinking slowly, still drowsy after his nap earlier that afternoon, but there’s an eager look on his face as he anticipates spending the evening at Clark’s. His favourite Superman plushy is tucked under his arm, a little dirty from being dragged around all day, every day.

“Claaark, you in there?” You call out, rapping your fingers on the hard wood, your movements lazy and irritated.

It doesn’t take much longer before he  finally answers the stupid door. He’s a little out of breath, like he’s just run a marathon, but his normally messy hair is gelled back, a single curly strand resting against his forehead. His glasses are askew on his nose, a little tilted as putting them on was an afterthought. He gives you a onceover, taking in your wrinkled uniform —if he notices your sweater tag sticking out below your chin, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Hey. Sorry, I was… on a work call.”

You start to frown. A work call? At 5PM? And he didn’t hear you once? 

Unusual as his schedule may seem, you shake the thought away. “My boss scheduled me for a shift last minute. Can you look after Calum while I’m gone?”

Before Clark can even consider opening his mouth to answer you, your son comes barrelling in, throwing himself into Clark’s arms with a screech. “Hi, Mr Clark!”

“Hi, buddy.” Clark laughs, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it. And more than anything, he looks tired, like a little bit of mental rest is all he needs. 

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” you say apologetically, quickly rethinking your decision to leave Calum with him. You’re already holding your hand out, ready to take Cal back as the alternatives rush through your mind—Mrs Vanderbilt downstairs adores taking care of kids, but you know he hates her food. Janet-three-doors-down used to babysit when she was younger, though she’s been known to bring people around lately to do God knows what with God knows who.

“Stop.” Clark interrupts your spiralling thoughts, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s okay. I’ve got him. Go to work—I know the drill.” 

And he does. Clark’s been helping out for weeks now, and they follow the same routine every time without fail: play with Krypto, read a book, have a snack. If it’s late at night, Clark’s gracious enough to feed Calum dinner and put him to bed. He’s carried your son from his apartment to yours a floor down enough times now, a sleeping Calum in his arms as he does you favour after favour. 

You’ve tried to pay him back, but he refuses your money every time. 

“You need it more than I do,” he always says gently, routinely guiding you out the door before you can argue. Since then, you’ve done what you can: you offer him a plate of food when you know he’s been working late, and you walk Krypto some mornings on your daily run. It’s nothing compared to the things he does for you—but if it’s all he’ll accept, then you’re willing to repay him a hundred times over.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, clutching the strap of your handbag tighter. You reach out to Calum, still nestled in Clark’s arms, and kiss his forehead. “Be good for Mr Clark, okay, baby?”

He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.

The moment the front door closes behind you, Clark lowers Calum to the ground. Immediately, the young boy whirls around to face him. 

“You promised we’d play superheroes today,” he says accusingly, his small frame already filled with so much conviction that Clark can only wonder what he’ll be like when he’s older. 

“Did I?” Clark raises his brow, a playful frown on his lips as he pretends to think. “I don’t remember promising that.”

“Yes, you did!” Calum insists. “You said you’ll take me around like Superman again—!”

 “Hm, maybe you’re thinking about another Superman, buddy.”

“No!” The boy tries to protest, hopping around Clark with an energy the older man has never been able to suppress. 

“I’m serious, bud,” Clark says, feigning innocence. “I think you’re thinking about another Superman.”

Calum giggles. “You’re silly.”

Clark just gasps, turning around as if to look for someone else Calum could be talking about before pointing at himself with mock offence. “Me? Silly?” 

“Yes, you! You can’t lie—Mama says it’s bad.” 

“Ah,” Clark pretends to groan, but the smile on his lips gives him away. “You’ve caught me—thought I could get away with it, sorry, bud. Promise you won’t tell your mum that I lied?”

Truth be told, Clark hadn’t meant for his neighbour’s kid to find out his real identity. It’d happened as a mistake. A minor slip up that could have cost him his life. But the thing about kids? No one believes them, especially not the ones who have their heads in the clouds—ones like Calum. 

He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.

It was one of the first times he’d ever taken care of Calum for you—probably the third or fourth time—and he’d had his back turned to Calum and Krypto, who were playing in the living room. His glasses had been off, smudged with fingerprints and specks of dust that had gathered throughout the day. He’d been wiping them with the hem of his shirt when he felt a tap on his lower back. Calum had already been yapping away—something about his day at the park—and, as Clark turned around to face him, the boy shrieked. It was a sharp, shrill sound that had him glancing up hurriedly to figure out what was wrong; a spider behind him, perhaps or—

“Superman.” 

The kid’s voice had come out as a gasp, unintentionally low as he pointed straight at Clark. Clark frowned, but it was hard to deny the sinking feeling in his stomach—shit.

“Calum, no—” Clark had started to protest, but Calum’s shouts only grew louder. 

“You’re Superman! You’re Superman!” 

Clark had to clamp his hand shut over Calum’s mouth then, forcing the little boy silent lest the neighbours heard that the man next door was Superman. His shouts were muffled under the weight of Clark’s but eventually became more subdued as he gave in to the authority behind the older man’s hold.

“Yes,” Clark gritted out, almost reluctant to admit it. “Yeah, bud. I’m Superman—”

After a moment, when he was sure Calum had settled, Clark took his hand off the kid’s mouth and stepped back warily, ready to jump back in if he decided to have another random burst of energy.

Calum just stared up at him, his tiny expression filled with awe and amazement, like a kid in a candy store. His voice was soft, in a way Clark had never heard before, as he whispered, “You’re my hero.”

Clark was sure he melted then, and looking back sometimes, he’s still shocked he hadn’t become a part of the floor when Calum had told him that. And he’s never been much for sentiment, but there’s something about it, knowing that a child looked up to a hero—to him—that warmed his heart more than anything else.

Since then, it’s become a well-kept secret between him and Clark. In exchange for Calum’s silence, Clark gave him a taste of the superhero life. The suit, the flying—he even cooked breakfast turkey with his eye lasers once, at Calum’s behest. (Never again.)

“Tell you what, bud,” Clark says, dropping to one knee in front of Calum. “You eat your dinner, and then maybe we can play heroes. Deal?”

He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise. 

Calum beams as he wraps his tiny hand around it. “Deal!”

— 

It’s 11:30PM when you knock on Clark’s door for the second time that night. 

When he opens the door, he’s changed into pyjamas since you last saw him earlier that evening. A white tee hugs his arms and chest, flannel pants loose and low on his hips. His hair is tousled, like he’s been rolling around—and judging by the state of Calum when he appears behind Clark—he probably has been. 

“Mama!” Calum screams, darting towards you. He wraps his arms around your legs, squeezing tightly. 

You rake your fingers through his hair gently. “You boys roughhousing again?” 

Clark only laughs, nodding his head. “You know it.”

“Thank you so much for looking after him again,” you say softly, an apologetic smile playing at your lips. A small part of you feels so guilty for leaving your son in his care so often, but there’s no one else willing to babysit a kid on such short notice—and for free as well. “It means a lot to me.”

“Seriously, it’s no worries,” he responds with a smile just as kind. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve seen all day.. “Calum’s a great kid and he’s great company. I love having him around.”

“Are you sure—?” 

He holds a hand up, silencing you before you can continue protesting. “I’m sure. I promise. Anytime you need me to look after him, just knock or call, you have my number.I’ll clear my schedule up—just ask.”

A wave of gratitude crashes over you. Since moving to Metropolis, it’s been hard for you to make friends on top of making a living—being a young, single mum in the city isn’t easy. You work long hours most days, take extra shifts just to afford rent and send Calum to preschool during the week. Work had been especially rough today. You’d had half a mind to quit on the spot before your shift even reached halfway; the chefs kept yelling at you for minor mistakes even though most of them weren’t even your fault, and you’d traded tables multiple times, with the excuse of, “Oh, but you’re so much better at dealing with the bad customers”. 

But you can’t tell him all that, not without making it weird, so you settle for, “You’re the best.”

Clark shrugs modestly, softening like he’s used to the praise. “Well, someone’s got to keep that troublemaker in check.”

“I’m not a troublemaker! I’m the boss!” Calum giggles, reaching out to tug on the hem of Clark’s tee. “You said so!”

“Sure, boss.” Clark rolls his eyes playfully as he ruffles Calum’s hair. “Whatever you say, buddy.”

You glance between them, your expression softening despite the exhaustion that feels like it’s dragging you down. 

“Well, even bosses need to sleep, so say bye to Mr Clark, honey,” you tell Calum gently, already turning away. His grip on your hand loosens as he stays back to hug Clark goodbye. 

“Bye, buddy,” Clark says. And then, easy as anything—

“See you next time, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

The word rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing. He says it so normally, like he’s always called you that.

A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of it, so natural and right. You pause. Not visibly, you hope, but he’s the kind of guy who notices the small details regardless. Still, something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest, as your throat works around a swallow, but the dryness sticks. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A casual term of endearment.

Except it isn’t. Not when he says it like that. 

That’s when you force yourself to turn, a tiny shift to confront his gaze. 

He’s still in the doorway, smile playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A little cocky, but the gentleness in his gaze tells you otherwise, those wispy black curls falling over his eyes in a way that make you want to brush it away. 

All you say is, “See you, Clark,” and you start to make your way home.

Clark’s door closes behind you. Calum follows you down the hallway, little legs scurrying to keep up with your pace. He’s holding his Superman plushy to the ground, not caring that it’s getting dirtied on the stained carpet. You make a mental note to chuck that in the wash while he’s sleeping.

“Mama! Mama! Mam—” 

His chanting echoes throughout the staircase as he follows you back home, not quite caring that his loud volume could wake the neighbours.

“Yes, baby?” you hum when you stop in front of your door. “What’s wrong?”

Calum pauses. Blinks. And then he steps back, as if reconsidering his words, before blurting out, “Mr Clark is Superman!”

You just raise a brow, glancing down at him as you rummage through your bag for the keys to your apartment. “That’s nice, honey.”

“No, but actually,” Calum insists, pulling on your sleeve. “He showed me his suit! It’s got the ‘S’ and everything!”

“Right,” you mutter, jamming the key into the lock. The door swings open with a click and you flick on the lights, dumping your bags by the door. Calum bounds in after you. “And I’m Batman.”

He stops in his tracks, blinking up at you rapidly. “But… you’re a girl.”

“And Mr Clark is a journalist, Cal—I promise you, the closest he’s gotten to Superman is like… interviewing him or something,” you say with a shrug.

Cal’s always been the imaginative type—god knows how many trees you’ve had to coax him out of when he’s played superheroes at the park. So him pretending that your hunk of a neighbour is Superman is the furthest thing from unusual. 

Even then, you can’t help the flicker of curiosity that sparks inside of you, wondering, for just a moment, if Clark Kent really is more than just meets the eye. Honestly? You can kind of see it—not that you’ve actually paid attention to what Superman looks like or anything, but Clark really does fit the whole ‘friendly neighbourhood hero’ stereotype. Tall, strong, with biceps that look like they could—

You’re drawn back to the moment he called you ‘sweetheart’, voice rough because of the late hour but it had been like honey dripping from his mouth. So sweet that it makes your stomach turn even now. You’ve been called it before—by flirty waiters, by creepy customers who don’t understand personal space, by strangers on the streets. But when Clark had said it, it had been different. Honest. 

Calum pulls you back to Earth with his relentless squawking. He’s waving his arms about, walking in circles around you in a desperate attempt to get you to believe him. “But he flew me around his apartment, Mama!”

“Mhm,” you hum, scooping him into your arms. With a small boop on his nose, you carry him to the kitchen, setting him on the marbletop counter so he can’t escape. “And did you time travel too, or just regular flying today?”

“Superman can’t time travel, Mama.” It comes out in a huff, and his arms are crossed over his chest. 

You frown down at him. “He can’t? Oh. I didn’t know that. Well… was it just… regular flying, then?” That’s when your frown deepens, as your work-addled brain finally kickstarts back to life, and you realise—“Hey, Mr Clark’s got a small apartment. How was he supposed to fly around without knocking anything over, huh?”

Calum just gasps, as if you’ve caught him out on a lie. “He did! He floated me around!”

Maybe you’re just too tired to even think straight, but somehow, your four-year-old son sounds a little too convincing right now. He stares up at you with those wide eyes, a small, frustrated pout on his face, as if truly offended that you don’t believe him. And, for a split second—

Nope. Nope. Clark Kent is not Superman and you’re just easily swayed by your little boy with his unfairly persuasive eyes. 

“You’re funny, baby.”

“Mama—!” He tries to protest when you hook your hands under his armpits, swinging him down to the floor. “Go get ready for bed, Calum. And you better be changed by the time I get to your room or I’ll get Mr Clark to…” Shit, I don’t know. “... I’ll get him to fly your favourite teddy across the world and you’ll never see it again.”

You know how much that toy means to him—it’s his favourite thing to play with besides his Superman figurines. A genuine look of terror crosses Calum’s face, a plea at the tip of his tongue. But the thin line of your lips shows him that you mean business and he scurries away with a yelped, “Don’t call Mr Clark!”  

As you watch Calum disappear down the hall, you can’t shake away the warmth in your chest. Clark’s voice echoes through your head, the sight of him seared into your mind—

See you next time, sweetheart.

He’d said it like a promise, like he was so sure that you’d be back soon. A buzz of excitement tingles at your fingertips, already anticipating seeing him again the next time you need him to take care of Calum—even if for a moment. 

Yeah. You’re so fucked.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, it becomes routine to drop Calum off at Clark’s place every evening. Not because you have work, but because Cal just likes spending time with Clark.

And, despite how busy he is, Clark always makes time for your son. 

Some nights, you bring over dinner—plates of rice and meat in foil trays, fresh salads in glass bowls covered in clingwrap. 

You don’t stay. 

Staying means that you and Clark Kent are friends. It means that there’s something between you and there isn’t. He’s just your neighbour, one you trust enough to leave your son with on a daily basis. The guy who does you the same massive favour time and time even though you’re still unsure of how to repay him, and who, for some reason, calls you sweetheart more than your own name. 

Clark Kent is just your neighbour. 

You have to remind yourself this every time you see him, so dropping Calum off is limited to a strict routine: knock. Smile. Say bye. Leave. Clark seems to understand this unspoken rule you have with yourself, respects it enough to never drag conversation beyond the casual “How are you?”.

So it’s a… surprise when he swings the door open wider one day to invite you in, one that catches you off guard. Calum has already wandered in, and you’d heard him let out a loud shriek when he saw Krypto. You’re sure you hear a crash come from inside but Clark doesn’t even seem phased. 

He just smiles warmly and gestures you inside. “You’re  welcome to come in.”

You freeze. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. Every possibility runs through your head—every potential lie, excuse and story known to man that sounds respectable and believable all at once—that could possibly help you get out. Avoid conversation. Connection. 

But a sharp gasp comes from inside Clark’s apartment, and small feet patter against the tiled floor as Calum scurries up to the door. Krypto is hanging over his arm, tongue lolled out as they both stare up at you. 

“You’re staying?” Calum’s voice comes out as a garble, muffled by Krypto’s fur bunched up in his face. His eyes are bright, like he’s been waiting for this day to come—his two worlds, colliding. 

“No, not today, baby. I…” You stammer, trying to find a reasonable excuse, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the hopeful look on his face. 

Somehow, Clark clocks your bullshit before you can even think of a plausible excuse. He points out, matter-of-factly, “You don’t have work. You’re not in uniform.”

Dammit. “Uh… I was… planning on spending the night watching TV—”

“I have a TV.” He says it like it’s enough to immediately convince you. 

“I know you have a TV,” you throw back. “But I… am watching Netflix.”

You’ve got him now, you’re sure. There’s no way he—

“I also have Netflix,” he adds, a small smirk splitting his face. “So you should come in, sweetheart.” 

There’s that stupid word again. Sweetheart. And when he pairs it with that smirk, it makes your chest squeeze. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to compose yourself again before straightening your back and meeting his gaze head-on. 

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh, but no amount of feigned resignation could hide the relenting smile teasing at your lips. 

“Yay!” 

Calum claps, best as he can as he holds Krypto, before he attempts to reach out and drag you further into Clark’s apartment. One of his tiny hands is clasped in yours, the other arm struggling to keep Krypto above ground as he guides you inside. You can hear Clark lock the door behind you, following you in with a steady gait that screams comfort and familiarity. 

Calum drops your hand then and scurries off somewhere without you. 

You don’t really know where to go from here. 

Clark’s place is clean, unsurprisingly so. It seems as though he cleans it almost pedantically, like he’s comfortable with using a vacuum and a mop. Somehow, that’s the most attractive part of him—most men wouldn’t even know the difference between a vacuum and a mop. Turning into the living room, you take the whole scene in: Calum is sitting on the carpet, a picture book in hand as Krypto lies down next to him. Grey blankets are strewn over the arm of his black leather couch. Books stacked high in a pile that looks seconds from toppling over. Magazines and newspapers and research all laid out on the floor. A fake potted plant set on the coffee table.

So he’s a plant dad. Or close to one. Same difference. 

“Calum gets his hands into them,” Clark says by way of explanation, standing next to you when he notices where your gaze is focused at. 

“That’s why I don’t keep anything potted in my house.”

“I was like that when I was younger.” There a reminiscent smile on his face as he talks, one that warms your own heart. “I loved getting into the dirt and all that. My Ma would always yell at me, ‘Clark Joseph Kent! Get your dirty shoes out of my house or so help me God—!”

That gets a laugh out of you. “She sounds like my kinda girl.”

He turns to look at you properly, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he says, “Oh, she’d love you, that’s for sure.” And then, after a second, he asks, “Can I get you anything?”

“No—” you start to say, but he just nods, as if a no isn’t an answer at all. “Soda, it is.”

Clark doesn’t wait for a response before moving to the kitchen. On his way, he pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and pats the seat, motioning for you to sit. Settling down onto the cushion, you lean forward to rest your chin in your palms as you look over at him. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a can before he digs into the freezer for ice. 

His motions are robotic, practiced almost, as he spoons the ice into a cup. Flips the tab up, and the can opens with a satisfying hiss. He pours it into the glass before sliding it over to you. 

“Enjoy,” he says with a wink, and you can only roll your eyes playfully.

You don’t drink straight away though, just keep a watchful eye as he pours his own cup. It’s then that you catch the pots on the stove, still steaming with a heat that suggests he just cooked.

“Well, colour me surprised,” you say sarcastically, “Clark Kent can cook. And to think, I spent all this time giving you food because I thought you were just another helpless manchild.”

That’s a lie. You’ve always known he was capable—you’d never have left Calum with him so often if not. But you like pushing his buttons and his reaction—a mildly offended frown as he stammers to defend himself—sends a thrill down your spine.

Clark gathers himself quickly, a retort sharp on his tongue.

“Unless you count pouring a drink as being a chef—” he shrugs, taking a sip—“Then yeah, I’m a chef.”

After a while, he sits up in his chair, reaching over to straighten a placeholder that’s already set out perfectly. “My mother raised me to be self-sufficient. Cooking, cleaning… it was her way or the highway.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, to this little snippet of a life you were never supposed to be privy to. You’re only neighbours after all—acquaintances, at most. Never once did you expect your relationship with Clark to go beyond that. Being invited into his apartment is one of the last things you expected to happen.

And though it’s sweet, the way he’s accepted you and Calum as a permanent fixture in his daily life, you’re not sure if you’re ready for him to become a permanent fixture in yours.

So, to divert the conversation, all you say is, “Your dog is weird,” as you watch as Krypto drags Calum around by the collar of his shirt.

He wears a Superman cape in place of a collar and you can’t help but find it strange—you’d never pegged Clark as a Superman fan, per se, though you’ve always known he’s worked closely with the hero. If anything, the sight amuses you. It makes you giggle every time you see it.

Clark follows your gaze and practically does a double take when he sees what they’re up to. “Krypto, no—!”

The dog in question growls before letting Calum go and he hits the floor with a muted thud. Calum just laughs, scrambling after him.

“So…” Clark starts the conversation back up.

“So,” you echo.

“How’ve you been?” 

But before you can even get a word out, Clark tells you, almost warningly, “And don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I’m not here to judge you.”

You sigh, a soft exhale that spokes volumes about the weariness that bears heavy on your shoulders. “Work’s been good, like normal—”

“You,” he cuts in, “not work.”

“I… have been tired,” you admit quietly. You use your finger to trace the drops of water that run down the side of the glass, doodling in the condensation. It’s your best attempt at avoiding his gaze as it bears into you, persistent. “You know, work has been a lot… Cal’s been a lot and there’s only so much I can handle, y’know—”

“I know,” he reassures. He pauses before saying, “Calum’s great company. Most of the time.”

Your brows quirk up. “Most of the time?” 

“He makes a mess more often than not,” he says with a shrug, “but he’s good company. A smart kid.” 

“Ah, he’s always been like that,” you murmur. “Too… everything… for his own good. Sometimes, I wonder how I ever managed to raise him on my own these last few years. He’s a handful, to say the least. But you’ve been a lot of help, you know that, right?”

A knowing smile playing at his lips, and he just shrugs, unfazed. You’ve said it enough times ever since he started babysitting, and you’re sure he’s sick of it by now, but it hardly scrapes the surface of the appreciation you have towards him.

“I know,” he says simply. 

“And… I’m really thankful for it,” you continue, and the weight of your gratitude—a debt unpaid—weighs down heavy on your shoulders.

“I know,” he repeats, the look never leaving his eyes. Like he knows exactly how you feel. 

“And if there’s any way to make it up to you—”

“Sweetheart.” Clark cuts you off before you , and reaches over to squeeze your upper arm, his massive palm warm even through the thick material of your jumper. His hand drifts up, finger hooking beneath your chin to redirect your focus to him. Your breath catches—between every sweetheart, every lingering look… he hasn’t dared touch you so closely. So familiar.

“Parenthood takes time, that’s what my Pa always tells me,” he rumbles. “The offer always stands—if you ever need help… you know where to find me.”

— 

Clark holds onto his end of the promise. 

The setting sun creeps through the sheer material of your living room curtains, basking your apartment in a warm, golden glow. He is in your kitchen, elbow-deep in your sink as he scrubs the dishes with careful, soapy hands. 

He’d made a beeline for the kitchen the second you’d opened the door for him. You could only watch as he put the kettle on, manoeuvring your space like he knows exactly where to find what he needs—and he does. He’s watched you do it enough times now. Two spoons of sugar, one teabag, no milk, piping hot water. Your favourite pink mug. Just the way you like it.

Clark has been spending a lot of time at your place lately. He likes to joke that “it’s a pitstop before I get home”, but a small part of you thinks that he’s just lonely. So, you welcome him into your home every time he knocks, so he knows that he’s not alone. 

You’ve heard bits and pieces of his story since he’s come to Metropolis—his job at the Daily Planet, every failed date and messed up girl he’s been out with. The old ladies at his favourite cafe across the road from work, who never fail to give him a free pastry every morning because he’s “the handsomest thing they’d ever seen”. How his boss is an ass most days, and Jimmy Olsen always has something to say, while Lois is the only one really standing up for him.

You met her once, Lois Lane, when she had stayed late at Clark’s apartment one night. You had gone to drop off leftovers for him—you always ended up cooking too much for just two—and ran into her just as she was leaving. She stopped, held the door open for you, and ended up waiting for you to leave Clark’s so that you two could walk downstairs together. It was short and sweet, the kind of interaction that made you wonder if Clark saw in her what you had seen, in just those few moments.

On quiet days, he indulges you. Tells you about his life back in Smallville. You’ve come to know about his parents, Pa and Ma Kent, and the farm he lived on for more than half his life. How leaving home, although a blessing and an opportunity, was one of the biggest challenges he’s ever faced. 

Every time he talks about home, there’s always a faraway look in his eyes. Like he’s dreaming about a place he can’t quite call home anymore, not in the way he calls Metropolis home now. You’re tempted to ask more, find out about the fields he once played in, the girls he kissed behind his parents’ barn. But you don’t pry. It’s a part of his life, his past, that you feel like you have no right over—no matter how close you two get, you’ve come to accept that you might always be disconnected from a part of him he’s not yet ready to show. 

You enjoy listening to him talk though. Every word he says is a story, every story a lesson and you’re a thousand percent sure you want to keep learning. 

In return, he treats you, with cups of tea and the occasional hot chocolate on the nights it’s particularly chilly. Some days, he arrives with groceries if he’s noticed you’re running low on something you have yet to replenish—fresh milk, fruits and vegetables, and a specific pack of blueberry muffins that he knows Calum loves. 

“You didn’t have to come over,” you say quietly, clutching the steaming mug of tea he’d made you. 

“I don’t mind helping,” he shrugs. He sounds honest about it. Perhaps that’s the worst thing about your friendship with Clark. He’s willing to give and give and give. You still don’t know how to pay him back. 

Unsure of what to say, you fall quiet, the familiar noises of the city below settling in the cracks of the silence. Then you pipe up, “And you don’t need to wash my dishes—”

“I don’t mind helping,” he repeats, firmer now as he fixes you with a stern look that brooks no argument. “You’ve left it for hours. Any longer and it would start to stink.”

All you can do is wrinkle your nose and pout, hating to admit that he’s right. 

Today is one of those days where Calum is at your cousin’s house. She has kids his age and you’re just glad that he’s connecting with family when you aren’t able to take him yourself. And despite the fact that Cal isn’t here, you don’t mind that Clark has come over. Ironically, that’s when you enjoy his company the most. When there’s no Calum or Krypto running amok, and it’s just the two of you, coexisting in a single space, sharing the same air and the same silence. 

Your apartment is a picturesque thing, the type that comes up when you search ‘apartment inspo’ on Pinterest—it smells like cinnamon and vanilla and there are fairy lights strewn up around the window sill. It’s perfect for you and Calum, decorated and lived in in a way that’s perfect for a mother and son. Grey coloured carpet that miraculously never gets dirty, despite the fact that there’s a four-year-old wandering around all day. House slippers by the front door—a small Lightning McQueen themed pair for Calum, another pink and fluffy one for yourself. 

And, as Clark began to assimilate into your life, spending more time in your home, little bits of him started to seep into parts of you.  

Now, he has a spare jacket hanging from the hook on the door of the linens closet. He’d left it there a couple weeks ago and never bothered to take it home—you’ve stopped reminding him too. “In case I need it one day,” he’d told you the first time you tried giving it back, taking the liberty to hang it on the hook himself. You could only watch as he beamed at you, that face so full of pride, before stepping back with an approving nod. That hoodie feels like a brand, an unspoken symbol of Clark’s presence, and, even though you’re hesitant to admit it, his importance in your life.

You’re even sure that, sometime in the last few weeks, he brought in his favourite coffee powder. It sits on your countertop, beside your sugar, honey and teabags. He leaves it open sometimes, on the days that he comes over and forgets to close it after using you. You’ve grown accustomed to closing it now, a small step in your routine that you do without second thought.  

Somehow, Clark Kent has become a part of your life and you didn’t even realise it. 

“You know… My Ma would love it if I had kids.” 

Clark’s words shatter the silence you’ve grown comfortable in, making you glance up with a frown. His confession is unexpected, sure, but you’re just glad that he’s willing to open up to you. 

 Sipping lightly at your tea, the liquid is still warm, settling comfortably in your stomach and easing the stress of the day. “What’s the holdup?”

“Work,” he says simply before pausing. His gaze falls to your lips before it flicks away, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Recently, you’ve come to notice that, when Clark blushes, his neck, along with the tips of his ears, turns red. It’s endearing, you think. There’s something so incredibly boyish about it, the way his whole face scrunches up as if to hide the embarrassment he feels every time he gets flustered. 

After a moment’s pause, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Just looking for the right girl, really.”  

“What about Lois—?” 

The question is halfway out of your mouth before he whirls around, the soapy plate in his hands clattering into the sink. His eyes are wide with something close to terror. Maybe it’s offense. Or maybe he’s just insulted by the fact that you even suggested it in the first place, like the idea of being with Lois never crossed his own mind. 

“God, no,” Clark sputters, an appalled look in his eyes. Then, as if concerned that his words might come off as rude, he says, “Lois is… just a friend.”

“Just a friend,” you repeat, a knowing grin on your face. You cock your brow and shrug. “Sure. Whatever you say, Clark.”

“I swear!” His voice cracks a little as he turns back to the sink, rinsing the plate he’d dropped. He stacks it in the rack, moving on to the next one before clearing his throat. “She—Lois says I need to get out more. I think this counts. Being here. With you.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoy my company.”

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. 

The dark screen lights up to reveal the photo of Calum on your wallpaper—it’s only recent, one you snapped a few weeks ago at the local park. You’d gotten ice cream that day, shared a cone under the hot yellow sun, sheltered beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Triple choc chip, you still remember it. Clark had introduced it to Calum while babysitting him and it’s been your son’s favourite ever since. His face is smeared with ice cream in the photo, and the gaps where two of his baby teeth have fallen out are on full display as he beams up at you.

And at the bottom of your screen, above all the other notifications, is a message from your cousin. 

Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon

Says he misses you, mama xx

A rush of warmth courses through your veins as you smile down at the message. A day without Calum is a day too long for you. Quickly, you type up a message before sending it off.

“Hey, Clark?” 

Clark glances up when you speak and his face is pinched in confusion, waiting for you to continue.

Pocketing your phone, you hop off the stool to place your mug in the sink. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you offer him a soft grin and murmur, “I’m sure you’ll find her one day. The ‘right girl’, I mean. Most of the time, the right person is right in front of you.”

“I hope so,” he mutters, voice low and bitter, like he’s been waiting too long for a future that doesn’t seem eager to arrive. 

“Thank you.” Gravitating closer towards him, you rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

He stills under your touch before relaxing into it. And, with a familiarity that makes your heart stutter, his soapy hand finds your waist, resting against the curve of it for a short moment. Then you step back, pulling away from his touch entirely. But the moment doesn’t shatter. The stillness remains, a comfort that you both bask in while it’s there. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replies, and you know he means it. 

— 

Four months after the very first time Clark invited you into his house as ‘friends’, you’ve begun to frequent each other’s apartments more often. Calum is almost always in tow, of course, like a squirmy little parasite that giggles too much when someone looks at it. 

But nowadays, it’s more about seeing each other than anything else. 

On the days that you’re not working, sometimes he makes his way to your apartment during his lunchbreak so that the two of you can enjoy a meal together. He claims that it’s because one of your homecooked meals is far better than running out to a Chipotle. And other times, when Clark has long since settled himself on your couch, he’ll flick through Netflix in search of a show to bingewatch, and so far, you’ve been through Gilmore Girls, Brooklyn-99 and Stranger Things.  

Your favourite shared pastime, though, is sitting on the other’s couch, soda in hand—since neither of you drink much—as you gossip about anything and everything in the world. And today, it’s—

“Does Calum ever ask about his dad?”

The question takes you by surprise and you blink up at him from where you sit beside him, sunken into the couch. There’s a soft blanket thrown over your lap, phone in hand, Instagram opened and forgotten. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to take a deep breath. 

Clark has never pried before. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t blame his curiosity, not really. Not when he’s been so patient with you, never going beyond what you need—a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.  

“Not really,” you murmur eventually, indulging him in just the slightest of ways. “It’s just been me and him since before he was born, I don’t think he realises someone is… missing from our family.”

“Is there?” He asks softly, but you hear the weight in it—like he’s asking something bigger than you’re ready to answer. 

You can only laugh in response, but it sounds almost forced, like you’re trying to alleviate a weight on your chest. A reality you’re not willing to face. “I don’t know.”

Maybe.

“You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, you just shrug. Ever since you were a young girl, you’d always looked up to your parents. 

They were, in theory and in practice, the perfect couple. 

Your father had swept your mother off her feet when they were only in college—you’ve heard stories, seen the photos of how he charmed her over. A simple smile every time he looked at her, white teeth on display and a spark in his eyes that only she could seem to light up. Coffee every morning without fail, waiting on your mother’s bedside table for when she wakes up, that perfect sip that would remind her why she fell for your father in the first place. 

You still see it now, in the way they answer every FaceTime call side by side, beaming faces as they look at you and Calum. How, without fail, they do everything together. Afternoon walks in the park, hand in hand, your father purposefully walking slower to keep up with your mother’s leisurely pace. Trips to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to pick up more of their favourite jams and breads, and dinners at the dining table every night—even though it’s been particularly quiet since you and Cal moved away to the big city.

And ever since you were a young girl, you’d always imagined that the perfect family—your perfect family—would be the exact same way. A husband, who would love and care for you the same way you’d love and care for him. A simple life, without empty spaces. Without holes. 

You’d thought you’d get the chance to have that with your ex. Turns out, men like your father don’t exist. 

“I’m… waiting, I guess,” you mumble. “Just looking for the right guy.”

The words sound unsettlingly familiar to Clark. He shifts in his spot, trying to recall where he had heard them. It’s a faint memory, one he can’t quite grasp onto. So, he just asks, “And, this ‘right guy’. What’s he like?”

“He has to love Calum,” you say immediately, certainly. “His love for me means nothing if he doesn’t love Calum.”

Clark just remains silent. Listening attentively as he nods, absorbing every word. Gaze soft, like he can see the genuine yearning behind your eyes for a love that transcends the moment—something so out of reach, yet so close each time you imagine it. Your own gaze reflects his own emotions—a storm that begs to be tamed, a heart screaming for connection. Flowers on your birthday and Valentine’s Day and any day in between, just because. Kisses in bed and late mornings after sleeping tangled in the same sheets. 

“He’d be kind,” you say wistfully, “the kind of man who loves me because I’m someone worth loving. He’d know what I want before I even say it, and if I’m ever mad, he’ll do whatever he can to make me happier again because seeing me smile is the best part of his day. And… he should think that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I need to be important to him—he’d bring me flowers every Sunday, take me out for dinner dates, and all that. I want to be the girl he looks at like I’m his world.”

“Ah, so you want to be spoiled?” He grins down at you. “That’s pretty high maintenance of you, sweetheart.”

You just roll your eyes. “I prefer the term ‘princess treatment’.”

“And… does this lucky man have any particular appearance in here?” He taps your forehead with his forefinger, almost teasing in the act. His touch lingers, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes before pulling away entirely. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, you think for a moment. You can see your lucky man in your head, clear as day. You’d be lying if you didn’t imagine about him sometimes, when the lights are low or work is quiet. His face is fuzzy, like a figure in a dream you see often enough to recognise, but too fleetingly to truly remember. 

Gathering what you can recall, you settle on, “Tall.”

Clark raises a brow. “Just tall?”

“Tall,” you repeat with a shrug. “‘Six foot four’ kind of tall. He’d be… ideally, he’d be big. Like, broad, almost? I want him to be able to just… completely engulf me every time he hugs me. Dark-haired dudes are pretty sexy too—”

He cuts in with a laugh, a rumble deep from within his chest as he looks at you amusedly. “Could you be any more specific?”

You continue on, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake off his playful comments. “Light eyes… a strong jaw… big nose. Glasses, maybe. Tan skin—but not too dark to the point where it looks fake, y’know? There’s nothing more unattractive than a fake t—”

But then Clark’s fingers are hooking under your chin, drawing your focus back to him and your tangent falters. He searches your face with a darkened gaze, as if looking for something in your eyes, seeking to be let in.

“It doesn’t matter what he looks like. All that matters is you.”

It comes out as a murmur, a slight rasp on his lips. Honest.

Your breath hitches, and all you can do is take him in. Clark Kent with those stupid blue eyes, an ocean in and of itself that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and drown in them. His hair is ruffled from resting his head back on the couch, and you’re tempted to run your fingers through them to smooth it back. Strong jaw that could cut glass and the bluest eyes that remind you of the sky lit up by the yellow sun. 

Everything you’d described made flesh and bone and blood. All that you want in a man. Or maybe just all that you want. 

His nose brushes against yours. “Sweetheart… you’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?” 

“Like you want me.” 

You don’t answer at first. Just search his gaze for the words to voice a truth you’re tempted to deny. And then finally, “I don’t look at you like that.”

Clark chuckles, hiding the amused smile that tugs at his lips. “Sure, you don’t.”

“I don’t—” you start to protest, but your voice is weak and you’re putty in his hands, practically melting the moment he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t look at you like I…”

You can’t finish that sentence. 

“Yes,” he says, the smile never fading. “You do. When you think I’m not looking, or from across the room. I notice, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I always do.”

There’s a scratch in your throat, one that doesn’t disappear even as you swallow to get rid of it. “You’re just… weirdly observant.”

He doesn’t respond. He just draws closer, palm shifting to cup your face properly, until his forehead rests on yours. There’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, nervous and anticipatory all at once. It has you relaxing against him, your body pliant in his hold.

“Give me the word and I’ll stop,” he whispers, a soft murmur that washes over you like the waves of a rolling tide. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathe out. Almost afraid that, if you were to speak too loudly, the tension would snap and the moment would end—like it never existed to begin with.

His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours and he pauses. “Sweetheart, are you sure?” 

All you offer is a tiny, imperceptible nod of your head, so small it could have been mistaken for a twitch—but he notices. He’s right. He always notices.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth finds yours in an instant, warm, wanting and so sure. It starts gentle, like he’s holding back, terrified of scaring you off or backing you into a corner. But when you melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens the kiss. 

And it’s as if something just clicks into place.

One hand drifts down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as the other remains cradling your jaw. You can taste a hint of the soda from earlier on his breath, the steady thrum his heart strong beneath your fingertips.

Clark kisses you like he’s memorising you. Or maybe he has something to prove and words alone aren’t enough.

By the time he pulls back, just an inch, your breath catches in your throat. Your lips part, pink and puffy, as his eyes search yours. Waiting. 

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s both of you at the same, acting on instinct and base nature—but then you’re kissing again, and this time it’s messier, hungrier.

A nagging thought lurks in the back of your mind as he wrecks you, mind and soul—the dam between you has finally broken and you’re both helpless to stop what’s spilling out. 

— 

Somehow, you find yourself on Clark’s couch, in his bed and his arms more often than not. It never ventures further than making out though. He knows—can already read you better than anyone—that you’re not ready. And he’s the last person to pressure you. So, he’s been patient. Stolen kisses in the kitchen, with you perched on the countertop so that you’re eye-level with him, while Calum plays in the background, oblivious to the act, but not the connection. It gets more desperate the longer you’re alone—parted lips beneath chasing hands, sharing breath like it’s the only language you both understand.

Despite it all—the endless passion and desire—there’s a permanent hunger you can’t seem to satiate. 

“We shouldn’t,” you pant out, breaking away from the kiss. 

You’re lying on your back on his couch, as Clark leans over you. He supports himself with one hand, making sure not to put his weight on you, while the other cups your face.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been ‘friends’ for months, and you’re only now telling me ‘we shouldn’t’?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek in a soothing back-and-forth motion that has you leaning into his touch instinctively. 

Damn him and his stupid nice-guy act, you think, eyes narrowing as you take him in. There’s lipstick around his mouth, a chocolatey pink identical to the mess he’s made of you. You brush your fingers over his lips, smudging away the soft flush of colour. He tilts his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your fingertips. 

He’s got a twinkle in his eye that tells you, even though he’s enjoying the banter, he wants more. He’s ready for more. 

The idea alone terrifies you. 

It’s been months since you last slept with someone, let alone with a guy you’ve come to know so well. It’s been longer since you were actually invested in one. 

Clark is a good man, there’s no denying that. Kind and sweet and a gentle giant, the kind you bring home to your dad. God knows he would love it if you brought Clark home after the whole experience with Calum’s father. That’s exactly the thing, though. Navigating single life with a young kid isn’t easy. Every guy you’ve dated in the years since giving birth has either been clingy with mommy issues or too much of a weirdo to be able to bring around Calum. You never would have thought that the man for you had been just one floor up.

And now you’re laid back on his couch where he’s holding you like he’s already yours. Smelling like citrus and safety and a little smoke, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars and shaped his world with gentle hands. 

That’s what scares you the most. Because what if this is the part where it all goes wrong? What if Clark decides that the hassle of you—of Calum, and raising your son by your side—isn’t worth the trouble? What if you let him in, just to lose him before you truly have him?

“I just—”

He catches the worried look in your eye almost immediately, and he holds a finger to your lips, silencing you. “Hey. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m sorry.”

A faint blush colours your cheeks. His genuine concern causes a warm feeling to flood through your chest, and you can’t help but look away—his stare is intense. Honest. His grip shifts, tightening around your chin before you can pull away entirely. It forces you to look at him.

“I don’t know who hurt you,” he murmurs, searching your eyes, “but I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say quietly. 

It’s a bold promise after all, one you’re sure he won’t be able to keep. 

“Do you, though?”

“Yes,” but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. 

Clark simply leans in closer. “Do you?”

This time, you don’t respond. There’s something about the look in his eyes that tells you he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. At your silence, he nudges your chin up with his nose, his lips finding your throat to suckle on the soft skin almost immediately. Your breathy sigh—while unwarranted—is like a church choir, an angel’s chorus as it descends from Heaven, and as sweet as the pop of a ripe pomegranate seed between his teeth. He takes a moment to breathe in it, revel in it—allowing himself to imagine how you would moan beneath him when he finally stops holding back. How the sweetness of your essence would drip from his lips, a dirty mess but one that he’s ready to savour. 

Somehow, the air feels thicker. Filled with something akin to want. 

It makes your fingers twitch, a tingle running down your body, electric where his skin meets yours. 

“Can I show you?” he murmurs, slowly shifting until he’s lying between your thighs. His hands find purchase on your hips, never venturing too far. The broad width of his shoulders forces your legs apart. 

When you don’t respond, he glances up at you. 

“Can I, sweetheart?” 

A mellow whimper leaves your lips as your eyelids flutter shut, pure bliss tingling throughout your body. And just like the first time he kissed you, all you offer him is a jerk of your head. It’s slightly forced, but you can’t find your voice—because you know that if you open your mouth now, you might just start begging.

“I need words, angel,” Clark rasps, looking up at you through the thick of his lashes. His fingers trail down your leg, teasing the skin below the hem of your shorts. He drags it higher, tantalisingly slow and deliberate, until the curve of your thigh is bared to him. His touch is featherlight, maddening, and you press closer, desperate to feel the heat of him through his shirt.

“Clark…” you whisper, fingers finding his jaw so you can tilt his face up. His gaze locks on you—there’s a hunger in his stare, a desire that pools in the depths of his soul, so pure and honest that you’re ready to throw it all to the wind and say ‘Yes’ to whatever he wants. 

“Say it,” he urges, voice husky but gentle, like you’re porcelain he needs to handle with care. 

You lick your lips, still cradling his jaw. “Yes,” you breathe out. “You can.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you there, strong hands anchoring you to the couch as his breath ghosts over your skin, waiting for you to change your mind. When it’s clear that you’re not going back, he drags the waistband of your shorts down, baring you slowly. 

“Beautiful,” he groans, taking in the sight of your exposed legs. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”

A faint blush dusts your cheeks as your legs close on instinct. But he pries them open again, his fervent touch almost reverent in the act. His fingers brush against the underside of your jaw, tilting your head down to look at him. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he pleads. “I wanna see. Please, let me see you—”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He immediately goes to tug your panties off. It’s just a simple pink pair but he still rumbles out, “So pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is.”

Soft kisses travel down your thigh, and he takes his time worshipping you, until you’re left writhing below him. His warm breath hits your skin, and, with a soft whine, you press your head back into the pillow, back arching to curve into his body. He steadies you, the tip of his nose nudging the point above your mound.

“Please, Clark…” 

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds your core, tongue flicking out to lick through your slit— 

And the first taste is fucking heaven. 

— 

Clark’s not too sure why he brought wine. 

It’s a nice bottle of red, straight from the vineyards in Napa Valley. He’d flown there right after work, and he can only imagine how strange it must have been: Superman casually buying a bottle of wine, thousands of miles from home. He’s certain you can’t tell the difference between store bought wine and something fancier. You’re not a drinker, after all—he’s made you enough mugs of tea and hot chocolate to know that.  

But he remembers you once mentioning that you haven’t had a drink since Calum was born. And tonight, he wanted to treat you. 

Surprise you, more like, because you technically don’t know he’s coming for a ‘date night’ at your place. The second you messaged him that morning, saying you were off night shifts for the rest of the week and planned on dropping Cal off to your cousin’s again to spend the night, he’d instantly made plans to indulge you. Breakfast for dinner, wine, desserts and a romcom on your couch. Just the two of you.

The gesture is romantic in his head, and he finds himself rehearsing what he wants to say to you on the walk downstairs, from his apartment to yours. 

“‘Hey, sweetheart’,” he recites to himself, “‘I’m here to… surprise you.’ No, that’s weird. ‘Surprise’? Boring. ‘Clear up your schedule, tonight it’s just me, you and Netflix’—?”

That last one makes him recoil, the sound of it forced on his tongue. For all that it’s worth, he’s not the flashy type, and he’s terribly uncorny. He’s not good at keeping surprises, even worse at setting them up. For you though, he’s willing to try.

Clark rounds the corner leading out of the stairwell, stepping into the main hallway, where he can hear voices echoing faintly down the hallway. He can barely make out the words—two people, one of them whose voice is sharp, laced with mockery. The other sounds more nervous, insistent as they drive 

Clark inhales sharply when he finally sees you. Fists clenched and face set in a frown, unable to hide the fear—and repulsion—in your eyes. By your body language alone, Clark knows exactly who’s at the door.

Your ex-boyfriend. Calum’s father. 

“You gonna invite me in or what?” The man sneers, looking past your shoulder in an attempt to peer into your home. He’s tall-ish and lean, with a denim jacket that hangs loose off his shoulders, a smirk that makes Clark shiver and greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed for days.

 Clark instantly clocks what–or rather, who—he’s looking for. But he knows that Calum’s with your cousin, and he can’t help but exhale in relief, knowing that it means your son is out of reach.

You don’t seem to notice Clark yet. Not until he comes up behind your ex, his footsteps purposeful. His presence fills the hallway in an instant, blanketing it with something close to comfort and security. You can sense it almost immediately, only looking up when you feel his stare burning into you.

Your name is a soft rumble in his chest, and—

“Clark,” you breathe out, relief easing the tension in your fingers and they relax visibly at your sides.

Your ex whirls around, taken off guard, only to be greeted by Clark’s towering frame and an unreadable expression. Clark’s tall—always has been, so the guy has to step back a little just to meet Clark’s stare dead-on. 

Clark’s gaze flicks to your ex for just a moment before focusing on you again, as if your ex doesn’t exist. “Hey,” Clark says, his voice neutral but clipped. “I didn’t know you had company.”

You blink. “Dylan was just… stopping by—”

“Dylan?” Clark frowns, his head swivelling between you and your ex to gauge the true nature of ‘Dylan’s’ visit .

“I’m Calum’s father.” Dylan steps forward, holding a hand out to Clark. There’s an air of confidence, self-proclaimed familiarity in the way he carries himself—and an arrogance that makes Clark’s blood simmer. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Clark doesn't immediately take his hand. His eyes flick to you for a beat, brows drawing in to pinch in the subtlest frown. You avoid his gaze. He finally reaches out and clasps Dylan’s hand, but it’s brief. Cold. Just enough pressure to make a point.

“Clark Kent,” he says, taking Dylan’s hand gingerly. “I’m her upstairs neighbour.”

“He takes care of Calum when I’m at work sometimes—” you begin explaining, but Clark interrupts you to ask Dylan, “So, what brings you around?”

“I was just having a conversation with my baby mama. Didn’t realise I needed to clear it with you, big guy.”

Clark takes a step forward. Not by much, but just enough that Dylan’s smirk twitches. He catches himself quickly though, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as if to size Clark up. You might’ve giggled if you weren’t so stressed—Clark still towers over Dylan by over six inches, his broad frame making him almost colossal next to your ex. 

“Funny.” Clark’s tone is flat, unamused. “Because last I checked, fathers who actually show up don’t need to justify it.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens and he quickly retorts, “I don’t need to be lectured by a guy who plays house with someone else’s kid.”

Clark clenches his fists, the twitch in them unmistakeable. Slip up, he thinks, give me a reason to hurt you the way you’ve hurt her. “I take care of your son when she’s working. That’s hardly playing house.”

“You telling me you haven’t fucked her yet? Haven’t even wanted to?”

The venom—and truth—in his words makes you recoil. A subtle flinch that Clark notices immediately. Dylan doesn’t seem to be any the wiser to the way you react though, oblivious to the way his words hit their mark. 

“Pretty boy’s all up in our business, brings a bottle of wine with him, hair combed back like he’s on a date, and you’re seriously trying to tell me he hasn’t been in your pants.” Dylan lets out a mocking scoff, rolling his eyes dismissively as his hand extends, grasping your sleeve with sticky fingers. “C’mon, babe.” 

“Get your dirty hands off her,” Clark growls, wrenching Dylan’s arm away from you with an irontight grip. Clark’s fingers wrap around his wrist, twisting it around until it's pinned behind the other man’s body. “Don’t touch her.”

“Or what?” 

“Stop it, you two,” you snap, stepping in to push them apart before it can get any worse. “This isn’t a fucking dick-measusing competition or whatever you boys like to do in your free time. You can either show Clark some respect or you can leave, Dylan.”

It’s clear, by just your voice alone, that you’re not putting up with their childish argument. “Dylan—” you warn, moving closer between them, when you notice that your son’s father isn’t about to back off. 

“Don’t.” Clark cuts in to hold you back.

“So you’re telling me that you leave our kid with some random fucker, and suddenly, he’s your daddy or something too—?” 

Clark’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Dylan’s shirt. Dragging him forward until they’re face to face, Clark growls, “You disrespect her one more time, you touch her one more time… and I won’t be this gentle. Do you see me breaking anything? Because I could.”

He leans in closer, his grip on Dylan’s shirt sliding up to wrap around his neck. Clark isn’t violent—or at least, the Clark you know isn’t violent, so the sudden display of anger rubs you the wrong way. The Clark you know is gentle, holds you with loving hands, and he murmurs sweet nothings into your ear late at night. 

Dylan opens his mouth to protest. 

Wrong choice. 

Clark surges forward, slamming Dylan against the wall opposite your apartment, so hard you can hear the doors rattle in their frames. But before he makes another move, Clark finds you standing behind him with the tiniest tilt of his head and his stance relaxes instantly. The moment is short-lived though, when he immediately turns back to look at Dylan, who looks like he’s about to piss himself out of fear.

“Get inside,” Clark tells you lowly.

“But—”

“Get inside.”

You’ve never heard him speak like that, or look at anyone—let alone you—the way he’s looking at Dylan now. Like there’s something about Dylan’s presence that sets off something inside him. But you trust him, don’t even hesitate. The door shuts with a quiet click when you slip back into your apartment. 

The moment it closes, you hear it. 

Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.

Dylan lets out a groan, high-pitched as he begins to plead. No, no, no—you hear. 

You wait one… two… three seconds before a low growl splits the silence. It sounds fuzzy though, and you know it’s Clark speaking but you can’t tell what he’s saying. A threat, you reckon. Something that makes Dylan blabber out, “Okay, yes, I will—”.

Then a thud as—you’re safe to assume—Clark throws Dylan to the ground. He lands with an oof, before—

“Open the door.”

Clark’s voice floats through the wood, gruff and deep in a way that sends a chill running down your spine. Hurriedly, you unlatch the door and yank him in before Dylan can think about forcing his own way in—though at this point, he’d be out of his mind to even try. With a weary sigh, you slump against the wall, squeezing your eyes shut as if to block out the stress and tension of the argument. 

“What the hell was that, Clark?” 

You don’t mean to snap, but it comes out sharp, like you’re scolding a reckless ten-year-old boy, not a fully grown man. You’ve never seen him lose his temper so easily, never seen him get so violent so quickly—a moment ago, you didn’t even know he was capable of packing a punch like that.

“He was an ass.”

Clark says it like it’s explanation enough, all the reason he needs. The TV is on, playing a movie you’d put on before Dylan had disrupted your evening. There's a box of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of where you’d been sitting and it’s clear you hadn’t been expecting any visitors at all. He recognises the actor in the movie—some dark hair, blue-eyed dude called Henry Cavill. It’s background noise to him as he moves through your apartment, heading straight for the kitchen to set the bottle of wine down on the countertop. 

That’s when you notice it.

“You brought wine.”

He doesn’t respond. Just opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it. “I wanted to treat you.”

You follow Clark into the kitchen, catching his hand and flipping it over to examine both sides. His knuckles are slightly red and swollen, his fingers tense in your hold, flexing to relieve the strain in his bones. Oddly enough, it already looks like it’s getting better, like packing a punch barely hurts him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You don’t know whether you mean the wine or beating up your ex. Both feel like something to thank him for. 

“I wanted to,” he responds, matter-of-factly. No hesitation, no justification. Just that. He finally faces you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. It’s clear that he found the whole ordeal amusing, but deliberately held himself back for your sake. And then, softer, more consoling, “I didn’t hurt myself that bad, sweetheart. I promise, it’s okay.”

“He’s harmless—” you start to insist, but you cut yourself off when it’s clear that he’s not listening to you. He just gives you a look, one that says, Too late, sweetheart.

Clark reaches for the wine, popping the cork open with a twist of his hand. You hadn’t even known something like that was possible, to open a bottle without a corkscrew. But before you can address it, his hand finds your cheek, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushes the tender skin under your eye. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss, and for a second, the anger burning in your chest stutters—not because he’s right, but because he’s him. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs again, firmer this time, like a vow. “I wanted to.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, the bottle of wine still in hand, as he leads you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch, and drags you down with him. Tucks you close to his body, until your head is resting on his chest, hair soft beneath his chin. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t push you. Simply waits in silence until you’re ready to talk. When you speak, your voice is low. As if you’re not keen to talk but, for him, you’ll open up. 

“Dylan… he left the day I told him I was pregnant. Didn’t even look back, that fucker. Just walked out like I was some inconvenience he couldn’t be bothered with.” You tilt your head, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You know, we were prom king and queen. We were supposed to be together forever—that’s just how it is when you’re young and in senior year. Highschool sweethearts stay sweethearts and he just—he left, Clark.”

A bitter laugh slips past your lips, like the weight of his abandonment still sits heavy on your chest after all these years. “It’s not as if I’m still in love with him or anything—he’s a complete asshole, trust me. And a little part of me is glad that you beat him up, but I—”

You cut yourself off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief as the memory of Dylan leaving plays through your head. “It’s just—honestly. How can he ditch his pregnant girlfriend and then have the audacity to rock up to my place years later, pretending like everything is okay?”

He holds out the bottle to you, and you take a deep swig, the smooth liquid travelling down your throat like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The taste is sweet and unfamiliar, but you welcome it freely—anything to distract you. 

Clark doesn’t say a single word. He gives you room to talk freely. Without judgement, without fear. Just a sturdy shoulder to rest your head on and an ear he’s willing to get yapped off. 

“I was right out of high school when he got me pregnant,” you murmur. “I ended up staying with my parents, went to college closer to home. It wasn’t ideal but we made it work.”

“Jesus,” Clark mutters finally, giving you a concerned look. “You were a baby—”

“I was old enough to know how to use protection,” you correct, “and I paid the price for not using it. But… I don’t regret it.”

Your gaze flicks to Calum’s bedroom door, carefully painted blue and red—Superman’s colour. And despite the fact that your landlord had explicitly mentioned you couldn’t change any of the interior, you’d still done it. Making your son happy far outweighs the consequences of a few fees. His door has the Superman logo on it, that iconic yellow ‘S’ painted with the brushstroke of a mother’s dedicated hand. 

Calum was two the first time either of you had ever seen Superman in person, flying high above the Metropolis skyline. Everyone had marvelled at the sight, but no one had been more entranced than your baby as he watched, wide eyed, as Superman swooped down to save a man falling from an office building. From that day, he’d been obsessed. 

Truthfully, you haven’t taken much to your son’s interests—god only knows where you could find the time to. But that’s not to deny the fact that you love to indulge him, anything to make him happy—Superman themed bedsheets, plates and clothes. He’s dressed up as Metropolis’s hero for two Halloweens in a row now, and his smile only gets bigger each time he wears that costume. 

“He’s my blessing. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

“You’re a good mother.” His lips brush over your temple, featherlight. But it grounds you, reminds you that he’s here—always has been. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you concede, and before he can protest, you say, “Calum loves you. You’re… more of a father figure than Dylan has ever been.”

It’s a heavy truth. But, in the grand scheme of things, Clark has been more present in the past months than Dylan has in Cal’s whole life. 

Clark takes the bottle from you, placing it onto the coffee table before draping his arm over your thighs. He just holds you like that, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek.

“It’s been hard,” you say quietly. 

He just nods. “I know.”

“And… at first, the…” you trail off, unsure of how to continue, but he just squeezes you.

I’m here, it says, it’s okay.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning further into his hold. “After giving birth, I hated myself. So much. I didn’t… I didn’t feel like me; I didn’t feel like a mother. I just… felt like a fraud. But you… Clark, you’re the first person who’s made me feel normal in the last four years. Like I’m not alone in this, and I—I couldn’t be more grateful.” 

“You’re worth it,” he rasps, nose nudging your hairline, his soft breaths teasing the baby hairs. “You and Calum, both.”

For the first time in a long time, you believe him. 

—

It’s a quiet morning when Clark steps through your front door without so much as a knock. You’d given him a key to your apartment a few days ago, and it’s safe to say that he’s enjoying the privilege. Very much so. 

The smell of raisin toast—your favourite go-to breakfast—drifts through the air as you nurse a cup of tea in your hands. You’re sitting on one of the stools on the kitchen island and you just call out, “In here!” the moment you hear the doorknob turn. 

He doesn’t announce himself, but you immediately know it’s him. Not just because you’ve already given him a key, but because a small part of you knows his body better than your own at this point—every curve, every scar, every blemish on his skin. It’s engraved in your memory, a permanent fixation in the back of your mind. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming up behind you. A soft kiss lands on your cheek and you lean into his touch, the curve of your face moulding perfectly against his. You can feel him frown, cheeks turning down in the way it does whenever he’s unimpressed with something. “You made your own tea.”

“You took ages to get here,” you say. 

He just scoffs. You know he hates it when you do things for yourself—he much prefers doing it for you. A favour, he calls it but you know it’s really just princess treatment. “How’d you sleep?”

“The bed was cold,” you tease. “I was, unfortunately, missing a six-foot-four giant. He hogs all the blankets despite always running hot and he never sleeps with a shirt on. Oh, and he’s like, super sexy—have you seen him?”

He just rolls his eyes, swivelling the chair to turn you around in his arms. Clark’s mouth finds yours almost instantly, an eager kiss that speaks volumes about his desire for you, as his hand palms your ass through your pyjama pants. It’s far too early in the morning for this, so you let him control the pace and the movement. You haven’t brushed your teeth yet, but if he’s realised, he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand cups your cheek, steadying you beneath him before he pulls away—albeit a little reluctantly.

“I do not hog all the blankets,” he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Liar.” You stick your tongue out playfully.

He just rolls his eyes with a suppressed grin, muttering, “Brat.”

The toaster dings and, before you can head for it, Clark is handling it for you. He pulls away from you, making his way around your kitchen with ease—he finds your favourite breakfast dish, plates the toast, then slathers it with butter, just the way you like it. A flash of fondness lights up your gaze, softening the moment altogether. The thoughtfulness of the act—even though it’s just fucking toast and butter—warms your heart, and it makes your chest ache with something dangerously close to love.

—

“He thinks you’re Superman,” you tell Clark with an eye roll. Chinese takeout is spread out on the dining table in front of you. Clark had gotten it on his way home, where you’d already been waiting in his apartment with Calum. It’s become a daily occurrence for you to rock up to each other’s apartments nowadays, and you eat at his place more often than not. Clark still takes care of Calum when you’ve got work, but lately, you’ve been spending more time together as a couple than anything else. 

Clark freezes, a split second where his whole body tenses up and his heart just stops. You don’t notice—of course you don’t. He’s too good at masking his emotions and you’re preoccupied with keeping an eye on Calum as he rolls around on the floor with Krypto. 

So he just laughs, wanting to come off as nonchalant, but it sounds slightly strained. “What? No way, sweetheart. Me? Superman? Seriously?” 

You can only grin, his shock only adding to your entertainment. “Honestly, I don’t know who he gets it from. I sure as hell wasn’t as imaginative as him at this age—” That’s when you turn to him with a smirk. “Are you brainwashing my son or something?”

He grins, leaning forward. His arm rests on the table, other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “The only thing I’m teaching him are some manners.” He frowns jokingly. “Haven’t you realised, sweetheart? I’ve got him pushing chairs in after dinner and everything.”

“Ah,” you play along, “of course. He even offered to clear up the table the other day! I was so surprised.”

Clark’s pretend-frown deepens. “He only offered to clean up? I had him mopping and vacuuming when you dropped him off the other week. Maybe he just likes to help me more.”

You burst into giggles at the thought of your four-year-old son holding a mop twice his height, dragging it across Clark’s living room floor. “God, you wish you had a servant. You need to start paying him for his labour.”

“Hey,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re real good with my kid, Superman.”

It’s only a joke, but Clark’s heart clenches at the truth behind the name. “He makes it easy.” He pauses, before murmuring, “You both do.”

You keep your head on his shoulder, but you tip your gaze up just enough to watch him. There’s something careful in his expression, like he’s weighing what not to say. 

“Okay, but… seriously,” you murmur, your voice laced with something akin to amusement laced with curiosity. “Are you like… friends with Superman, or something?” 

He doesn’t say a word, just presses a soft kiss to your hair, so gentle it almost distracts you. Almost.

Calum must have been listening in because, at the mention of Superman, he abandons Krypto and the floor and comes clambering onto your lap. You brush his hair away from his face with a smile. Clark’s still silent so you continue speaking. “I know you interview him a lot, right? For work.”

“Mhm.”

There’s something odd about the way he avoids eye contact and it throws you off a bit— “So do you, like… bring him around and stuff? To play with Calum?”

“He does!” Calum giggles, but the older man doesn’t answer right away. You can feel him tense again, like a rope stretched taut. 

“I guess you could say that.”

“Say what?” you raise a questioning brow.

“I suppose that Superman is…. my friend,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, but he disguises his hesitation with a casual shrug. “Started calling in a favour with him after that first day you asked me to look after Cal. When I found out he likes Superman, I just thought it’d be a nice thing to do.”

That’s the thing: it is. It’s the sweetest gesture, one you never would've expected him to do for a child that he, at the time, barely knew. 

“Does he visit often?”

Clark shrugs. “It’s on an… availability basis.”

“That’s nice of him,” you hum before grinning up at him mischievously, as you nudge him with your elbow. “You should introduce me to him one day.”

“Absolutely not,” Clark interjects before you can entertain that thought any longer. He glances at Calum—the little kid is notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. So Clark throws him a look of warning that screams ‘Don’t you dare say a word’, and to his relief, Calum just runs his fingers over his lips in the universal ‘shut your mouth and throw away the key’  motion. Clark exhales in relief, slumping  back in his chair. 

“Why?” Your lips purse in a tight frown, just as a knowing look crosses your face and your eyes light up. “Is someone jealous?”

Clark’s neck flushes pink, his cheeks warming up as a wave of embarrassment crashes over him. “I… that’s not why—”

You don’t think much of his stammering. If anything, you find his supposed “jealousy” endearing. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, leaning up to peck his lips. “Superman’s just a guy in spandex. I already have you.”

—

Metropolis, for the first time in a long time, is quiet. 

A peaceful Tuesday morning, something you haven’t had in months. For once, there are no aliens terrorising the streets, the Justice League isn’t flying around flaunting their powers, and Superman is nowhere to be seen. With a matcha in hand, handbag slung over one shoulder, and the knowledge that Calum is safe at daycare, this is what you would call a perfect day. 

Of course, you’re nothing if not unlucky. 

It’s not long before a stranger breaks the peaceful bubble you’ve been trapped in for the last odd hour or so as they rush past you, a blur in the busy city street. Their shoulder knocks against you, shoving you forward, and your matcha tumbles to the ground, a puddle of green pooling at your feet. 

“Shit,” you snap lowly, turning around to give the person a piece of your mind.

But it’s then that you notice the stampede of people heading straight towards you—and in the distance, a large brown ugly thing with bulging eyes stomps through the city square. 

A low curse leaves your lips when you realise what it is. Fucking aliens. Always disturbing your peace in this goddamn city.

“What are you doing?” Some lady yells at you when she catches you staring at the monster, transfixed. “Run!”

You don’t hesitate.

The years spent living in Metropolis have shaped your reaction time—you’re fast now, faster than you’ve ever been, at responding to threats like it’s second natur. An act that is now as familiar to you as feeding or cleaning Calum. It feels like a stampede more than anything else—the quiet Tuesday morning atmosphere is shattered by the shouts of corporate assholes who shove their way to the front so they can be as far away from the danger as possible.

It takes a short while, but eventually, there’s a whoosh in the sky—a telltale sign that Superman is here. A flash of blue and red streaks through the sky, and despite yourself, you stop to marvel at it. You all do, because when Superman comes in, he demands attention—the ‘S’ on his chest is like a homing beacon, reminding people of hope and happiness and a life without hardship here in Metropolis.

Everyone lets out a whoop as they watch him fly overhead, raising their hands in a loud cheer. Still, you can’t bring yourself to celebrate, not with the monster still looming closer and closer with every passing. And especially not with the way that—

Oddly enough, it seems like he’s getting bigger and bigger, until it feels like he’s heading straight for you.

Terror seeps through your bone like marrow, weighing you down so that you’re frozen in place as Superman reaches for you in front of everyone. A strong arm of steel bands around your waist, yanking you away from the danger and suddenly, you’re flying.

A loud, panicked yelp leaves your lips as the gravity of what is happening finally hits you—Superman just flew in and saved you. You, of all people. His breath ruffles the hair at your temple, and beneath the rush of blood in your ears, you can make out his voice reassuring you... it’s gonna be okay. I’m getting you to safety.

Floating above the Metropolis skyline, the sea of skyscrapers stretching out in front of you before melting into the vast distance. You can see the monster-alien-thing rampaging down below, its tail swinging into trees. But Superman doesn’t pay it much attention.

It takes two... three... four seconds of flying before he approaches a familiar looking building. He gently lowers you down to the balcony, like you’re precious cargo—there’s a rug pushed up against the the doorstep, and it reminds you of the same one you keep outside. Blue with white floral patterns bordering the edges. The fake potted plants that... Clark Kent gave you a few weeks ago. Your underwear, hanging on the line, dry and waiting to be collected.

Home. He’s taken you home.

You turn to face him where he’s still hovering, just a few metres above the floor. In any other circumstance, you’re sure he would have gone back by now, to help the rest of the Justice League. But now, he just stays there, watching you intently with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look in his eyes—his stare doesn’t put you off though. If anything, it warms your heart, a familiarity in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe beneath his scrutinising stare. Perhaps, that’s the most unsettling part of it all.

“How…” There’s a thick lump in your throat, unease churning in your stomach as you step away from him. “How do you know where I live?” 

His eyes dart to the balcony right above yours before meeting your eyes again, and there’s a tiny, knowing smile on his face—one you’ve seen aimed at you for months now.

That’s when it all clicks. 

“Clark.”

His name is a whisper on your tongue, strained and hesitant. A small part of you is afraid that, if you speak too loud, you’re going to say something you’ll regret.

That single curly strand of hair flops over his forehead and you remember the first time you saw it up close—at his place, when he’d answered the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath. “A work call,” he’d said then, and now you want to laugh. How stupid had you been to trust him? Even stupider, you’re sure, considering that Calum has literally been telling you the truth for months now. 

Superman—Clark, you correct yourself mentally—floats down to the ground, landing with a light step right in front of you. “Sweetheart…”

He doesn’t deny it.

“You should’ve told me,” you say quietly, almost accusatorily. 

“I wanted to—” he tries to defend himself, but he doesn’t look all that remorseful for lying.

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt. “You made the choice to…” ‘Lie’ feels wrong. Too strong a word. “You made the choice to continuously pretend that Superman was just your ‘friend’. “You let me humiliate myself in front of you while my four-year-old son knew all along. You just… you lied to me.”

“That wasn’t my intention, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but you step back, a pained look crossing your face. Anger simmers in your blood, hardly daring to boil over lest you say something you regret. 

“I think your friends are looking for you,” you say quietly when you spot the Justice League flying around in the background. They look lost without him, ducklings wandering aimlessly without their mother. Green Lantern’s got some contraption in place, and it pokes the monster’s eye repetitively. You wince at the sight of it. Hakwgirl is a tiny speck in the sky as she flies in circles around its head in an attempt to disorient. Any bystander could tell that, without Superman by their side, they’re not exactly doing the best job at taking down the alien.

Clark follows your gaze and he recoils when he sees Green Lantern get swatted out of the sky.

“They’re not my friends—” He starts to protest, but he falters off once he realises how stupid that sounds when he says it out loud. “I mean, they are, but they’re not…”

Important? Special?

You?

You shake the thought off before it can fester. Lowly, you tel him, “They need you, Clark. Go… save the city, or whatever it is that you do.”

“Please—” Clark’s face contorts with a desperation of sorts as he reaches out for you, gripping your hand tightly. His hold loosens just as quickly when he notices the blank look on your face. Spaced out, like you’re not fully there. At least, not in the way he wishes you were.

“Okay,” he concedes with a nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay, but this isn’t over. We’re talking about this later.”

All you can do is nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watch him step back, shooting off into the sky in a blur of red and blue. Tonight, then. Though, you’re not quite sure if it’s a conversation you’re looking forward to. 

—

That night, you find yourself sitting at Clark’s dining table. 

The kitchen light is dim, casting a shadow over you as Clark busies himself with making hot chocolate for the two of you. His back is to you, muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his sleep tee. On any other occasion, you would’ve been by his side, running a hand down his spine, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his pants. He’d turn, that familiar smile etched on his beautiful face—half fondness, half amused—and pull you in for a kiss. Two, if you were lucky.

Now, you can hardly stomach the thought of touching him. 

Nothing about him has changed though, since you found out the truth this morning. If you were to touch him now, his skin would be as soft as it always is, calloused hands just as strong and comforting, eyes still as bright as the sun. The same hands that held you so tenderly every day are the same ones that come home battered and bruised by villains and extraterrestrials beings and evil metahumans. The same lips you kissed are the same ones that lied to you. 

It hits you then, the weight of it. 

Clark Kent is Superman and your son has known all along. And somehow, through all the late nights and stolen kisses and whispered promises, he still chose not to tell you. He still chose to lie. 

Eventually, the noise in the kitchen quietens down as he approaches, two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets a cup in front of you before taking a seat opposite you. For a while, neither of you say anything. The only movement in his small apartment is the rustle of the curtains by the open window, and cold air drafts in. The hot chocolate is a small reprieve from the awkwardness, but it does little to ease the cold distance that’s settled between you.  

Clark hesitates, before reaching up and taking his glasses off his face. With a precision and calmness that belies the tension in the room, he folds the arms of the frame, setting it down on the table between you.

“You look different,” you say quietly. Handsome, like a veil has lifted between you and you’re finally seeing him.

The real Clark.

Somehow, without the glasses, he looks far more muscular, his body filling out his tee in a way that makes the average gym goer look small. His eyes are bluer, clearer like you can see the world he comes from within them. Krypton. You’d once read about it in a paper that Clark had written about Superman—himself. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

All he does is nod. He never breaks eye contact once—sky blue eyes hold your gaze, an air of confidence that rattles your bones. You want to reach over the table and grab his neck, throttle him a little. 

Show some emotion, you have half a mind to yell. Tell me you’re sorry, tell me that I meant something to you, tell me that what we had wasn’t just a lie.

“I’m sorry,” is all he murmurs.

“No, you’re not.” 

He exhales sharply, looking away momentarily as his fingers tighten around his mug. “No, I’m not.”

Silence stretches between you before he clears his throat. “I just… I just wanted to protect you.”

“I let you around my son—” I loved you, you want to say, but that would be admitting that, despite everything that’s happened—the danger he’s put Calum in, time and time again—you still love him.

You’ve never said it out loud. Saying it now feels like a lie, no matter how much your heart wants it to be true—possible. It feels like a betrayal of sorts. To yourself, to your son and to the part of you that knows love shouldn’t have to come with this kind of cost.

“I would never do anything to harm him,” he pleads. “I care about Calum, I swear I do.”

“It’s not about harming him, Clark,” you snap, “it’s about the fact that you lied to me! It’s about the fact that, when I asked you if you were Superman—regardless of if it was a joke or not—you told me ‘no’.”

“Sweetheart…” He falters, unsure of what to say. His voice is a rasp when he settles, “I love that kid, okay? I didn’t plan to, but I do, just like I love yo—”

“Don’t.” 

The chair squeals against the hardwood floor when you stand up, the hot chocolate he’d made you untouched. “I’d prefer it if you just… stay away from us. Please.”

Clark doesn’t listen to you. The thing about him is, he never does—too stubborn for his own good and too in love to think straight. He stands up, stepping closer to you. “You’re the reason I come back home everyday. You and Calum. The reason I keep fighting, the reason I want to be better, to make the world better—because the two of you deserve a world that’s good, and kind, and safe. And if I can be the one to give that to you, then why shouldn’t I try?” 

“Because you can put us in danger—”

“And I can protect you!” The words end in a crack, like it’s taking everything to just keep himself together. “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

His words are like a gunshot to your already wounded heart. Count on him to bring Dylan up when he knows you’re vulnerable—a bullet that had been waiting to meet its mark.

“I know,” you respond firmly—you refuse to let yourself waver. “I know you’re not him but that doesn’t mean you won’t break me the same way.”

Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curled and digging crescents into your palms. “It doesn’t mean you won’t leave pieces of me behind when you go. I won’t put myself through that again.”

His face crumples, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. “But I won’t go. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you could get hurt, Clark!” You burst out, and this time, you can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill over. “You could get hurt, you could bring enemies home, you could put my son in danger! One day, you might not come home at all and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“I saved your life today!” 

“You broke my trust today!” 

“Sweetheart—” he starts to protest, faltering when you hold a hand up to stop him. His face crumples, resignation dampening the light in his eyes. His voice is almost a croak, weak and accepting, as he nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… keep my distance. I promise.” 

He pauses, head hung low as though instinctively leaning into a touch that isn’t there—resting his forehead against your is his favourite act of intimacy. Sharing a single breath with you, both your eyes closed, noses brushing. It’s a feeling he will never get enough of, a peace he yearns for after long days and longer nights—a quiet only you could give. Well… gave.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, lower this time, like he knows it’s not enough. Like it never has been.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid, sorry hope in his eyes—the one he wears like a wound when he looks like you, so painfully raw and open. It makes you want to hold him together, stitch the pieces of his heart with the loose threads of your own soul. 

Krypto whines when you turn away, darting between your feet as if to make you stay. He nips at the hem of your pants, insistent and tempting, almost like he could drag you back inside with his teeth alone. You can’t bear to acknowledge him, knowing damn well that he’s more than capable of having you turn around, back into Clark’s waiting arms.

When he realises that Krypto isn’t leaving your side  anytime soon, Clark lets out a low, sharp whistle that has the puppy’s ears perking up—almost Pavlovian in the act. That’s when you look down at him, a small apologetic smile on your lips—the kind people give when they’ve already made up their mind—and he backs away. Then quietly, he whimpers, before scampering off to Clark’s side.

“You don’t need to go,” Clark says hoarsely as you reach for the handle. It’s not a plea, not quite. But it hangs between you like one, hope and resignation twisted together in an unbreakable promise.

You finally glance at him. A mistake.

He’s standing there, right where you left him, looking at you like you’re his salvation and his ruination. Like if you took one step forward, he’d welcome you home with open arms—where, deep down, you know you belong. But if you took a step back, he’d let you, because he cherishes you too much to beg for a love you’re not ready to give. 

And dear God, but that’s worse.

“I do, Clark,” you whisper. “I really do.”

—

Dinner is a simple affair—it’s been the same meal every night for the past couple weeks. Calum is starting to get sick of it, you can see it in the way he slumps over the table, head in his hand as he pushes the rice around the plate. 

“Baby,” you start, “you need to eat it—”

“I am eating,” he grumbles, shovelling a spoonful in his mouth. He’s gotten grumpier since the whole ordeal with Clark and his sour mood only makes your heart ache. He hardly plays anymore. Barely even talks to you. Just sits by the window day and night, his Superman figurine by his side as he waits for a blur in the sky—a glimpse of his favourite person. 

“Calum.”

Your tone is stern, brooking no argument. The meaning behind it is clear: you won’t tolerate his attitude.

A thought pops into your head then, unwarranted and unexpected—Clark. You can imagine him sitting beside Calum, that serious look softening into something patient yet firm as he says, “Cal, listen to your mother.” His voice—quiet but unshakable—would cut through the tension because that’s what Clark’s always been best at. Stepping in when you needed a break, when the ‘bad cop’ act wore thin and your patience ran dry.  

You swallow hard, pushing down the ache his absence has left behind as it blooms quietly in your chest. Calum still hasn’t looked at you, muttering quietly to himself. His anger—and his pain—is clear in the way he hides away from you, and the guilt hits you all at once. He’s struggling as much as you are. Now’s not the time to be selfish.

“Hey,” you say, moving from your spot on the opposite side of the table to crouch down beside him. Shifting his chair, you force him to meet your gaze. “Look at me, Calum. What’s wrong?”

He’s still silent, but he looks at you almost hesitantly, as if it’s somehow a scary ordeal. You know exactly what this is about—you just want to hear it from his own lips. 

“Look, I’m sorry about Clark. I am. I swear I am. I miss him too, more than you know, buddy—” 

“He said… he said he loves you,” Calum murmurs, glancing away, focusing his attention on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. 

“I know, baby,” you whisper back, “I love him too.”

You’ve never said those words out loud—not to yourself, not to Clark. But saying them to Calum feels like a confession, a truth you can’t deny or take back, and a promise that’ll never be fulfilled, all at once.

“Then why can’t he come over?” His bottom lip trembles, baby blues welling with tears. “You said that people who love each other are nice to each other. And you’re being mean to him—”

“That’s different, Calum. You’re my son—”

“And he’s Mr Clark!” 

It doesn’t slip past you, the fact that he says ‘Mr Clark’. Over the past couple of months, as the three of you had grown closer, forming a small family in the purest sense of the word, Calum had dropped the ‘Mr’, and Clark had simply become ‘Clark’. 

Now, Calum just says Mr Clark like it means something. It did once. You just don’t know what it means anymore. 

“Honey…” you say softly, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Mr Clark… he broke Mama’s trust. You remember what I taught you about trust, right?” 

Calum doesn’t respond as stubborn tears begin to fall down his face. Your throat closes up, a choked emotion you can’t show Calum, lest your own sadness affect his even more. So you force a smile—he can’t tell the difference between that and the usual twinkle in your eyes, but that doesn’t make faking it any easier. The curve of your mouth trembles and the sheer effort of pretending that everything is fine when it’s not forces a heavy weight on your shoulders. It’s a pain you haven’t felt in a long, long time—not since Clark Kent offered to bear it for you. 

“Mr Clark broke Mama’s trust,” you continue, and your voice is barely above a whisper, threatening to crack at any given moment. “And… I only want people I trust around you, Calum. Because I want you to be safe, okay? I want to protect you and I can’t do that if Mr Clark lied to me.”

Calum bursts into tears then, collapsing off his chair and into your arms. The sob he lets out is heartwrenching.“But I want him!” 

“I know, baby,” you hush softly, running over hand up and down his back. Tucking his head against your chest, his tears soak your shirt as he hiccups between sobs. “I miss him too.”

You hold Calum there, close to your chest with your cheek pressed to his head. It’s hard to soothe a child who’s hurting, and much harder to soothe a child who doesn’t want you, no matter how fleeting his anger is. The ache in your heart only grows, until you’re terrified you’ll bleed out on the ground, without a single person capable of stitching you back together. 

—

Clark Kent is, by nature, one of the most caring men you’ve met. And his absence leaves a gaping hole in your life. 

There was something so right about having him around, his presence like a blanket of security that wrapped you in safety and security—around him, you didn’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to lift a finger.

For the longest time, Clark had been the one holding you together. He’d been the one to make sure you ate and showered when your mind wandered too far to remind yourself. The one to answer your call in the middle of the night when you needed help—or when you were just lonely. He was the person who plated your dinner, washed the dishes after you’d spent the evening cooking for him, a labour of love born out of kindness. Now the dishes remain untouched, piling up high until you force yourself to get up and wash them yourself. 

You’re not a lazy mother, not by a long shot. You’ve spent the last five years dedicating your life, and all your time, and energy to a little boy who’s become the center of your world. But a small part of you had gotten used to being treasured and treated like someone worth being cared for, the way he cared for you. 

Before Clark had ripped it away from you.

The resentment still coils in your chest every time you pass him in the apartment lobby, or see his name under an article on the front page of the newspaper. And sometimes, you want to curse at the sky, in hopes that Superman might just hear you. 

But most times, you just sit in bed, pretending that your blanket around your shoulders is half as comforting as Clark’s arms. It’s a dangerous thing—imagination—and it has you wondering what would happen if you were to call him up now. 

A little part of you knows that he’d answer without hesitation. His voice would be soft on the other side, patient and understanding. It’d be the balm to your weary soul, an antidote that you know will work wonders the moment you get your hands on it. The larger part of you though—the one that thinks with logic and common sense and everything that is painfully pessimistic—hopes that he wouldn’t. Because answering means he still cares. It means that he’s not angry and, in a worst case scenario, it means that he doesn’t feel guilty about breaking your trust. 

It’s late Sunday night when you hear a knock on your apartment door. Calum is already asleep, has been for hours now. You’ve been rotting on the couch since you put him to bed, some crappy Netflix original series playing on the TV screen but you’re not really paying attention. Your thoughts are somewhere in the past, stuck in sunny skies and yellow suns and baby blue eyes. 

That’s when you hear it. 

Two heavy knocks on your door. 

Standing up with a heavy sigh, you pause the TV. The soles of your pink fluffy slippers squeak against the floorboards as you shuffle down the hallway. “Coming!”

The latches come undone, chains falling with a soft clink and the door creaks in that familiar way it always does. You recognise his shoes first, worn loafers that have become scuffed from months of use.

Clark. 

He’s the last person you expected to see, especially not so close to midnight. 

He’s not wearing his glasses. 

He looks different without them, you’d realised this the night you left. Handsomer. The thought crosses your mind like last time, unbidden. 

 The second thing you notice is that he’s tired—his eyes are sunken, dark bags circled below them, with his brows furrowed tightly as he squints down at you. 

The third thing you spot is the bouquet of flowers in his hands. White lilies and white peonies, bunched together at the stem with a cream-coloured wrapping paper. It’s a gorgeous assortment, not bright enough to be an eyesore, but so not dull that it feels lazy. Simple, not understated.

Your favourite kind. 

“I… I got these for you,” he says quietly, holding out the bouquet. No ‘hi’. No ‘I missed you’. Just ‘here’. As if he has a right to come out of nowhere and bring you flowers, like a boyfriend making it up to his girl after a fight. 

As if it hasn’t been weeks since you’ve seen him, let alone spoken to him. 

Still, you reach for it almost instinctively before reconsidering, drawing your hand back to your side. “Why?”

“You said…” he pauses, clearing his throat. His gaze flicks up to meet your eyes before he looks away, bashful. “You told me that day… you’d want flowers every Sunday.”

Your eyes widen imperceptibly, something fleeting passing through your chest before it’s tamped down. That was the last thing you’d expected him to say. Hell, you didn’t even think he’d remember that conversation, let alone act on it. 

“By the man I love.” It comes out flat, blunt in a way you don’t recognise. Unimpressed, like the fact that he came over to bring you flowers means nothing at all. 

“And I love you,” he rasps softly. “That’s excuse enough for me.”

 “You don’t have a right to say that.” Not anymore.

The venom in your words makes Clark’s heart clench. There was a time, not too long ago, when you looked at him with stars in your eyes, spoke to him with a honey-sweet voice that sent fire rushing through his veins. He’s certain it still would—you always seemed to have that effect on him, the way you make his head spin with the possibilities of what he could do to you, body and soul. And beneath that, a shining awe at the fact that, even if for just a little while, you were his. 

And now this is what you’ve become—what he’s done to you. Lost to a distance and drift that he could’ve held together on his own if he’d just given himself the chance.  

“You’re right,” he rectifies hurriedly, worried that a moment’s pause would seem too much like hesitation—or worse, ignorance. His gaze softens. “I’m sorry.”

His hand comes up to hover at your cheek to reach out and touch you. It wavers midair, a split second of hesitation before it cups your face. Clark’s palm is big—always has been, in a way that makes you feel small and protected—warm against your cheek and you lean into his touch, the gesture automatic in nature. 

Clark pauses for a moment, wallowing over the words he wants to say.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says lowly. “I never meant to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happens to me, or to Metropolis or any-fucking-one else, you would be safe. Hate me. Yell at me. Hell, hit me. But please… don’t keep me away. Don’t make me spend another day apart from you. I can’t survive that. I won’t. Because I meant what I said, sweetheart. You’re the reason I come home everyday. You give me a reason to want to make this world a better place.”

Those were the words he said to you the night he left, and you remember vividly like a branded mark seared into your mind. The fight replays in your head more often than you’d like, and every time it makes your heart ache a little bit more than before. 

 “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

You flinch at the memory, the reminder that Clark’s love, though sorely painful, is nothing like Dylan’s. Quiet and unspoken, but so resolute that it could become a constant in your life to fill in the spaces of an empty void. It had been empty for so long, dry and barren, waiting for a love to bear the hurt on their shoulders for you.

That had been Clark. 

And some nights, you let your mind wander to that dangerous place, teetering on the edge of rationality and foolish hope—to wonder if letting him leave was the wrong choice. What if you had decided to hear him out instead? What if you had simply given him a chance?

He notices your flinch—and immediately, his other hand flies up to cradle your face properly now. “Hey… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

Because that’s Clark for you. Always pouring out of his own cup just to make sure yours is full. Looking back, you hadn’t been as grateful as you should’ve been during your time together. Maybe that’s where your faults first started—tiny cracks that quickly, and quietly,  

“I’m scared,” you admit, and your voice breaks, delicate in a way that you fear makes you seem weak. 

He doesn’t need to ask why. Just a tilt of his head that you can read like a book. Scared of what, he asks you with a look, begging, almost to let him in.

A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from your throat, like you couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of not being scared. For the longest time, the world has dealt nothing but blows—rolling punch after punch until you’re bruised and battered and broken.

So you can’t help but to blurt out, “What if you realise you don’t want me and Calum?” 

Clark doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s never going to happen,” he insists, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“He’s not your son.”

“I love him like one,” he counters.

There’s a conviction in his voice that makes your chest constrict, like a snake finding a home in the crevice of your ribs, a makeshift cage that squeezes, tighter and tighter until your breath becomes weak and shaky. Clark’s arm bands around your waist without warning, pulling you closer until you’re flush against him. His mouth ghosts over yours, and you can practically taste the minty gum that he’s always chewing lingering on his breath. He shakes his head, a pained noise escaping his lips, like he wants to steal away all the hurt that you feel—that  he inflicted on you—and carry it for you. 

“Stop that,” Clark pleads, and his voice cracks with the sheer effort of holding back. “Stop diminishing how much I love you. How much I need you. Don’t you see? Sweetheart, you’ve made Metropolis home for me.”

Your heart beats in your throat, a slow pain seizing your body as he holds you close, the same reverence in his eyes that he’s always looked at you with.

“Clark…” you breathe out, but when his jaw bumps against your cheek, warm skin on warm skin, you’re a goner. You fist the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Turning your head, your nose brushes his, closer and closer, until you’re sharing the same breath. You don’t let yourself hesitate. “I know.”

“You know but you’re not believing it—” Clark starts to insist, but a small voice quiets through the blanketed silence of the night.

“Mama?”

The sound of Calum calling out your name has you jumping away from Clark’s hold. Somehow, it feels like you’re sixteen again, caught sneaking out to meet up with a boy you shouldn’t be seeing, and a wave of guilt washes over you.

Calum’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him as he waddles towards you, rubbing his eyes to remove the disorientation. Even half-asleep, he seeks out your comfort. “Mama, what’s happening?”

“Nothing, baby,” you say softly. It’s hard to miss the way Clark watches him, with the longing of a father who misses holding his son—for years, you’d prayed Dylan would look at Calum like that. It only hurts more now that it’s Clark in his place. Your hand lands on Calum’s shoulder when he finds his place beside you, already redirecting him back to bed. “Go back inside—”

“What’s Mr Clark doin’ here?” Calum blinks up at Clark, confused, like he’s not quite if Clark is really there or just a figment of his wild imagination.

“He’s… just dropping by, Cal.” The lie feels unnatural on your tongue, but Calum doesn’t quite buy it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been the best liar.

He just stares up at Clark, eyes squinted and hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you here to make Mama happy again?”

The expression in Clark’s eyes shatters as his gaze finds yours in the dimly lit corridor. He just shakes his head, and, for once in his lifetime, he’s at a loss for words. His mouth opens, and closes, looking for the perfect answer as if it would automatically slip out of his tongue.  

“If your mother wants to be happy, then…”

Then I’ll stay, is what he doesn’t say.

“In,” you repeat again to your son, sterner this time. Turning into your home, you tell Clark, “I’ll see you around.”

But you both know that’s a lie—you’ve been avoiding him for months now. You even go out of your way just to make sure you don’t pass him in the hallways of your apartment building. To you, not seeing him at all is easier than confronting him, even if just for a moment. It’s simpler to deprive yourself of him entirely than to risk brushing against him in the lobby when you’re both collecting mail, or having to wait for the same elevator that’ll take the both of you to a home that the other is no longer welcome in.

Clark, for all that it’s worth, doesn’t seem quite ready to let you go again, especially not so soon. He calls your name, but it falls short on his tongue—too painful to say out loud, but not too lost a love to shy away from fighting for it. For you.

For a single moment, you freeze. Then you turn around, angling your body, just so, to be able to hear him. 

“Let me try again,” Clark pleads, words rushed like he’s worried that taking too long will shatter the moment—or worse, whatever remains of your trust. His hand finds yours in the din, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you close. It forces you look at him, and meet his gaze. “No secrets, no lies—just us.”

It’s tempting. God knows, it’s tempting, but the hurt of his betrayal still lingers, still a fresh wound despite the weeks he’s given you space to put yourself back together. Clark can sense it somehow, because his hand finds your chest, palm flat in the space just above your breasts, and he can feel your heart beating rapidly beneath his touch. “I know I hurt you—”

“Stop that,” you echo his earlier sentiment, and an unfamiliar anger simmers at the pits of your stomach, hot and painful. You thought you’d left it in the past, during those first few weeks after you walked out, but here it is, stronger than ever. But this time, maybe the hatred that stirs within you isn’t aimed at Clark alone—you know that this aching need in your chest is your own doing, more than anything.

“Just… stop.” The words come out choked, shaking your head as you blink back tears. “You made me strong once, Clark. And I needed you more than anything in this world. So fuck you for making me still need you.”

Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance. 

Clark’s eyes soften when he realises that you’re offering him a middle ground—a chance to start over again.

He waits for a heartbeat.

Then two.

And on the third, he takes a chance. His hand drifts up, the pad of his thumb wiping away the single tear that slips down your cheek. “Can I come inside?”

You pause—hesitation clips at the forefront of your mind, before your heart takes over, honest and true. Leaning into his touch with a gentleness that borders on tense, you nod slowly, and a small smile carves your face as you warn, “I haven’t washed dishes in three days, though.”

Clark just laughs, warm lips finding your forehead in the dim hallway. “Why am I not surprised?”

He pulls you close, one large arm banding around your waist that feels equal parts comforting and possessive. He tugs you into your apartment, and the door closes shut behind you with a quiet click—for good.

a street kid like you, with nowhere to go or truly call home but the dark alleyways of gotham. but unlike him, you had been one of the luckier kids around—if having a dead father and a prostitute for a mother could even be considered lucky. she had never been absent, at least. she paid the bills and put food in your belly, even if your blankets were worn thin and the hinges on the roof were dropping like flies.

the best thing about it had always been the freedom—you could be out all day and all night, so long as you were home for supper. exploring the city was your favourite pastime—weaving through narrow alleyways and slipping through closing doors as you watch passerbys from the shadow, watchful eyes seeing everything.

that was how you met jason, with his arm down some lady’s purse. his other hand—and his pockets, if you remember correctly—had been filled with all sorts of riches. gold watches, pearl necklaces and wads of cash that some sickeningly rich soul had made the mistake of bringing with them to the slums. you’d backed away then, returning to the shadows of the alley and pretending you hadn’t seen anything, when you felt a tap on your shoulder. turning around, there stood that boy from earlier—but in his palm, instead of stolen goods, were sweets.

“want one?” he asked with a lopsided grin, as if the wrapped chocolates weren’t melting from being in his pockets all this time.

you became quick friends, the two of you, like peas in a pod that couldn’t be more different from each other. where he was a trickster, slinking between alleys and digging through handbags, you were the sweet talker, batting your lashes and flashing a saccharine smile at the adults who thought they’d caught a thief, only to be greeted with a sweetheart like you.

“hey—” he’d call out to you. without fail, he waited for you to stop. turn.

and without fail, he would smile. “smell you later.”

your version of goodbye had started off as a stupid joke, a farewell you made sure would never be set in stone—see you later always felt final. a goodbye you were never ready for.

“smell you later, jason,” you relented each time, and delight would tumble in your tummy every time his face split at the eye roll you paired with it. and then he would disappear down the block, off to somewhere dark and dim that welcomed him like a second home.

you think of him sometimes, that boy whose memory keeps you company on the lonely nights when your childhood weighs heavy on your shoulders. his laugh, though you hardly heard it. instead, his smile spoke volumes, subdued most times, but always biggest around you. you can hear his voice too—saying your name, teaching you the do’s and don’ts of conning. his hand guiding yours into silk-lined pockets and designer bags, pulling you away before your unsuspecting victims could realise they’d be robbed by a couple of kids.

ten years on, gotham’s streets are nothing more than a faint hum from the rooftop of a beatdown apartment block. the ledge is gritty beneath your shoulders as you lay down, one leg hanging over the edge. you should be patrolling, but tonight, you can’t find it in yourself to get up. so you lounge around instead, with one arm tucked under your head, cushioning it as you toss something up and down with the other.

a small yellow duck.

jason had found it at one of those street markets, broke vendors selling cheap trinkets for quick cash on the side of the road. found is a strong word. he’d stolen it technically, but when you had scolded him for it—only eight, yet already bickering like an old married couple—he had only laughed.

some people deserve it more.

it’s a rubber duck, jason— you told him, but he quickly countered, “it’s your rubber duck now.”

he looked proud as he held up his own little duck—blue, with uneven eyes and a discoloured beak that looks more red than the one on yours. all you could was roll your eyes as you pocketed the small toy. but you had made sure to put in the one with a zip, so that it wouldn’t fall out.

it’s a foolish memory to remember, and even more childish keepsake, but you can’t help it. ever since jason left all those years ago—practically vanished into the past of a history you still have yet to learn—it’s been the only physical thing you have left of him.

that’s when you hear footsteps from across the rooftop, making their way towards you. you could recognise them anywhere, but the man in question is smart that way. he walks unevenly, his gait odd so that no one can tell that it’s him approaching.

still, you know it’s red hood before he even hops up onto the ledge, falling into a crouch beside you. one hand grips the edge, the other resting on his thigh.

“long time no see, baby cakes.”

you scowl at the nickname. “fuck off.”

“nah,” he drawls, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. it only makes you more annoyed. “bothering you is too much fun.”

you know he’s being honest. he spends more time annoying you than anything else when you two happen to be patrolling at the same time.

“it hasn’t been that long,” you mutter, thinking back to a couple nights ago. that had been a quiet one, spent lounging around in gotham.

he shrugs. “still missed you.” a light flush creeps up your neck, colouring your cheeks despite yourself. that’s when he notices you fidgeting with the duck jason gave you. “didn’t know you were into ducks.”

“i’m not,” you respond.

“i dunno, sweetheart. this looks like a duck to me.” he doesn’t bother asking for permission as he reaches out for it. instinctively, you rear back, trying to keep him from taking it.

“hey—” you protest, panic lining your voice when the duck slips out of your hold.

the world seems to stop, if only for a moment, as you watch the last thing you have left of jason teeter off the edge of the rooftop.

it takes a split second for red hood’s reflexes to kick in, faster than yours. his gloved fingers wrap around the tiny trinket. but instead of handing it straight to you, he lifts it closer to his face, inspecting it closely through his mask. “huh. cute.”

his head tilts up to meet your gaze, finding the scowl on your face. then he drops it into your waiting palm. “don’t you have better things to do than lay around?”

shrugging, you slip the duck into an inbuilt pocket sewn into your suit. “i prefer it up here. besides, it’s not like there’s much going on toni—”

a sudden bang fractures the silence you’ve grown accustomed to, echoing up from the alleyways below in a burst of harsh static.

neither of you are phased though—red hood just tilts his head at you, and you can imagine him rolling his eyes beneath that mask of his. the two of you have always joked about the bad luck you have when it comes to things like these. saying that you’ve a ‘quiet night’ almost always leads to a night full of bullshit.

do we really need to check it out?

you can already his voice in your head, asking that. so before he can even get the words out, you throw him a knowing look, one that brokers no arguments. he throws his hands up, relenting. swinging off the ledge, you land on the fire escape without so much as a sound, ready to check out the source of the noise. he follows suite, and the metal structure creaks beneath his boots as you weave your way to the ground.

metal glints under the single streetlight that shines through the darkened alley as you scan for a glimpse of the suspect—on his back, you spot one of those cheap body-mods you’ve seen circling the black market that’s been jacked into his spine. you wrinkle your nose in distaste. despite that, the guy looks massive. bulky arms and broad chest, like he could obliterate you with one blow.

the moment red hood catches sight of him, he grips your wrist, holding you back. his touch is protective, oddly so. “there’s a guy in the dumpster. you get him out, i’ll handle the big guy.”

your gaze flicks to the dumpster. a figure’s been stuffed inside, practically folded in half. the source of the sound you heard earlier.

all you do is nod. you know exactly what red hood is doing—protecting you, in that odd way he always seems to do.

the heavens open up to pour down rain as you slip away from him, towards the dumpster. gotham’s silence seems to scream in the empty spaces of the moment as you remain uncertain of what red hood is doing, just a few feet away. all you can hear is muted blows, muffled grunts and the clash of a fight somewhere behind you. your hands move quickly, pulling the man’s form free, but the rain makes it hard to find a good grip on his limbs. it takes seconds to guide him out, before he quickly stumbles away. smart guy.

distantly, you can hear the heavy thuds of your partner’s blows landing.

before... silence.

a low growl tousles your hair from behind just then, and every nerve in your body lights up. before you can even react, the man grabs you by the shoulders and flings you back. your back hits the wall, and a low oomph leaves your lips.

red hood is thrown against the wall next to you and you hear something crack beneath the shrill ringing in your ears. the world turns black, if only for a moment, but you can hear that asshole already lumbering away. red hood makes no move to chase after him though—

“shit!” the sound is distorted as he reaches out for you, trying to haul you back up again. “hey, get up. wake up!”

blearily, you open your eyes to find... a boy. red hood.

on the floor, by his feet, lies his mask, a crack running down the back of it. you take him in as he tries to haul you up again—there’s a white streak in his hair, right at his hairline. he has a sharp jaw, and a strong nose, with olive skin you never pictured him to have. hiding his face doesn’t seem to be a priority right now though, not as you would have expected it to be had he ever been unmasked. no, he seems to be more focused on you, running his hands down your arms and torso to make sure you’re okay.

and those eyes burn holes into your skin, bright as the summer sky, just as a boy you once knew.

the exact. same. eyes.

“jason?” you choke out.

you haven’t said that name out loud in over ten years.

he freezes. thinks.

and then recognition seems to dawn on his face. your voice is richer now than it used to be, but undoubtedly yours now that he thinks about it—melodical and unmarred by life. somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears your laugh, unburdened by age, nothing like the one you have now.

baby cakes?

shock lines his voice, betrayal tucked between every syllable, as he moves away from you.

the nickname hits you like a bullet to the heart. it sounds natural coming from him now—something that was so uniquely red hood, now a man unmasked to reveal the first boy you ever loved, before you ever knew what love truly meant.

how had you missed it?

how hadn’t you seen it in the line of his shoulders, broader than you remembered them to be but no less protective? for months, it seemed instinctual, the way he would always push you back to protect you in every fight even though he knows you’re more than capable of handling yourself. you let him, every time. and though a part of you has longed for your best friend back—had filled in that decade-long empty space with every laugh you shared with red hood, every quip and every hit—it seems impossible now.

because as much as you loved jason, this isn’t the same boy who once stood in front of you. this is a man, hardened by the streets and years of separation and god knows what else he’s been through—a lifetime you always thought you’d get to live with him.

a laugh threatens to slip from your lips at the irony of it all, but he beats you to it. he lets out a low gravelly bark, disbelieving.

“you’re joking,” he snarls. there’s a pain in his eyes though, one he can’t hide behind the mask anymore. shaking his head, he steps closer to you, his footsteps jerky—not in his usual, intentional way. “you promised. you fucking promised—”

“i know,” you whisper weakly, but then his hands are on your shoulders once more, as if ready to shove you back. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your suit, unrelenting. you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to yell at you.

but the fight seems to drain from his body with a single breath, and instead, he hauls you closer, crushing you against him as the rain pours down around you both. there’s a slight crack in his voice as he groans, his forehead coming to rest on yours.

rain plasters your hair to the side of your face and he brushes it out of the way. his fingers travel down your jawline, then back up your cheek, tracing the curve of your mouth and the line of your nose, before he pulls the domino mask off your face to take you in. truly look at you. his breath catches, and his mouth opens and closes, stuck on the same few words as if he can’t decide what to say.

then he settles on, “you promised me—”

“i promised a lot of things—” you counter without missing a beat.

it’s a bullshit excuse, because both of you know which one he’s talking about. you’d been young when you made it, just after a year of knowing each other. he had stumbled into your kitchen, your mother nowhere to be found. his nose was bloody. the sight of it made you recoil, flinch away—you were only nine after all, and though you considered the streets home more than the four walls that kept you warm, you still hadn’t become accustomed to the brutal way of life out there. you hated that jason was involved in it, and you hated his father even more because of it.

“what happened?” you’d asked, already reaching for tissues to pass over to him.

he held them to his face and shrugged, like it was a daily occurrence to have his face bashed in. it was, even though you always hated to accept that truth. “just… people.”

bad people, you knew he meant. people who hurt anyone and everyone who got in their way, even children. that’s when an idea pops into your head, weak as it might be. “you can come live with me and my mom.”

he just shook his head. “can’t.”

“why not? you’d be safe with us—”

“promise me,” he blurted out. “promise me you… you won’t live like this.”

you faltered. it’s not like you were ever planning on being like him, to spend your life on the streets, doing dirty work. because when you’re young, you feel like you have endless possibilities ahead of you, opportunity upon opportunity to make it out. so all you did was nod, and whisper, “okay. i promise.”

the last time you ever saw him was just a few months after that day. his appearances had been odd and few, every couple of days before... nothing. by then, it was like he had practically disappeared off the face of the earth. his absence had broken you, some naive part of you that once thought you and jason would be ‘best friends forever’—whatever that meant now.

when you’d first made that promise to jason, you were sure you’d stay true to it, in honour of him. and you had, if only for a while.

now, you’re exactly what he didn’t want you to become. like him.

because of it, he couldn’t look more betrayed. slowly, the sorrow on his face contorts to anger. he wrenches away from you, practically shoving you back like the idea of being close to you disgusts him. or pains him. you can’t quite tell anymore.

“did you know?” jason demands, and you know what he means. did you know i was red hood?

“no,” you admit quietly, searching his eyes but they’re glassy, closed off, in a way you don’t recognise. he averts his gaze when he feels your stare linger, looking off to somewhere in the far distance over your shoulder. patrolling still, even though he can’t continue now that his helmet is broken.

how could you have known?

a lot changes in ten years—people, places. hell, even the home you grew up in, the one that sheltered jason when he was bored and lonely and just in need of a friend, is gone now. had been smashed down for renovations, the neighbourhood bought out by some rich billionaire who had been hoping to make a quick buck in gotham city in an attempt to outdo bruce wayne. his so-called “master plan” hadn’t worked out, and it was then that you had lost truly everything—your best friend and the only home you had ever known.

“how...?” he asks quietly, seemingly torn. “fuck, how did you end up here of all places?”

“come on, jace,” you whisper. his eyes widen at the nickname before he jerks away, like you’ve dealt him with an unbearable blow. like the memory alone torments him as much as it torments you. “i had to stay alive somehow. we both did—”

“still!” he swipes his hand over his face. pain is etched in the lines by his eyes, and his fingers twitch by his side, as if he still can’t believe that you, of all people, are standing in front of him. and then he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. you ache for him to open them again, to meet your gaze with the summer sky you’ve waited what feels like your whole life to see just once more.

“my life—this life—is dangerous,” he says lowly, regaining his composure. “you don’t belong here. you never have.”

“here as in the vigilante life or here with you?” you retort, but the venom in your voice is your way of masking the hurt you’ve felt for years now.

his face contorts in a twisted frown, but it looks more like a grimace than anything else, something nasty lingering on tongue—a truth he’s still hesitant to accept, even after all these years.

he snatches his helmet off the ground, cradling it under his arm. stepping back, he can hardly meet your eyes, almost ashamed. “stay away. i’m serious.”

in the harsh light, you notice the gnarly scars on his face. some large, some minor, each one telling a story you weren’t there to see. his hair, longer now, but the presence of the white streak throws you off, unsettles you a little. his nose is crooked still, a testament to all the punches he took as a kid, and all the nosebleeds you could only fix with a tissue and cookies from the cookie jar your mother never let you touch.

a sharp pain tugs at your heartstrings, lips tugging down into a frown. “i’m not that same little girl anymore.”

“no, but you’re still—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, like he’s looking for the right words to magically appear on his tongue. “you’re… you. and you need to stay safe.”

as if that’s explanation enough.

“so what?” you snap, and it gets harder to hide the betrayal with every word you throw back at him, “you’re just... you’re gonna leave me again?”

because clearly, it seems to be the thing he does best. his shoulders stiffen, a minute reaction that you somehow clock before they tense once more. “don’t put it like that.” and then, almost like an afterthought, he whispers again, “you just... don’t belong here.”

you deserve better, the life you once promised to lead. but it’s hard for you to think rationally, reasonably, because of all the anger that threatens to consume you whole as he turns away.

there is not a single coherent thought that runs through your head, except for a desperation that aches to be sated, fervent and frustrated, and a part of you wants to scream, cry, chase after him, anything to get a proper goodbye.

anything but this gnawing silence that only seems to grow more unbearable with every step he puts between you.

the rain continues to pour down around you, plastering your hair to your face. it blankets jason as he slinks away through the dark night, back into the shadows where he’s always belonged. and for the first time since you met jason todd, you think, goodbye.

so he just smiles, all tired and tender, as he cups your face in one big palm to tug you closer and press a kiss to your forehead.

“yeah, bun?” he mumbles back, setting his briefcase on the floor before his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against the strong expanse of his muscular chest. your hands fly up to fiddle with his tie, a nice charcoal grey colour to match the baby blue dress shirt you’d picked out for him last night.

“are you going to the gym today?” you ask with that saccharine tone he still has yet to master ignoring. clark trails his fingers up and down your cheek, so used to touching every part of you that his clinginess is nothing more than habit, even as his eyes narrow in curious suspicion.

“i might work out at home. why? what are you planning?”

you pout and your eyes flash with mild insult when he immediately accuses you of hiding something—he’s not wrong though, and that’s what annoys you most. stupid clark kent, knows you so well.

“nothing—” you say, and all he does is raises his brows, silent expression calling out your poorly masked lie. the pout morphs into something like a frown, and you’re ready to insist that it really is nothing before his face relaxes once more.

“hey, i’m just joking, bun,” he says softly, like he’s worried that he’s offended you. he kisses your forehead again. “whatever it is you’re doing, i support it.” then he grabs his briefcase and disappears further into the apartment, and you can only follow, glad that his back is turned to you and he can’t see the knowing smile on your face.

it’s after dinner when clark finally emerges from the bedroom for a workout, and a giddiness fills you as you anticipate your plan. he’s wearing a compression top that you bought for him a while ago and flannel pants—half his pyjamas and half his workout clothes, in a way that is just so him. the tee hugs his torso so tightly that it practically makes your mouth water, highlighting every muscle that flexs as he drops down to the ground in front of where you sit on the couch.

“you’re so strong,” you coo, watching with wide eyes as he starts his push-ups. it hardly looks like he’s putting any effort in at all, which, considering that he’s literally superman, doesn’t surprise you, but it still never fails to amaze you (or make heat pool between your thighs but that’s a conversation for tonight).

he tilts his head up at the compliment, smiling lopsidedly as a light flush colours his cheeks, and it’s not because of the workout. “thank you, love.”

you wait a little while before sliding off the couch, crouching down to prop your phone up against the leg of it, adjusting it to face your boyfriend. clark doesn’t seem to notice until the familiar ten second count down starts to blare from your phone. the sound alone is as traumatising as his morning alarms, a testament to the hundreds of tiktoks you’ve forced him to make in the past. he looks up to find you making a beeline straight towards him, grinning elatedly all the while.

“bun—” he groans, but there’s no real irritation in his voice as you clamber onto his back mid push-up.

you pat the top of his head, readjusting yourself so that you’re kneeling steadily on his broad as fuck back. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”

he does exactly that, lowering himself to the ground and then up again, over and over, his form perfect as the song to the video you’re recording echoes through the living room. the lyrics make him roll his eyes a little—something about washing dishes and assembling ikea chairs. but a small smirk quirks at the edge of his lips, a rush of pride filling him when he realises that you’re implying that he’s your ideal man. (he knows this, of course, but it feels different this way, somehow.)

it’s less than a minute later when clark feels you tap his shoulder, letting him know that the video is over. lowering himself once more, you climb off him and reach for your phone, saving the video before turning back to clark.

“thank you, baby,” you say sweetly, kneeling at his side so you can press a grateful kiss to his temple.

he glances up at you, never pausing in his workout as he rolls his eyes playfully, pretending to be annoyed. “the things i do for you, bun.”

but when you watch the video back later that night, it’s hard to miss the tiny smile that he tries to hide, his dimples threatening to be known, affectionate and exasperated and proud all the same.

yeah.

that man loves you.