“Whoa, there. Are you okay?” His voice was a soft rumble.

You dared to glance up. Clark Kent stood before you, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. In his large, capable hands was a fresh roll of paper towels and a brand-new mug of coffee, prepared exactly how you liked it—a splash of cream, no sugar. How he always remembered, you’d never know.

“I’m fine,” you squeaked, your voice betraying you by cracking. “Just ruining Lois' papers it seems.”

Clark’s worried expression melted into a warm, crinkly-eyed smile that made your knees feel even weaker than they had during your stumble. 

“Well, as long as you’re alright.” He handed you the new mug, his fingers brushing against yours. A jolt, pleasant and terrifying, shot up your arm. You were sure you blushed right down to your toes.

“Th-thank you, Clark. You really didn’t have to.”

“It was no trouble at all,” he said, his own ears turning a faint shade of pink. He then efficiently helped you mop up the rest of the spill, his movements steady and sure, a stark contrast to your own fumbling.

As he walked away, offering you one last shy smile over his shoulder, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. 

You were a competent journalist, you swore you were. You could untangle a corrupt city council proposal and write a strong article that would make Perry White nod in approval.

But around Clark Kent? You turned into a blushing, stuttering, disaster magnet.

What you didn’t know was that from his desk, Clark watched you sink into your chair, a small, utterly besotted smile on his face. He found your flustered nature not embarrassing, but endlessly endearing.

It was genuine, unguarded, and it made his heart, which had faced down alien warlords and cosmic threats, beat a little faster.

You also didn’t know about the betting pool.

It was Jimmy Olsen who started it, but Lois was the mastermind and head bookie. A meticulously kept spreadsheet was hidden in a secure server folder, accessible only to the newsroom inner circle. The options were varied:

First, there was Jimmy’s pick:

They finally confess after one of them literally falls into the other’s arms. Current odds: 2-to-1.

Then there was Lois’s pick:

A story forces them to work alone together, leading to a romantic confession. Current odds: 3-to-1.

And lastly, Steve’s pick:

An alien invasion forces a dramatic, life-or-death confession. Current odds: 100-to-1.

The pot was now up to three hundred dollars. 

The following Tuesday, the universe—or perhaps Lois Lane—conspired against you. Perry White bellowed from his office, “Kent! Y/L/N! I need a piece on the renovation delays at Metropolis Park. Human interest angle. Go down there, talk to the foreman, get me some color.”

Your heart plummeted into your stomach. An entire afternoon. With Clark. Alone.

The car ride over was you and your nervous small talk and Clark’s gentle, reassuring replies. The park itself was a mess of construction fencing and muddy paths, the absolute worst terrain for someone with two left feet around Clark. You were so focused on not making a fool of yourself that you barely heard the foreman’s explanations about permit delays.

On the way back, you were carefully stepping over a puddle that had formed around a leaking hydrant, doing your best not to slip. But, naturally, you misjudged the distance. Your sensible shoe slid on the wet grass, and before you could even react, you were tipping sideways.

A strong, steady pair of arms caught you before you even had a chance to hit the ground. Clark had moved with that impossible speed of his, steadying you against his chest. You were pressed against the solid warmth of him, feeling the soft wool of his sweater under your fingers. The world seemed to pause in that moment, your heart racing faster than it had all day.

“You okay?” His voice was low, almost too soft.

You were speechless, your mind a whirlwind of flustered thoughts. No, I’m not okay, I’m totally losing it in front of you, Clark! But instead of saying that, all you could manage was a weak nod.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just, uh… Thanks.”

He didn’t let go though. 

Clark’s arms remained around you. His gaze was locked on yours, and the usual shyness was gone, replaced by an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.

“You know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in your ears. “Y-you have?”

He nodded, a slow, gentle motion. “Every time you… well, every time you have one of these little accidents near me… I used to think it was because I made you nervous. And I hated that. But then I realized… I look forward to them.”

You blinked, certain you’d misheard. “You… look forward to me being a klutz?”

A beautiful, breathtaking blush crept up his neck. “No. I look forward to the excuse. The excuse to be close to you. Like this.”

His hold on you tightened just a fraction and he leaned down to place a soft kiss to your lips, which you easily reciprocated. When you finally pulled apart, you couldn’t help the smile growing on your face.

“The truth is, I’ve been trying to find the courage to ask you out for weeks. But every time I get near you, you get this… this adorable, flustered look, and I lose my nerve. I think you’re the most captivating person in the entire newsroom, and I’m the one who gets clumsy when you’re around.”

The confession and kiss hung in the air between you, sincere and unbelievable. All this time, you thought you were a mess. And he thought you were captivating!

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief and joy. “Clark Kent, are you telling me that my two-left-feet routine is what finally gave you the courage?”

Clark smiled, that full, crinkly-eyed smile that made your knees weak. “I suppose I am.”

“Well,” you said, your own confidence surging now that the secret was out. “In that case, you should know… the feeling is entirely mutual.”

The smile he gave you then could have powered the entire city of Metropolis. He leaned down again for another kiss. Longer this time. After a long moment he reluctantly, loosened his embrace, but kept hold of one of your hands as you both continued the walk back to the car, the world suddenly looking much brighter.

When you and Clark returned to the Daily Planet, hand-in-hand, the newsroom fell into a dead, unnatural silence. It was the kind of silence that was louder than any of Perry’s bellows.

Then, a single, triumphant whoop cut through the air.

“YES! Pay up, suckers!” Jimmy Olsen yelled, pumping his fist in the air. He pointed a victorious finger. “Fell right into his arms didn’t you?! I called it! I called it on day one!”

“Okay, well technically I was right too! They worked alone together and confessed, so you all owe me as well.” Lois shot back matter of factly.

Wallets were pulled out. Lois and Jimmy both held a glint of pride in their eyes.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered, but then she looked at you and Clark, and a genuine, warm smile broke through her feigned annoyance. “Took you two long enough.”

Your jaw dropped. You looked from Jimmy’s triumphant dance to Lois’s knowing smirk, to the various reporters sheepishly handing over money. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying, hilarious clarity. Everyone knew.

Clark squeezed your hand, his ears turning that endearing shade of pink again. He leaned down, his voice a whisper for only you to hear. “I may or may not have known about the bet going around.”

You swatted his arm. “Clark! And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was rooting for Jimmy’s scenario,” he admitted with a shy grin. 

Perry chose that moment to stomp out of his office, glaring at the commotion. “What is going on out here? This is a newsroom, not a casino!” His eyes landed on your intertwined hands. He grunted, a sound that might have been approval. “About time, you two. Now stop clogging up the workflow. Kent, Y/L/N, my office in five. I need that park piece.”

As he turned, you could have sworn you saw the gruff editor slip a twenty-dollar bill into Jimmy’s hand.

It’s nighttime in the city — gleaming, vibrant, and tranquil.

Typically, you’d be asleep at his time of night or watching reruns of movies on the television, but instead, you’re lingering outside.

“What if you drop me?”

Teetering perilously along the precipice of your balcony, you refused to step forward, hands grasping at the frame of your sliding door.

Behind you, the glass panel is left ajar, enough for you to still cling to, one hand clutching on as you begin to sway, brows furrowed together.

Metropolis loomed below, a sea of twinkling lights that sparkled through dusk, persistent; The Daily Planet spun on somewhere in the distance.

Clark hovered mere inches away, still dressed in the azure-and-crimson of his Superman attire, mouth upturned into a smile of sheer disbelief. He found the whole thing humorous, admittedly.

“You think I’d drop you?” He muses, arms crossing over his chest, tone saturated with amusement.

“Maybe,” It’s a weak counter as you swallow, brows furrowing together with a quizzical expression. You’re stalling — he knows it, and so do you. “Superman isn’t immune to sweaty palms.”

His shoulders shake with a huff of laughter, but he’s characteristically patient, blue hues full of a quiet expectancy.

“You’ve heard of a trust fall, right? Think of it like that,” Clark prompts, cape billowing with the light gust of a dusk breeze. “I’ll catch you.” He assures, still smiling.

After promising a rooftop excursion, you figured it’d be something like walking up the stairwell, or using the fire escape — not flying.

Despite your wariness of being flown around, you were eager to see what awaited you at the very top. Though, the longer your gaze lingered on the cityscape below, the more nauseous you became.

“What happens, hypothetically, if you don’t catch me? What if something happens and I slip?” Blubbering on, you refuse to let go of the door, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Hypothetically, you’d fall — and I’d catch you,” Clark reiterates, nose beginning to wrinkle with amusement. “You don’t trust me?” He prompts, and you sigh.

“I absolutely trust you,” Rebuking his claim with fervor, you know that he’s teasing you. Still, it doesn’t ease your anxiety by much. “I just … It’s me I don’t trust, or the wind.”

With a click of his tongue, he notices the way you’re gripping onto the frame still, head canting to one side. “All you have to do is walk forward, and hold onto me — no falling required.”

“I don’t want to think about falling, Clark.” You groan theatrically, nails ticking over the plastic as you deliberate. He’s content to wait all evening if he has to — you both work in the morning.

“Hm,” He lofts a brow, inching closer until his musculature nearly invades your doorway. The closeness makes your breath hitch, catching the glint in his eyes. “Need a little motivation?”

The teasing lilt within his voice pulls a chuckle from you, mouth twitching into a smile instead of a grimace. “A little wouldn’t hurt.”

There’s something innately boyish about the way he smiles, lashes fluttering, or the way in which his mouth parts in wonder, marveling at you.

It’s quiet, a passing beat before he tilts forward, lips pressing against yours. He’s indestructible, invincible; he kisses you like you’re glass, delicate and tender.

Black curls frame his temples, swept through by your wandering hand, the one that isn’t anchored to the doorframe.

A steady exhale pushes through your nose, slow and deliberate, pitched with excitement. The wariness slowly unfurls, and you hardly notice yourself drifting forward.

Clark lets you move on your own accord, without any prompting or interference from him. When you gain the courage to let go of the door, thick arms cage in around your waist.

As promised, he holds you close, lips still twined together in another warm kiss. He feels your hands twist into fists against his biceps, clutching onto him as if you might be swept away.

Slowly, he drifts away from the balcony, and he listens to the erratic swing of your heartbeat, from mellow to swift.

“Clark,” Barely above a whisper, you feel the solid ground slip away from beneath your feet, hands snagged tight into his suit. “Are we …”

“I’ve got you,” The warmth of his timbre wraps you in reassurance, arms steady and thick around your waist. “I wouldn’t look down.” He muses, and you almost take it as a challenge.

Mere wisps apart, your eyes slowly screw open, and you’re met with him; dazzling, charming, and devastatingly handsome. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, his smile marked by pearly teeth.

“Jesus,” Panic sets in for a moment as he slowly flies up, up again; you’re so high that parts of Metropolis start to look minuscule from a distance. “This isn’t as bad as I thought.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?” Clark teases, hand idly caressesing circles into the small of your back. “You’re gonna break my heart.” His remark earns him a laugh from you.

“I trust you, I promise. It isn’t so dangerous.” You pout, feeling a brusque breeze trail over your silken pajamas, gooseflesh curling across your spine.

Warm lips press against your brow, reverent and gentle, a touch of sunlight to your temple. “We’re almost there.” He murmurs.

“This would be way more romantic if I wasn’t so nervous.” A brief laugh escapes you, and his smile splits into a glowing grin, partially hidden within your hair.

“It can still be romantic,” He counters, holding you close as he sluggishly flies towards the rooftop of your apartment building. “Just look up.”

You do, and it’s mesmerizing; in the clear skies above the city, the celestials loom overhead, millions of twinkling stars coupled with a particularly bright planet.

Veiled clouds drift overhead, the sky largely unobstructed, and the air seems crisp and filling the higher you go. The soft glow of string lights on the rooftop glitters through the night.

“This is amazing,” Awestruck, your apprehension dissolves into wonder, but you’re still a little nervous about flying. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, for your sake. “You get to see this all the time.”

“It never loses its charm,” Clark murmurs, gaze following after yours, lost within the tangle of stars above. “The stars, the sky, the planet.” The fondness within his voice is unmistakable.

“I love that about you,” Soft, your eyes flutter back to him, loud in their marveling of him. That was something you appreciated — his humanity, his passion for the world. “It’s sweet.”

Flattered, a laugh escapes him, warm and airy as the two of you drift through the sky as if you’re in slow-motion. The moment stretches on, and you’re left feeling elated.

“You never lose your charm, either.” His statement makes your features burn, heat curling over the nape of your neck. It’s accompanied with his smile — kind, amiable, and boyish.

“Thanks, Clark.” Smitten, your gaze drops toward the curve of his mouth. He meets you halfway without protest or prompting, the kiss lingering mid-flight.

It’s exhilarating; the wind gently kisses your back, his arms protective, keeping you pinned. As you drift through the air, you feel weightless, lost within the labyrinth of his kiss.

The first to draw away, you’re reluctant, lips parted and heart leaping into your throat. He’s perfect; he’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and beyond.

Clark’s quiet appreciation of you doesn’t go unnoticed, dark lashes dusting over the skin beneath his eyes. The more you fly, the less tense you are; your heartbeat slows.

“You’re staring again.” You mumble, becoming smitten when he laughs, teeth scraping over your bottom lip.

His lips press against your cheek, as kind as summertime, firm and indestructible underneath your palms. “You caught me.” Clark utters, a rosy pallor crawling through his face.

“You aren’t exactly subtle about it.” Hushed, your tone lowers to a gentler octave, one that scratches something in the back of his mind.

It’s his turn to feel the excitable prick of being flustered, lips parting, curling into another exuberant grin. His dimples are cute; deep-set and overwhelmingly kind, the light reaching his eyes.

“I can try to be subtle,” Clark offers through another burst of laughter, and you laugh, too. You don’t want him to be subtle; the attention he lavishes you in turns your insides warm. “You’re beautiful.”

“That’s the opposite of subtle,” Giggling, you hardly notice the solid concrete slipping underneath your feet as he sets you down. “I like it, though.”

“More romantic now, isn’t it?” He teases, causing you to grin, nose wrinkling with amusement. Butterflies lurch within your stomach, and your hands fall to his chest.

Regaining your footing, you’re still clinging to Clark like a lifeline, as if he might fly away, never to return. His grasp on your waist begins to loosen, albeit reluctantly.

The rooftop is tranquil, with a cozy lounge, twinkling lights, and no wandering eyes. “Very romantic.” You concede, rocking up on your toes to kiss him.

His reciprocation is exceedingly gentle, chest expanding with a deep exhale, air pushing through his nose. Clark stays still, lashes fluttering a time or two, as if he’s in a daze.

A beat passes, and then another; you stay glued to him, unable to keep from smiling. The thrill of flying remains, adrenaline still simmering within your veins before it stills.

“So, Superman,” You begin, fingertips idly tracing over his collarbone. “I think I want to try the flying thing again sometime.”

Clark laughs, grip tightening on you as if to silently prompt you to hold on. “Really? I went very slowly,” He muses, teeth glittering white. “Where do you want to go next time?”

“I don’t know,” Clicking your tongue, there’s an idea that forms within your mind. “How about another rooftop? Dinner, maybe?” Your suggestion elicits another chuckle from him.

“Yeah,” He agrees, forehead gently nudging against yours, followed by a peck of lips over your brow. “I think I can arrange that.”

You sat on your fire escape, knees drawn up, and your sketchbook balanced precariously in your lap. You’d always been fascinated by monochrome sketches, the way simple lines and shades of grey could capture so much. Colour, you decided long ago, was a luxury you didn’t need.

Your fingers were smudged with graphite, but the page was mostly blank.

Superman landed a few feet away, quiet as a sigh.

You didn’t startle. You never did anymore.

Instead, you shifted over, making room for him as he adjusted his cape and sat down beside you, careful as always. You could feel the air shift as he settled, like gravity remembering itself.

“I figured you’d be up here,” Superman said, the warmth in his voice settling over you like the last light of day. The sound seemed to vibrate just beneath your skin. You felt a shiver run through you, quick and light, but you didn’t let it show.

“I figured you’d come and find me,” you answered, letting an easy smile tug at your mouth.

You looked up from your sketchbook and your heart hitched.

Superman’s face was all clean lines and impossible symmetry—like someone had drawn him with perfect intent. His jaw was strong, but not unkind, balanced by the slight softness around his mouth, where the colour settled in a gentle pink. His hair, dark and wind-swept from flight, curled just slightly above his brow, like even the sky didn’t want to let him go.

But it was his eyes that held you still: clear blue and startling in the dusk, like a patch of summer sky had settled into them and stayed. The light caught them in ways that didn’t feel entirely natural. 

Superman didn’t glow, exactly. It was subtler than that. 

He absorbed the light around him, like it belonged to him, and then gave it back. It clung to the high points of his face, softened at his throat and temples, bled golden into the deep blue of his suit. He looked like he’d stepped out of the sun itself.

You didn’t know if it was the hour or the way he always seemed to arrive at the cusp of it, but something in you responded every time. It was as if your body recognised his light before your mind did. Like you were meant to bask in it.

“You’re getting predictable,” Superman teased, resting his arms on the railing with a quiet clink of something solid against metal. “Should I start bringing snacks?”

“If you brought snacks, I’d never leave,” you said, giving him a wry look.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Pretty sure there’s a strict no-picnics-on-fire-escapes policy in the Metropolis city code. Article Five, Section Twelve, right after the clause about not feeding pigeons hot dogs.”

“Hey, that was one time,” you joked, even though you’d never so much as tried to feed a pigeon.

Familiar with your banter, Superman quipped, “One time too many.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be exchanging jokes with Superman almost every night, you would have called them crazy. And yet here you were.

“Maybe you’re the one who’s getting predictable,” you shot back softly. “You’re the superhero. I thought you’d have something more interesting to do on a Friday night.”

He gave a shrug—one that somehow managed to look self-effacing, even though his shoulders could probably carry the sky. “Some of us like routine,” Superman said. “Besides, you’re a pretty good Friday night.”

Then he shifted slightly, settling onto the narrow fire escape. Despite the awkward fit, his body language was open and relaxed. He leaned back, arms loose, head tilted just enough to catch the last light.

His comfort didn’t come just from the sun setting above him. It also came from being here with you.

You watched the sun catch the side of his face. Since getting to know him better, you had come to the conclusion that there was something different in the way light moved around him. You thought the sun was just a little slower to let him go than other people.

To distract yourself, you glanced back down at your sketchbook. Still blank.

Superman knew you too well. His eyes followed, his brow lifting just slightly with quiet notice. “You haven’t drawn anything,” he observed.

“Not yet.” 

Superman glanced at you sideways, his voice gentle, easy. “Is that a creative choice, or a mood?” 

You rolled a red pencil between your fingers and shrugged. “Both, maybe?”

“What about your latest piece? How’s it coming along?”

You hesitated, then flipped the sketchbook around to show him the incomplete drawing of a building collapsing—just like it had at Metropolis University half a year ago—coming undone like a ball of yarn.

“No progress,” you lamented.

Superman made a sound, half-laugh and half-sigh, low and warm in his throat. “I know the feeling.” His voice was a little rough around the edges tonight.

“Bad day?” you asked, your brows pinched just slightly. 

He shifted beside you, the fire escape creaking faintly beneath his weight. Superman’s gaze swept out over the horizon. His voice was quieter now, soft enough that it felt like it belonged just to you.

“The city never really sleeps,” he declared. “Neither do I, sometimes.”

You nodded. “I can’t even imagine.”

Superman turned to you. “How about you? What’s going through your mind tonight?”

You brushed your fingers over the pencil again. “I don’t know. I used to like shadows and shading, but these days I’ve been drawn to colour, for the first time since I was a little kid.”

“You always liked greyscale,” Superman recalled. “You said it was honest.”

You blinked, though you shouldn’t have been surprised that he remembered. Superman remembered everything you said, even the details that most people would deem inconsequential.

You caught the last of the sunlight flickering over his defined cheekbone, painting gold onto skin that already held so much warmth.

“It felt safer,” you confessed. “Easier. But you’re making me reconsider.”

Superman reached out, fingers brushing yours as he shifted closer. Your hand moved almost on its own, tracing the curve of his shoulder, the way his red cape folded near his collarbone, the light pooling beneath his jaw. The red pencil stayed steady in your fingers.

Like you often did on nights like these, you reached up and smoothed the one errant curl that had fallen onto his forehead, brushing it back into place with the rest. Superman’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but he didn’t move. You lingered just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips before your hand drifted down, flattening the edge of his cape where it creased at his shoulder.

“I haven’t used red in years,” you admitted softly. The implied, and I haven’t wanted to, not until I met you, dangled between you. 

The softness in Superman’s stare made the edges of his usually steady expression blur. His eyes dropped to the pencil resting between your fingers, the deep, rusted red of it sitting pretty against your skin.

For a moment, you wondered what your face looked like reflected in his eyes, and whether he could see the colour steeping back into you.

“Is that new?” Superman prompted, nudging his head towards the red pencil.

You shook your head, your heartbeat in your ears. “Old. Just forgotten.”

The line of Superman’s mouth thawed into something gentler than anything you were used to seeing from him in public. “I’m glad you remembered it.”  

You didn’t answer. 

There were too many things you hadn’t admitted—not to your friends, not to your professors, not even to yourself. Not about the way your chest tightened whenever you saw Superman above the city. Not about how you’d started feeling the urge to use colour around the same time you met him. Not about what that might mean.

The sun dipped lower, and you swore you could see it sinking into him. His body absorbed the light like it belonged to him.  

The colours of the sunset around you faded.

Superman didn’t say goodbye when he left. He never did. But you always felt the shift in the air, the way the warmth lingered just a little longer before it slipped away.

And when you looked down, the red pencil was still burning—like it had touched the sun and remembered how to glow.

Six months ago

The first time you met Superman, you were pinned under a science building at Metropolis University. It was a structural collapse—sudden, loud, and courtesy of a low-level alien threat. You were walking back from a foreign language class and hadn’t even seen Metropolis’s hero fight the extraterrestrial.

It was silent when you came to. Not peaceful, just eerily quiet.

Dust hung thick in the air, filtering the sky into a flat, formless grey. One of your legs was trapped beneath something heavy, and even though you couldn’t move, that was the worst of it. You didn’t feel any pain, just a persistent pressure.

And a terrible headache, but that was probably just a concussion.

It was dark, just rubble and smoke. Sunlight tried to pour through a fractured wall but didn’t quite reach you. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, or dreaming.

Then a shape moved through the dust.

You didn’t see his face, not then. Just the outline of him, backlit and glowing—shoulders broad, red cape rippling in the ruined air. He stepped forward, and the light seemed to follow him.

Superman.

You might have been amazed to see him if you had the energy. But all you felt was a sudden warmth, spreading slowly through your chest like someone had struck a match inside you.

He knelt beside you. His eyes scanned you carefully, pausing on the wound at your temple where you were bleeding.

“Can you hear me?” Superman asked. “Can you tell me your name?”

You tried, but your mouth was too dry.

He murmured something reassuring. Checked your pulse with a touch so careful you barely felt it.

“It’s alright,” Superman said. “You’re okay. I’m getting you out of here.”

He moved the debris as if it weighed nothing. His hands glowed faintly golden where they touched the stone—or maybe that was just the sun catching on his skin.

You only remembered flashes: the sky starting to turn blue again, the shout of a paramedic nearby, the call of your name from a friend and classmate who recognised you.

Somewhere between paramedics lifting you onto a stretcher and checking your eyes, you whispered, “I want to go home.”

Then arms stronger than anything you had ever felt cradled you against his chest. You must have blacked out again, because the next thing you remembered was cool air against your face, and Superman’s voice asking gently, “Where do you live?”

He must have gotten the okay from the paramedics, because there was no way Superman would let you go home without getting checked first.

You blinked blearily, lifted a hand toward your building, and slurred your address and something about always leaving your fire escape unlocked.

Superman paused. “You really shouldn’t do that, it’s not safe.” It might have been a scolding if he hadn’t sounded so worried.

You didn’t answer.

Superman carried you up anyway—slow, like he didn’t want to jostle your head. The metal grates of your fire escape creaked under his red boots when he landed. Your fingers curled lightly into the symbol at his chest. You were too fatigued to let go.

He laid you gently on the couch inside. The blanket he pulled over you had been left crumpled over the armrest the night before by your best friend. He hoped its familiarity would ease some of the day’s wreckage.

Superman hesitated, just for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to linger after someone was safe, not once the danger had passed. But he crouched beside you and checked your pulse again, just to be sure. He brushed the hair from your forehead, revealing the band-aid the paramedics pressed over your cleaned wound.

His hand stilled there, fingers resting lightly against your temple. Something in his chest ached; sudden and sharp and human.

You didn’t remember much, only that when you opened your eyes later, the light outside your windows was golden. And your chest felt warm, like something small had caught fire there.

A couple of nights later, you couldn’t sleep.

You planned to sleep before the sun even went down to capitalise on the fact that you needed rest, but you couldn’t.

According to the note Superman left you, the paramedics had told you to take it easy, let the concussion settle, which you had. Mostly. But that night, just as the sun began setting, the stillness of your bedroom was too quiet, the air too stale. So you’d crept up to the fire escape with a mug of hot cocoa, the steam soft and curling as it caught the breeze.

You perched with your favourite blanket, crossed your legs, and watched the city glow below.

This high up, in this quieter part of the city where university housing clustered under decades-old brickwork, the skyline appeared as if the sunset had dyed it pink and gold.

You liked the way the evening air nipped at your skin, how the mug kept your hands warm. It was the first time you’d been outside since the building fell, and Superman reached out and pulled you into the sunlight.

You didn’t feel the subtle ripple in the air. Superman landed silently, but you still flinched in surprise. Most of the cocoa sloshed out of your mug, and you mourned the loss of it with a quiet gasp.

He raised both hands in a silent gesture of apology as he slowed his approach.

“Sorry,” Superman said quickly. His voice was almost as delicate as you remembered it being when he saved you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, then blinked. “Um, hi.”

Superman raised a hand in a small wave, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. And there they were—devastating dimples you hadn’t known he had, deep and boyish. A warm, open grin that reached his eyes. 

One perfect black curl had fallen loose from the rest, trailing down onto his forehead, and you had the sudden, silly urge to reach up and brush it back. 

You gaped at Superman, stunned, your breath caught before you could form a word. It was the first time you’d seen him clearly and not in dust and silhouette, or in a memory softened by dizziness and daylight.

Superman stood tall, his cape fluttering behind him. His suit was slightly more muted than you’d expected, deep sky blue with bright reds and golds, as if it were designed to shimmer when the light hit just right.

You found yourself cataloguing him the way you might study a figure for a life drawing class. The sweep of his jaw, the balance of his features, the way his eyes, so vividly blue they almost glowed, tilted slightly downward as if he were always on the verge of concern. 

Superman didn’t look real. More like something sculpted, idealised, rendered in impossible light. And yet he was standing there, shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to take up too much space. 

As human as anyone you had ever met. 

You kept trying to find a flaw that would make him easier to look at, but he didn’t seem to have one. There was a softness to him that felt at odds with the weight of his legend. 

You couldn’t stop staring. And Superman looked right back.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been checking in.”

You swallowed, trying to get your voice back. “Checking in?” you echoed.

Superman nodded. “Discreetly.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t want to intrude.”

Something about the earnest way he said it made your stomach turn. You tucked your legs under yourself and blinked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I didn’t think you made house calls,” you commented. “I thought you just rescued people and flew away.”

Superman’s smile was a little sheepish. “I usually do.” He glanced down at his boots, trying not to fidget. When he looked back up, his eyes lingered on yours only briefly before flicking to the side again. “This was different.”

Different. 

You weren’t sure what he meant, but you nodded anyway.

“How are you holding up?”

You shifted your mug in your hands, the ceramic cool against your palms since its contents were emptied when he startled you.

“Better, I think,” you admitted after a pause. “The concussion made everything feel foggy for a while, like the whole world was muffled.” You glanced down at your blanket-draped knees, then back at the superhero. “But the headaches are easing now. I’ve been sleeping more. Or at least trying to.”

Superman nodded, his gaze almost cautious. His hands rested lightly on the fire escape railing, but you could see the way his fingers curled—like he was holding himself back from reaching for you.

“And the rest of it?” he asked gently. “Any anxiety, or panic attacks? Aftershocks like that can take time to develop.”

Superman’s expression wasn’t clinical; it was vulnerable and concerned. It struck you, in that small, quiet second, that this wasn’t some routine check-in. He cared. Not as an obligation. Not as Superman. Just as someone who had carried you out of the rubble and stayed.

Your voice dipped. “Sometimes. I still jump when something falls too loud. Or when I hear sirens. And I’ve been having dreams, or, I guess, nightmares. They’re not bad, but they make me feel like I’m back under that rubble.”

Superman listened like every word mattered.

“But I think,” you continued, “I felt safe once you were there. When I saw you, I stopped panicking.”

His gaze was steady in a way that felt real. You couldn’t believe he was a superhero, not at that moment. If anything, he just seemed deeply, comfortingly normal.

“You stayed. I remember that. Everyone else had to keep moving, but you stayed with me.”

Superman’s eyes didn’t leave yours. There was a faint crease between his brows, like he wasn’t used to hearing what came after the rescue.

“I’m just glad I got there in time,” he said, his voice quieter than before. Then he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a sheepish gesture that made something flicker and fold inside your chest.

You hesitated, then said softly, “I’m glad, too. Thank you.” Your eyes met his, steady and sincere. “I saw on the news later that I was barely under there for four minutes. Without you, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Superman shook his head, almost dismissively, but there was something humble in the way he spoke. “I just did what I had to. What anyone would have done, really.”

You smiled. “No, you did more. I would’ve been much worse off if you hadn’t gotten me out so fast. You saved my life.”

For a short moment, the city fell away. There were no sirens, no wind, nothing but the soft hum of Metropolis evening traffic. The sky above the rooftops had faded to pink and violet, losing its golden sunset gleam.

The last trace of the sun lingered at Superman’s shoulder, and you thought that he looked like he belonged in light. Like sunlight had created the shape of him and breathed him into being.

Then his gaze dropped down, and his brows lifted again, this time with a hint of curiosity and something almost amused. “Did I make you spill that?”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the dark stain spreading over your blanket: your spilt cup of cocoa, its warmth soaked slowly into the fabric.

“Oh.” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Yeah. A little. I wasn’t expecting to see you—or anyone, really—on my fire escape tonight.”

Superman’s eyes flickered with genuine apology, his voice lowering. “I’m sorry about that.”

You shook your head, already pushing yourself up. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, a flutter of awkwardness settling in your stomach. “I’ll make another and, um—I could make you one too, if you want.”

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, gleaming in surprise. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice firmer than you felt. “But I want to.” Your lips curved in a teasing grin. “Maybe then we can call it even?”

You watched Superman closely as he shifted his weight, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. The way the fading sunlight caught the strands of his hair made them look like a halo you wanted to reach out and touch, or capture in paint. 

It felt ridiculous, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like to try to translate the warmth you felt from Superman into something you could hold.

When you returned from your kitchen, you carried two mismatched mugs, steam rising in lazy spirals that caught the last glow of daylight. You held one out to the superhero on your fire escape.

“I added marshmallows,” you said, your voice gentle but steady.

Superman accepted the mug with both hands. The porcelain looked almost comically small, cradled between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked up at you then, stared warm and steady, and just beamed.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you saw on magazine covers or in news headlines. It was quieter, sparkling a gentle heat somewhere in your chest. 

You settled back down and invited him to take the seat beside you. Superman took a careful sip of cocoa, then winced at the heat. Tried again, slower this time. You laughed softly into your own mug, thoroughly charmed.

A tiny flame bloomed inside you, threatening to grow into something warm enough to burn.

You took a slow sip of your cocoa, the rich sweetness grounding you in the fading light. The quiet between you felt easy, but you couldn’t shake the pull to know more.

“So,” you began, voice soft and a little hesitant, “what’s it really like? Having all that responsibility. Saving people, carrying the weight of the city? And the whole planet, sometimes.”

Superman blinked, as if the question caught him off guard, and then looked out toward the skyline. 

“It’s… a privilege,” he said, after a pause. “Mostly. It’s what I was made for. Makes me feel human, like I’m a part of something bigger. Sometimes it’s just helping someone cross the street, or fixing a roof after a storm.” Superman glanced at you, a hesitant little laugh bubbling from his lips. “And occasionally making house calls to people’s fire escapes.”

You grinned, and he seemed quietly pleased with himself.

“Does it ever feel like it’s too much?” you asked.

Superman got more comfortable on the fire escape, and you shared your blanket without him having to ask. His eyes flicked down to his cocoa, and he plucked a marshmallow from the surface, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, once he swallowed. “But those moments are rare. I guess I crave stillness more than most people might expect. It’s in those quiet in-between moments that I feel most like myself.”

You let your gaze drift to the soft glow of the city, blending with the comforting weight of Superman’s presence beside you. “Kind of like right now,” you offered, your voice almost a whisper.

He turned toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a genuine smile. “Exactly like right now.” Superman’s eyes caught the last of the sunset, and you saw a flicker of relief on his face.

You shifted a little closer, enough to feel the edge of his arm against yours through the blanket.

“Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you?” you asked, words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like a moth to a flame?”

Superman’s eyes flickered with something intense beneath the calm. His smile faded, replaced by something more fervent.

“More than I probably should,” he said, voice low. “But I keep flying toward it anyway.”

Superman never knocked or let you know he was coming. He just landed on your fire escape and made himself at home.

You got used to the sound of it—the faint ripple in the wind, like the shift of a wing or the rustle of fabric. Sometimes you heard it when you were already reaching for the window, like you’d felt him coming. Other times, you’d turn and see him there, silhouetted against the early evening sky, just waiting. 

Always waiting for you.

In the six months you’d known him, Superman never asked to come inside. But sometimes he stayed on the fire escape or the roof. Just close enough to talk.

He didn’t share much about himself. But you learned to watch him closely—how his shoulders dipped slightly when he was tired, how his jaw set when something troubled him. You discovered that he didn’t talk unless he meant to, and that his eyes could be impossibly calm even when the world was spinning around him.

One morning, just before dawn, you stood beside him on the roof of your apartment building. The air was still, clinging to the last chill of night, and Superman was silent beside you, shoulders slightly hunched, forearms resting on the parapet. 

He always seemed more human when he stood like that, like the sky was a place he visited, not where he belonged.

You glanced sideways and caught the faint mark on Superman’s cheek—a shadowed bruise, purpling against his skin. 

By the time the first edge of sunrise crested over the horizon, you saw the colour begin to lift from the bruise, healing as gold spilt across his face. His lashes caught the light, and his whole body seemed to exhale.

You stared. “You heal like that?” you whispered.

Superman nodded once, still looking forward. “I get my powers from the yellow sun,” he explained.

You tilted your head. “You told me that before,” you said slowly, the memory surfacing like something from a dream. “After the building collapsed.”

He turned toward you, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Yes, I did.”

“You said, ‘The sun always makes me feel better.’” The words rose in your throat like they’d been waiting the whole time.

Superman grinned then, all teeth and bright blue eyes. “Yeah. That sounds like me. It’s a bit dramatic, but I stand by it.” You let out a quiet chuckle. “Though I should clarify, it’s mostly ultraviolet radiation, technically. Very romantic.”

You huffed another laugh, but before you could reply, he turned a little more toward you, the humour softening in his eyes. “But also, you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You jolted. “What?”

“The sun heals me,” Superman repeated, this time with a shrug so casual it was almost bashful. “And so do you.”

There was a beat of quiet before you let out a small, startled giggle. “I’m nothing like the sun.”

“You are to me,” Superman said. He snuck a glance your way, unsure if he had said too much.

You raised your eyebrows, half smiling.

His gaze dropped to his hands, a little flustered. “I mean, I’m the one who can fly and shoot lasers out of my eyes,” Superman teased. “I feel like I’m allowed to stretch the metaphor.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s corny, but things get quieter when I see you. I feel like I can breathe easier.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. You reached out and let your fingers meet his. Superman didn’t pull away. He curled his hand gently around yours, his palm warm and steady, holding you with quiet care. It was a touch you were familiar with by now.

“Ultraviolet radiation,” you echoed softly, tugging your joined hands in a quiet invitation.

Superman nodded. Then, in one smooth, easy motion, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like gravity had finally given up pretending.

“Healing properties,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “Very effective.”

Your head rested against his chest as Superman gathered you closer, like you weighed nothing at all. Your body folded into his without protest. And still, he held you like he couldn’t believe you’d actually let him.

Superman was warm. Not just body heat, but warm like the morning itself.

He gave a soft breath of a laugh. “You should probably come with a warning label.”

You tilted your head, not moving from the comfort of his chest. “Oh yeah? What would it say?”

“Caution: May cause accelerated heart rate, spontaneous honesty, and temporary flight.”

You let out a quiet laugh into Superman’s collarbone. “Temporary flight?”

“Well, you are kind of sweeping me off my feet here.” Superman grinned as your laugh deepened, his arms tightening just slightly like he wanted to memorise the sound. “Side effects may include goofy behaviour, emotional vulnerability, and excessive metaphors.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “I think I can live with that.”

Neither of you moved until the rooftops turned gold.

When the sun fully blanketed Metropolis, you asked, “Do you have a real name?”

Superman paused. The wind stirred his dark curls. You could see the sunlight touching his hair, gold glinting at his temple like a halo.

“I do,” he said eventually.

You waited. Superman didn’t offer more. You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly.

Trying to keep your voice gentle, you whispered, “Okay.”

You loved him like this, in the light, with your body encircled by his. You loved the way he watched the sunrise, like it healed him. You loved the heat in his voice when he said your name.

But you didn’t know where Superman went when he left you. You knew he had another life, somewhere beyond the skies and the city. A version that woke up, dressed in ordinary clothes, talked to people on the street, and had a name that wasn’t Superman.

You didn’t ask again, but the question lingered. Because you were falling in love with someone who felt like the sun, and half of him still lived in shadow.

You started painting again. You told yourself it had nothing to do with Superman, but the colours said otherwise. Warm reds. Quiet golds. The occasional streak of blue you couldn’t seem to keep out of the frame. You painted the horizon the way it looked from your roof when he sat beside you—lit by something more than just sunlight.

It was nearly midnight, and the lamplight spilt across your apartment floor in quiet gold. You’d left the window cracked open just in case, even though you told yourself you were only airing out the smell of oil paint.

When Superman landed on the fire escape, his steps were slower than usual. He moved like he was made of something heavier than muscle, like the weight of the day hadn’t left him yet.

You opened the window all the way, stepping back to let him in. “Rough night?”

Superman didn’t answer right away. He ducked inside your apartment, his boots soundless against the floor. When his eyes found you, they were slow and tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from a long day of work, but the kind that settled in your bones. The kind even sleep couldn’t cure.

You both sank to the floor, shoulders brushing. Superman reached for your hand before either of you said a word, like muscle memory. His fingers wrapped around yours and held on. He rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand, leaving slow, warm traces over the dried paint smudges.

Red, blue, yellow.

Superman noticed. You saw it in the flicker of a smile blooming on his face. He didn’t ask why you chose those colours; he didn’t have to. Your fingers curled around his, matching his pressure.

“You’re still covered in paint,” Superman murmured, voice more adoring than usual.

“I haven’t been able to stop lately,” you replied. After a pause, you added, “It’s kind of weird, actually. Almost like I can’t help but think in colour now.”

His hand tightened around yours just a little. It was like your confession was more than he deserved; it both steadied him and split him open.

Superman turned, eyes half-lidded but still painfully blue. “I shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said finally, hoarse. “Coming back here, letting myself forget about the rest of the world for a while…”

You turned your head, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. “But you do.”

His smile was faint, barely there, but genuine. “You make it hard to stay away,” he argued.

Then Superman turned fully toward you, and everything in his posture affirmed his admission. One of his hands rose to cradle your head, adoring, almost aching with attentiveness. His forehead met yours. The closeness wasn’t new, but tonight it felt like a held breath. 

The silence returned, and it didn’t push against your chest like it used to.

Your free hand hovered just above his chest, paint-smudged fingers trembling. You remember asking him the night he first visited you: Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you? Like a moth to a flame? You wanted to touch him. You didn’t.

You shifted your fingers a little closer, almost close enough to touch the emblem on Superman’s suit.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Are you warm?” he asked softly.

You paused. “Why?”

Superman’s eyes flicked upward, toward the soft yellow glow of the lamp overhead. “Even in the dark,” he murmured, “you feel like daybreak.”

Your breath caught, not from surprise, but from recognition.

Superman lifted his hand—the one still cradling the back of your head—and guided your fingers the rest of the way, placing your palm over the crest on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin and spread outward, curling through your arms, your ribs, your lungs.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though he felt it too. When he opened them again, he looked a little dazed.

Superman leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. Your foreheads touched, and you felt the brush of his lips as they hovered—his final act of restraint.

He whispered your name, and then you kissed him.

Not hesitant. Not sweet. Not polite. Something in you gave way, something you’d kept sealed for too long. The contact wasn’t sharp or urgent; it was complete.

The moment his lips touched yours, every tether gave way.

You kissed Superman like you’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you like he couldn’t believe you’d let him.

His hand rose to your face, thumb sweeping your cheekbone. The other found your lower back, pulling you in until every point of contact felt like ignition. Heat curled through you, low and insistent. The kiss deepened.

You didn’t realise how breathless you were until you had to stop. You pulled back an inch, lips still grazing his.

“I don’t want to fall too fast,” you whispered.

Superman exhaled like he understood too well, almost like he wanted to say, me too, but couldn’t bear the sound of it. His hand stayed at your cheek, the other drawing slow, grounding circles against the bare skin of your back under your shirt. 

He couldn’t make himself let go.

“Then fall slowly,” Superman begged. “But please don’t stop.”

He kissed you again. 

It was dizzying. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as your hands rose to tangle in his hair, fingertips threading through the soft dark strands. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that didn’t quite match the quiet of the room. 

Superman’s hands cradled your jaw, but there was no caution in the way he kissed you. He tilted your chin up, drew you closer, and kissed you like he couldn’t bear to hold back a second longer.

His thumb stroked down your throat gently as your lips parted for him, and he kissed you deeper.

You made a sound against Superman’s mouth, faint and involuntary, and that was all it took. He lifted you, arms firm around your waist, lifting you to perch on the back of your sofa with a gentleness that barely contained the force behind it. 

His body pressed into yours between your knees, solid and real and warm, and the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth, and the blazing heat of sunlight in the dark.

Superman held you like he didn’t trust the moment to endure, as if he might burn straight through you if he wasn’t careful.

At some point, he pulled back just far enough to catch his breath—though he kept his arms locked around you like he had no intention of letting go. His nose bumped carefully against yours. His smile was a little crooked. 

“I should probably—uh—mention something,” Superman said, his voice low and a little sheepish.

You blinked, still catching your breath. “What?”

He hesitated, then blurted it out with the sort of rush you’d expect from someone confessing to a petty crime, not saving the world every week: “My name’s Clark.”

You stared at him, echoing, “Clark?”

“Clark Kent,” he added quickly, like maybe the full name would help. “I mean, technically Kal-El, if you want to get all Kryptonian about it, but that feels kind of formal right now, and—” He stopped himself, realising he was rambling, and gave you a lopsided grin. “Sorry. I just figured you should know who you’re kissing.”

You blinked again. Kiss-drunk, stunned, still slightly out of breath, and then a laugh burst out of you, bright and incredulous and full of joy. 

“Oh my God,” you said, grinning so hard it actually hurt. “Of course, your name is Clark.”

He looked a little defensive, but mostly delighted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shook your head, still beaming. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark Kent.” The moment his real name left your lips, it sparked something in both of you—soft and giddy, like butterflies waking up all at once.

And Clark just stood there for a second, heart tripping over itself, arms full of the person he loved. He was totally, completely, unequivocally done for. 

Because it was happening. This was real. You were warm against him—flushed and glowing and laughing like he’d just handed you the moon—and every single ridiculous, hopeless, too-big-for-his-own-good feeling he’d been carrying came surging up at once.

You thought he was perfect, Clark realised. You were smiling like that because of him. What should he do with his face? Where should he put his hands? Had breathing always been this difficult?

He’d flown through supernovas, stood inside hurricanes, and heard the heartbeat of the earth. None of it came close to this.

You felt like the yellow sun—no, better than that. Like Kansas in July, like his favourite meal made by Ma Kent, like home and comfort and every love song Clark had ever heard.

He couldn’t help it. He beamed. You caught the expression and softened instantly, eyes warm and open.

Clark looked like he was about to say something else, but you didn’t let him. 

You kissed him, over and over, slow and then desperate. You kissed him until you didn’t know who had reached for whom first.

And it wasn’t a descent. It wasn’t dangerous. It was a surrender. 

Strap the wings to me, you thought. Let it melt. Let it catch fire. If Clark Kent is the sun, then let me fly to him.

Because for once, this wasn’t the story of Icarus falling. It was the moment just before. The moment he left the ground. The moment the sky opened and everything turned to gold.

The front door creaked open with the quiet click of a key turning in the lock.

“You used the front door again,” you called without looking up, brush still in hand.

Clark stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his usual soft care. “Some people think using doors is polite,” he reminded you.

You glanced over your shoulder, letting your eyes linger on how good your boyfriend looked in his work clothes. “I kind of miss the dramatic entrances,” you admitted.

“Oh, you mean the part where I tripped on your curtain rod that one time?”

You grinned. “Exactly!”

Clark walked toward you, still in the button-down he always wore to work at The Daily Planet, sleeves rolled up, tie askew like he’d tugged it loose the second he left the newsroom. You were standing barefoot in your living room, a half-finished painting drying in front of you. Your fingers were smudged with gold and soft blue, and you wore one of Clark’s old Smallville football t-shirts, now covered in streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt.

Clark paused when he saw it. His brow softened, and something in his chest gave a quiet little tug. You looked like a memory he didn’t know he’d already made—sunlight and colour and home, all rolled into one.

“You know,” he said, brushing his knuckles lightly over the painted hem of his t-shirt, “you really bring out the primary colors in me.”

You snorted. “Wow. You’ve been waiting to use that one, haven’t you?”

He looked mock-offended. “That was off the cuff! I’m a journalist. We’re good with words.”

“Oh, you’re great with words,” you agreed, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Like the time you called me ‘a phenomenon of gravitational significance.’”

Clark beamed. “You are one.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your canvas. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Clark’s arms circled around your waist like this was what he’d been made to do. He fit against you like gravity, always had. “Whatcha painting?”

“You,” you said, not even a little shy.

He blinked. “Oh?” Clark knew you had been inspired to start painting again because of him—and you gravitated towards Superman’s colour palette more than anything else these days—but you had yet to actually paint him.

“I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try. Everything else I painted’s been alluding to this, you know? Light through clouds. Rooftops catching fire in the evening. The color the sky turns when someone you love walks through the door.”

Clark let out a quiet breath. He pressed a kiss to your head, exactly where your minor head wound had been the day he saved you. 

“I think you’re my favorite subject,” you added, “even when you’re not wearing the cape.”

His smile widened. “I thought I was your favourite, especially when I’m not wearing the cape,” Clark teased. “Or, you know, wearing anything.”

You made a face like you were disappointed by the crude joke. “Oh, you’re impossible,” you scoffed, trying and failing to keep the laughter from your voice.

“Very likely,” Clark said, unperturbed by your response.

You leaned into him. He was so warm it made you ache. Your free hand reached up, paint-streaked fingers brushing through the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck. 

He dipped his head toward you, and you met him halfway—lips parting in a kiss that was immediate and unthinking. It was the kind of kiss you gave someone you’d missed all day, the kind that left no room for doubt. Clark kissed you like he meant it, like he always meant it, one hand steady at your waist, the other slipping up your back until you were pressed against him, breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing in like he was trying to hold the moment inside him.

“You know,” you murmured, “you used to land on my balcony like you’d burn the whole sky behind you.”

Clark huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You never blinked.”

“It made me think you were the sun,” you said. “Too bright. Too far away.”

“I used to think the sun was something I could never touch,” Clark said quietly. “Something I had to chase, or carry, or be. But with you, I finally feel like I can stand still in it.”

Ever since your family found out you had decided to pursue journalism, there were doubts. Not because you weren’t capable, but because you had always been so shy. In high school, making friends was hard. Words felt heavy, glances were awkward. But even so, you followed your dream. You held onto it so tightly that now, when you sat at your Daily Planet desk, you could look down and smile just by seeing your badge hanging with your name on it.

Reporter.

Specialized in politics, sometimes in cooking. Nothing big, but enough to feel useful. Interviews left you breathless, but the articles Perry published, even if buried inside, made you feel —for a moment— fabulous.

But there was one thing. One that not even your best coffees could sweeten: loneliness.

Your mother used to ask about your love life, though there was never any news. Or so you said. You’d barely mention a guy, and she already wanted details: if he looked at you, if he greeted you, if he breathed near you. In those conversations, you ended up believing something might actually be there, just because she imagined it so beautifully. So you learned to stay quiet.

And you also learned to keep your secret. One more hidden than Superman’s real name:

You were in love with Clark Kent.

Your coworker. That sweet, clumsy man with glasses that slipped down his nose. You fell in love the moment you started working and they placed him right across from you. No one knew. Not even you fully admitted it. No one spoke to you beyond courtesy, and you didn’t make much effort either. Not because you were mean, but because you didn’t know how. Or maybe because you were afraid that if someone got too close, one day they’d just leave —like everyone else.

Clark Kent wasn’t your friend. He was your ritual.

The man who greeted you with a soft voice. The one who sometimes tripped over his backpack. The one who looked at you —and you could only hold his gaze for two seconds before looking down so he wouldn’t notice your hands trembling.

“Late again, Clark?” Jimmy teased with a smile you didn’t see, but knew was there.

“Yeah…”

His footsteps paused for a few seconds. Then, a “thank you” from Jimmy and Lois directed at Clark, followed by the familiar sound of him walking to his desk.

“Good morning,” he said as he passed by you. His voice was close. Very close.

You looked at him for two seconds.

“Good morning, Clark.”

Your smile was for him, but it ended up directed at your screen. A coward. Always the same.

“Ah… here.”

He left a little box on your desk.

“It’s a donut dipped in white chocolate. They say they’re good. I bought a few.”

You looked at the box. Then at him, already sitting at his desk. His height allowed him to see you perfectly, though you barely dared to glance up.

“Thanks,” you whispered. A warm blush settled on your cheeks. You looked back at your computer. You didn’t see that he smiled too, blushing, just as nervous as you.

“Pretty little flower,” said a louder voice.

Cat appeared, leaning on your desk.

“It’s Katie’s birthday. We’re going to the bar near the Hoper Bridge. You coming?”

You hesitated. You weren’t good at saying no. And Cat tried so hard to include you.

“Yes,” you said, with a polite smile.

She clicked her tongue, satisfied.

“That’s it. Here’s to more social life.”

You just nodded.

But what you didn’t know was that Clark —from his desk— had also heard everything.

And his heart, like yours, beat just a little faster at the thought of seeing you in that bar.

✄ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Time passed between final edits to your article and stolen glances at Clark, who seemed absorbed in writing what was surely another exclusive interview with Superman.

You could tell he was doing well when he stopped bouncing his leg, that he was excited when he adjusted his glasses with a light push of his index finger, and that he felt inspired when he mumbled the words as he typed them, as if testing them before letting them live on the page.

Needless to say, his name would be on the Daily Planet’s front page the next day.

You were content with a few lines in the politics or cooking section. But even so, you felt proud. Of him. Of you. Of being there.

And though you’d wanted to congratulate him a thousand times, the moment always slipped through your fingers.

By the time you finished your text, the place was almost empty. The desk lights had turned off one by one, like spotlights at the end of a play.

Only the hum of your monitor remained as witness. You turned off your computer, massaged your temples, and stood up. You didn’t expect to see anyone else.

But when you looked up, you almost tripped in surprise: Clark was still there, right in front of you.

He stood up at the same time, as if waiting for you to do it first. His tall figure stood out under the dim glow of the building’s night lamps.

“Didn’t you leave with the others?” you asked, more surprised than anything.

Clark smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Did I scare you? I should’ve… coughed or made a noise.”

Then he looked away, mumbling,

“Jimmy said you weren’t sure where the bar was… and… well, sometimes Maps isn’t much help, you know? I thought maybe… we could go together.”

You looked at him. This time for more than two seconds.

“You know where it is?” you asked cautiously.

“No.”

The honesty drew a nervous smile from you.

Clark shifted, uncomfortable, but with a soft gleam in his eyes.

“But it’s better to get lost with someone… than to get lost alone, right?”

You let out a small laugh. One of those that escapes without permission, but you don’t want to take back.

“I guess so.”

You put on your coat while he adjusted his briefcase. Then he walked with you to the elevator. With that very Clark-like gesture, he slightly raised his glasses and let you in first. You followed him with your heart beating a little faster than it should’ve been allowed.

“Did you try the donut?” he asked as you descended. His voice was almost a respectful whisper.

You nodded. “Yes. I had them months ago. Just yesterday I was craving one. I told Lois to come with me, but with Perry’s meeting… I couldn’t leave. They’re my favorite.”

Clark feigned surprise, though inside, a small pride bloomed. What you didn’t know was that he had heard that quiet request to Lois. He had also noticed your sad glance toward the elevator before entering that meeting you knew would run late.

That very night, he had checked if the shop was open. And when it wasn’t… he promised himself he’d buy you one the next morning. And he did.

“Really?” he murmured. “What a coincidence…”

Outside the building, the night embraced you with its cool air and the distant murmur of the awake city. Metropolis lights flickered among tall buildings, fast taxis, and still-open shop windows. You walked side by side. Not too close. Not too far.

Clark took out his phone and opened the Maps app. Pretending to search for the way, though in truth, his super hearing had already picked up Jimmy and Lois’s laughter a few blocks ahead.

In fact, he could hear the ice clinking in their glasses as they toasted. But he needed this walk with you. He needed those minutes stolen from the night.

“I heard you interviewed Superman again,” you finally said. “How’s that piece going?”

Clark nodded.

“Good. He was more reserved this time. He told me… that lately he feels like people are losing faith in the good. But that it’s enough for just one person to believe… for all his effort to be worth it.”

You paused for a few seconds.

“That’s… beautiful.”

Clark dared to look at you. Your cheeks were slightly lit by the nearest streetlamp.

Your eyes lowered, as if the compliment had been too big to hold.

“Yeah… it is,” he answered softly.

“Do you… believe in him?” you asked.

Clark smiled to himself, looking ahead.

“More than you think.”

In the distance, Hoper Bridge glowed with yellow lights. The bar was just across the street, full of life, low music.

It was filled with laughter, dim lights, and clinking glasses. In the back, the Daily Planet table was nearly complete. You spotted Lois laughing with Jimmy and Cat, standing, waving at you when she saw you enter with Clark.

“She came!” said Cat with a big smile, as if announcing it was a personal victory. “Guys! Our shy flower is with us tonight!”

The words were sweet, not mocking. But the nickname made you blush. Clark, by your side, simply gave a small half-smile and nodded slightly for you to walk ahead.

Cat came closer as soon as you sat down.

“I’m so glad you came. And you came with Clark, huh…”

She smiled playfully, but before you could answer —or turn even redder— she had already turned toward Lois.

“Didn’t see that coming. This bunch of antisocials is becoming human.”

The jokes and laughter rose with the music. Cat disappeared into a toast with Jimmy, and someone slipped a cocktail into your hand, pink with sparkling ice.

Clark sat next to you.

Because Clark Kent didn’t just look at you. He felt you.

From the outside, no one noticed anything. You were sitting calmly, back straight, lips closed. But he heard everything.

Every time your throat swallowed hard.

Every time your nails scratched slowly at your other hand.

Every time you looked toward the exit, like a bird eyeing the only open window.

“So Clark,” asked Jimmy from across the table, “when’s your Superman interview coming out? Tomorrow?”

“Probably Monday,” he replied, never taking his eyes off you. “I want it clean. He was more personal this time.”

“Personal? Superman? What, did he cry?” joked Cat.

Clark chuckled politely, but his eyes still checked in on you every now and then.

“Hey!” A voice snapped him out of it. Andrew, one of the new editors, had stood up with a beer in hand and was heading straight to you.

“You! The one who writes about cooking… and politics, right? I never remember the name. But your jasmine tea piece was nice. What’s it like working here at the Daily Planet?”

Your stomach flipped. Eyes turned to you. Your usually quiet voice now seemed to have vanished entirely.

“I… really like it…” you murmured.

But you said it so low, so soft, you weren’t even sure you had said anything at all.

Andrew frowned, not with bad intentions, but with zero tact.

“What’d you say? You like what?” The smile he wore was that of someone joking, unaware they were breaking something fragile. “Can’t you speak louder?”

And it was like being fourteen again. Standing in front of classmates laughing because you didn’t speak up. Feeling your throat tighten, blood hot in your cheeks. Panic growing like a knot in your chest.

Clark felt it all. Literally.

Your racing heart. Your uneven breathing. Your fingers scratching your skin with such force.

“Andrew,” Lois cut in like an arrow. “Why don’t you check if Katie started her karaoke ritual before she hits the stage with tequila in hand?”

Andrew laughed, distracted by the mood. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The laughter swept him away. The moment passed.

For everyone… except you.

Then, when some started moving toward the dance floor, you stood too. But not to dance. Not to laugh. Just to disappear.

You left. Walked aimlessly. The night air hit your face like a cold whisper. You walked faster, not looking back, until you were far enough.

Only then did you stop.

Your cheeks were wet. Your hands red from pressure. You closed your eyes, wishing the world would stop looking at you. That your heart would stop pounding so hard.

“Wanna go get ramen?”

The voice was soft. Kind. With a touch of shy hope.

You turned. Clark was there. Breathing like he had walked the whole way behind you —and he had.

The bar was far now, but he hadn’t hesitated. He followed you. Without permission. Without words.

“What…?” you murmured.

“There’s a place I like. It’s open all night. They serve ramen. Good ramen. It’s… peaceful.”

You hesitated.

Looked at your feet. Then at him.

At his slightly crooked glasses.

At his poorly wrapped scarf.

At his face that demanded nothing, just waited.

“Okay,” you whispered, starting to walk.

And Clark followed you.

Like all those times he followed you with his eyes from his desk.

Like when he closed his eyes just to hear your voice —that sweet, small, trembling voice— talking to Lois or murmuring to yourself.

Like when he listened to your heartbeat from afar, just to make sure you were okay.

Like when he saw you smile, those few times you did, and wished one of those smiles was because of him.

Clark followed you.

And he was ready to keep following you from now on.

To follow you with real steps. With small gestures. With words that asked for nothing.

To follow you until you could see him.

See that he wanted to take care of you.

See that he had already chosen you.

See that his way of loving was that: looking through you, slowly, tenderly, until you could love with the same calm with which he always waited for you.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

💌 I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea, feel free to send it my way. I’d love to bring it to life 🤍

You had checked the weather app on your phone the night before, hoping that somehow, by the time morning came and you had to get ready for work, the weather would clear up and a warm beam of sunshine would follow you on your way to the office.

When your alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m., with sleep still blurring the edges of your sight, you notice the soft patter of droplets on your bedroom window, and you can already tell those gray clouds portend a series of unfortunate events that will unfold during this rainy Wednesday.

Rain is no good. For different reasons, listed down below:

You don’t own a car, nor do you know how to drive one.

The boots you were gifted on your last birthday, the ones you use for the days when the city feels underwater, are supposed to be water-resistant, though they’ve betrayed you on several occasions.

It’s only a matter of time before your hair swells up because of all the humidity.

The worst thing is that some people, other human beings who breathe the same air as you, seem to enjoy these days. For motives you’ll never be able to comprehend, they look forward to them, gushing about the apparent charm and appeal of drizzle.

Perhaps the government could use that eagerness to spot potential future criminals.

Lazily, you pull on several layers of clothing: a plain t-shirt, a sweater, and your trench coat. You choose a darker pair of jeans so that any rain-soaked patches won’t make you look like you’ve peed yourself, which has happened before. The temperature has dropped drastically while you were sleeping, and now every room in your apartment feels cold and uninviting as you gather your things.

You know for a fact that the second you step out of this building, you’ll feel like absolute crap. But you can’t stay home and avoid your responsibilities, because it turns out you certainly enjoy having Wi-Fi and food on your stomach at the end of a long day.

And those are things you wouldn’t be able to afford if you didn’t work, because they cost money. Lots of it.

So, in the end, you have no option left but to be a functional adult and go to work, contributing to the lovely city of Metropolis by writing articles for a living.

This doesn’t mean that you hate your job. In fact, you love it. You love writing, for it’s the only thing that’s stayed constant in your whole life ever since you were a kid.

The culprit for your attitude is the rain. It makes you insufferable to be around. You're no stranger to your own mood, and you do realize rainy days turn you into someone more volatile.

Yet clear skies are no different. You’ve been in a mood for… forever, actually. For the past year, at least. That’s what Jimmy and Lois say. 

By the time you make it to the subway, the train you should’ve taken to be on time is already gone, your scarf smells funny, and Matthew’s standing there, just an inch away from your face.

Oh, good ol’ Matthew. A guy, maybe a couple of years older than you, who’s been trying to get your name, number, or even email address for the past few months.

You see him every morning as you leave for work, and despite not succeeding in his task, he doesn’t seem to plan on giving up.

“Hi, beautiful.”

You glance to your left, not even bothering to turn your head to face him. “Matthew. If it isn’t another day of smelling your breath way too early in the morning.”

He ignores the part about his breath. Instead, he replies, “I remember telling you that you can just call me Matt.”

“That’s strange, because I remember telling you I’d never do that.”

It surprises you that he still thinks you’re playing hard to get, given it’s been four months and you’ve made it more than clear that you have no interest in him.

He grins, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get your sense of humor.”

“Of course you won’t. It’s reserved for highly clever individuals.”

“Gosh, you’re so mean.” This time, he stares ahead, sighing. “Have I ever told you I’m a sucker for these kinds of days?”

One of your eyelids begins twitching. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“You don’t like the rain?” His eyes sparkle with what could be described as amusement. “You know, opposites attract. It’s just inevitable.”

This is the kind of interaction you’re forced to endure before you’ve even had breakfast.

You wish for the next train to derail and hit you with all its might.

As you set foot in the Daily Planet’s lobby, the rain has evolved from harmless drizzle to complete downpour, the wind unhinged, having spent the last ten blocks trying to steal your umbrella from your own hands. It is now useless, along with your drenched coat and suspiciously squishy socks.

You’re the last one to manage to squeeze into the elevator, which is beyond packed. As you maneuver inside, you accidentally jab a woman’s leg with your umbrella handle, and she mutters something under her breath. Something that sounds a lot like a swear.

“Sorry,” you murmur, avoiding all possibilities of making eye contact with her, although you feel her unfaltering gaze the full thirty seconds it takes to reach your floor.

Holding your bag and umbrella to your chest, you make your way through the maze of desks, nodding your head at those who greet you.

You peel off your coat, hanging it from the back of your chair, observing the tiny droplets that start to drip onto the carpet below. You search for your notebook, digging it out and letting out a breath of relief when you notice none of the pages have been damaged by water.

It’s only when you finally sit down that you let yourself close your eyes for a moment, folding your arms over your desk and resting your forehead against them. You can’t deny you feel miserable. You should’ve called in sick.

You feel the warmth of someone standing close to you, and you don’t need to look to know who it is. You’d recognize the scent of his cologne or the sound of his footsteps anywhere, though you really hope that doesn’t sound as weird out loud as it does in your head.

“Turn around, Kent. We’re closed today,” you mumble with your face still pressed to the desk, voice muffled into the crook of your arm.

“You look like you’ve just got out of the shower,” Clark shoots back, the faint hint of a smile in his tone.

That’s when you decide to stop hiding, straightening your back to squint up at him. You should’ve kept your head down: he looks perfect. His hair is neat, his suit unbothered by the rain. You huff when you notice your reflection on his glasses. “How are you… dry?”

“I used my umbrella. They do serve a purpose.”

“Well, mine—” you snap between gritted teeth, ducking under your desk to retrieve the ruined thing and holding it up to shove it into his face, “—has decided to stop functioning properly today.”

He lowers your hand, his forehead crinkling. “Have you been nice to him?”

“Him? Are you personifying it?”

“I have a spare at home. If you want it, I could bring it tomorrow,” he suggests, changing the subject, and he can’t quite look you in the eye without averting his gaze.

This is where you draw the line.

Forcing yourself to act politely, you say, “Thank you, but I don’t need it. I’ll fix mine. I’m sure it’ll probably stop raining in a couple of hours.”

A crack of thunder rattles the windows. Behind you, Jimmy nearly jumps to his feet, startled, drawing in a long breath.

“You okay, buddy?” Clark asks.

“Sure,” Jimmy answers, tugging at his shirt collar. “I’ve never been better.”

Clark raises his eyebrows at him, not convinced, but chooses not to press him. He shifts his weight from one foot to another and clasps his hands behind his back, returning his focus to you.

Sometimes, he stares at you in such a way that makes you feel you’re being examined under the lens of a microscope. “Have you already had breakfast?”

“No.”

“Want me to—”

You cut him off before he goes any further. “Clark, I’m fine. Save your kindness for someone who truly wants it.”

His lips form a straight line, and without saying anything else, he jams his hands into his front pockets, walking away to his own desk. Maybe the tone you used wasn’t the appropriate one, but shortly after, you shake that feeling of guilt off.

On nights when you can’t sleep, or on certain days when your eyes keep finding their way back to him when they shouldn’t, you often wonder how he can always seem willing to help. Is it performative? Would he like to be voted as the best employee of the century?

But deep down, you know the reason behind his infinite generosity. It has a name, which starts with an S and rhymes with man.

Let’s put a pin on that. You’ll get back to that later.

“You’re gonna turn that poor guy into a villain,” Jimmy says, his voice barely above a whisper. You have to crane your neck to get a look at his face, and even so, you stifle a laugh at his expression. He seems genuinely worried. “I mean it. He’ll have an identity crisis, and it’ll be awful.”

“I think you forget he’s a grown man.” You flick your fingers across the keyboard, checking your inbox. “Don’t worry, Jimmy. He’ll survive.”

“You’re vile.”

You spin around in your chair, scoffing. “Come on! Me? Vile? For not worshipping the ground he walks on like everybody else?”

Jimmy throws his arms out, seemingly defeated. “That’s because he’s the nicest guy to ever exist!”

“I just don’t want him to be nice to me. That’s all.” You scrunch up your face, your jaw tightening. “I don’t hate him, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

It’s hard to explain your relationship with Clark, especially to Jimmy, who’s been his best friend for a while and would go to the moon and back for him.

He raises his palms, bowing his head. “I feel like a child of divorce.”

“What a weird use of that concept. We were never together.”

“Well, almost.”

“No.”

“Technically, you went on one date.”

Returning your attention to your computer, you rejoice without emotion, “Unlike him, I did show up to the restaurant.”

That appears to be enough to shut him up, and he goes back to work.

The rest of the day unfolds quite easily. Nothing remarkable happens, at least not until you’re on your lunch break, sipping from your water bottle as Lois helps you polish the wording on an article you’ve been working on for a week now. Without knowing when, you two had fallen into a routine where you became each other's proofreaders.

You’d started the draft on paper for some reason you can’t remember. She scribbles in the margins next to your older notes from days ago, biting the end of her pen as she frowns at one word you’ve underlined.

You’re about to finish your salad when something exciting finally occurs on this rainy Wednesday’s workday.

One of the interns is carrying what looks like an entire week’s worth of paper and folders to Perry’s office, and he’s aiming to do it in a single trip. You watch as the tower teeters dangerously, and then, since it was bound to happen, it collapses.

You can’t say you didn’t see that coming. Why didn’t he think twice before trying to carry a stack almost as tall as Clark?

It’s like conjuring him with a thought. One second, the mess exists, and the next, Clark’s kneeling beside the flustered intern, helping him collect the disaster, a gentle smile on his face.

Chaos, you've noticed, seems to have a way of summoning him.

“I’m such an idiot,” the boy breathes, rising to his feet.

“Hey, no big deal,” Clark retorts, patting him on the back. “I’ve been on a good streak lately, but this happens to me weekly. Perry won’t mind as long as you get them to him in one piece.”

Clearly enamored with Clark, the intern nods fervently and hugs the papers to his chest before hurrying off and disappearing.

You finish chewing a particularly salty piece of lettuce, and afterwards, because you don’t always let your better judgment catch up to your mouth, you hear yourself saying, “Doesn’t he get tired of playing the part of the upstanding citizen?”

The room goes dead silent. You’ve seen this happen in movies, the uncanny stillness where you could hear a pin drop.

At first, he doesn’t move. His mouth hangs slightly open, his cheeks adopting a sudden flush. But the moment he seems to come back to real life, he can’t do anything but blink at you, appearing embarrassed. “Excuse me?”

If Lois’ panicked expression is anything to go by, things aren’t going that well. “Hey, guys, why don’t we—”

“I was just thinking out loud, Kent,” you interrupt her, dumping your empty salad container and closing the distance between you. “I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.”

“You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” You take another step, practically looming over him. “I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.”

His nostrils flare with each of your words. In that split second, you realize you haven’t been this close in a while. “Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.”

If Jimmy hadn’t materialized out of thin air to separate you, you believe your noses would’ve touched. “Are you seriously fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” Clark shoots back.

“It certainly looks like it,” Jimmy says.

“Hold on, don’t interrupt the office sweetheart.” You poke Clark’s chest with your finger, feeling nothing but hardness. “I’d love to know more of your thoughts on my attitude. Would you do me a favor and lecture me after work?”

“Well, starting with that sarcasm of yours—”

“I have an idea!” Lois chimes in, and the three of you turn around to see her. She’s smiling. “Jimmy, I need your approval first.”

“Yes, m’lady. I live to serve.” He bows theatrically and makes his way to her. She puts her hands around her mouth and whispers something in his ear, and an almost cartoonish grin stretches across his face.

He covers Lois’ forehead with his palm. “We must protect your brain. It’s one of the last treasures we have as a country.” Then he flicks his eyes again to Clark and you, enjoying himself, and the sight alone makes you feel uneasy.

You’re starting to believe that in the same way bad days follow rain, terrible plans are always preceded by Jimmy’s smirk.

“Will you let me do the honors?” he asks Lois, and the instant she gives him a thumbs-up, he steps forward. “It’s become clear that you have strong opinions about kindness, or the lack of it. Which is why we’re proposing a bet, starting now. It’s called the Good Samaritan Challenge.”

Clark narrows his eyes. “The what?”

“The Good Samaritan Challenge, pal. Are you even listening?” Jimmy repeats, jutting out his hip. He quickly tells Lois to bring a whiteboard, and she’s off like a shot. “Whoever is objectively kinder during the next thirty calendar days wins.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you say under your breath.

Lois elbows you playfully as she comes back with the whiteboard. “Is it?” She raises her brows, handing the board to Jimmy.

He grabs a marker, draws two columns, and writes your name on one and Clark’s on the other. “Here’s the thing. You’ll both try to be the better person for a whole month. Lois and I, as the judges, will track your good deeds. But no cynical motives, alright? It all has to come from the heart.”

Clark seems to be weighing his options when you speak again. “What are the stakes?”

His shoulders look visibly tense. “Wait, you’re agreeing to this?”

“Depends on what each of you wants as the prize,” Lois answers in response to your question, resting her elbows on her desk and propping her chin upon her palms.

You glance at Clark. “If I win, I get an exclusive interview with Superman. You’d have to get it for me, of course, since you’re the only one who’s ever spoken a word to him.”

It's no coincidence you're asking to meet with Metropolis's biggest hero. You watch him flinch, tongue-tied, as he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.

Again, you know exactly what you’re asking for, and the reason why.

“And what about you, Clark?” Lois asks.

His lashes flutter together as he considers any possible answer. “You’d have to proofread all my articles for three months,” he explains, fully facing you. “I’m guessing you won’t mind the extra work.”

“Don’t get too excited, because it won’t happen.”

“It will.”

“It won’t.”

“Trust me, it will.”

“Shut up.”

“Guys?” Jimmy intervenes, waving the marker.

“What?” You and Clark answer in unison, and you roll your eyes at him.

Trying to hide his smile, Jimmy concludes, “Shake on it to seal the deal.”

You extend your hand immediately, scrutinizing him with undivided attention. He spares Lois and Jimmy one last look before taking it, his grip firm.

“Your hands are so sweaty.”

“What? No!” you reply, your nose wrinkling. “Yours are.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Leaning in, you murmur your next words low enough so only he can hear them: “You better get ready for that interview.”

He chokes on his own words. “You’re—”

“I have so much to ask him.” You’re genuinely grinning now. “So much to ask you.”

May the games begin, and let the kindest person win.

The café door chimes as Lois steps inside, scanning the crowded morning scene for you among the swarm of people.

It’s the day after the bet began, and you still have fifteen minutes before the clock strikes nine. She spots you and heads your way, placing her bag on the chair beside you and reaching into her coat pocket, but then she notices the coffee already waiting on the table.

“I took care of it,” you say, pushing the cup toward her.

Looking visibly pleased, she wraps her hands around it, sitting down by your side. “Wow. Is this your first act of kindness for the day?”

“I thought an old man was lost on the subway, so I tried talking to him. He must’ve thought I was trying to steal his wallet.”

Lois exhales a small laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “This could be fun, you know?”

You slouch deeper into your seat. “Right now, all I care about is winning. I can have fun in other ways.”

“You could even see where it goes,” she says casually, not missing a beat.

“Where does what go?”

She shrugs, as if the answer’s obvious. “The thing with you and Clark. It’s—”

“Okay. Stop right there,” you warn, holding up a hand. “You go any further and I’m taking your coffee back.”

Taking a long sip, she shuts her eyes close, then opens them again, her brows snapping together. “I’m just saying that the two of you might finally learn to get along. Think of poor Jimmy and me.”

Your gaze lands on her cup, half-wishing you’d saved a few sips of your own drink instead of downing it in the blink of an eye before she arrived. Your hand instinctively searches your bag for some chewing gum.

She studies you in silence, leaning back. “Is this about that failed date you had? You hate him for standing you up?”

You tilt your head, clicking your tongue once your fingers brush the last piece of gum you had left. You unwrap it, popping it into your mouth.

“First of all, I wouldn’t consider that a date,” you say, lips pressed into a slight frown. “And why do you guys keep saying I hate him? That’s a strong feeling.”

There’s palpable hesitation in her speech. “This is starting to sound a lot like gaslighting.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a man.”

She crosses her legs, setting her cup on the table. “Ha ha. You’re so funny.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Leave that to me, will you?”

“You realize you have a talent for dodging questions?”

“It’s part of the full package,” you say, standing up and grabbing your belongings. Lois shakes her head in your direction, blowing out her cheeks, and you decide to give in. “Look, I’m not a resentful person. This isn’t about that night. We don’t get along because we’re too… different.” You offer her your hand and smile when she takes it, helping her up. “He finds beauty in everything, doesn’t think twice before trusting someone. I’d never be able to do that.”

Lois drops the subject. On your way out, after dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register, you hold the door open for her.

“I could get used to this,” she says, and your mouth twitches, giving her a half-smile.

At the Daily Planet, you both head toward the elevators, and as Lois steps inside, Clark appears behind you, looking agitated.

“Hey,” he greets you, straightening his glasses with one hand and gesturing toward the elevator. “After you.”

The fucker.

You mimic his gesture. “No, please. After you.”

“I said it first.”

“Too bad.”

“Guys…” Lois tries without much luck.

Clark’s voice is still thick with sleep when he speaks. “Would you please be a darling and go first?”

“Tell you what,” you say, inching closer and toying with the end of his tie, inspecting the fabric. “Nothing would make me happier than walking in after you.”

You don’t know if you’ve exhausted him or if he just doesn’t want to be late, but he eventually sighs and steps inside.

You position yourself beside Lois, and she ends up squeezed between the two of you.

“Morning, Lois,” Clark says.

“Morning, Clark,” she manages, stealing a glance at you. “You know, someone surprised me with coffee today.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he tugs at the sleeves of his suit. “That’s my thing.” He turns on his side, staring at you. “What’ll be your next move? Will you start wearing glasses as well? Just to make sure we match.”

“Oh, please. I’m not copying you.” The doors open and you’re first to exit, tipping your chin up. “It’s called being nice.”

“I am nice,” Clark blurts, trailing after you. “In fact, I’m nicer than you.”

“I wasn’t aware of this competitive side of yours.”

“Let’s just say I had time to think about it last night.”

“You thought about me before falling asleep?” You let out a feigned gasp. “That’s so cute!”

Jimmy appears in the frame to throw an arm around each of your shoulders. “I could hear your voices from the bathroom.”

You detach yourself from the two men, pointing your index finger at the shorter one. “I bought Lois coffee and let Clark go first in the elevator. Write that down on the board.”

Clark huffs. “You basically forced me.”

“Drop it, Clark.”

Well, how about this way? I love that you get cold when it's seventy-one degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

You muffle a squeak against the cushion you’ve smashed to your face. You could watch When Harry Met Sally a hundred times, and a hundred times this scene would get you. You could quote it word for word, the moment he finally confesses his love for her.

And then they share a loving kiss. They live happily together after, as in all the rom-coms you like to revisit once in a while. You’re certain there must be tears shimmering in your eyes, for they sting just enough. The more you think about it, the more convinced you are that no one will ever love you like that.

It’s undeniable that this belief has turned you into a bitter individual. You used to have hope. You weren’t like this before, when you were younger. At least not a few years ago, when the idea of loving someone and being loved in return still seemed like a thing you could attain if you worked hard enough for it.

Adulthood, in your experience, has been plagued by hostility and disillusionment. Were it possible, you’d have a word with the you from ten years ago, the one who believed that by now she’d be in love and planning a future with a man worth her time.

But you’d only laugh at her in the same way that an adult laughs when an infant talks about unicorns and talking animals. Because she, or you, for that matter, probably doesn’t know you spend most of your nights alone. And since the news would make her cry, you’d also have to hug her.

The last time you attempted to open your heart to somebody else was a little over a year ago, and it didn’t turn out well.

The day you started working at the Daily Planet, since both of your eyes functioned perfectly, you developed an instant crush on Clark Kent. The real question, you thought, was: who wouldn't? He was the most handsome man you'd ever seen, and still is to this day. Maybe that's the saddest part of the whole thing.

Your crush wasn’t just about his looks. You were drawn to his clumsiness, the cadence of his voice, and the way he’d ask if he could be of help. He’d buy you coffee first thing every morning without fail, back when you still accepted it. It would be steaming, and he'd always say, "Be careful. It's really hot." You thought you’d never grow tired of hearing those four simple words.

He made terrible jokes during lunch, and you were the only one who’d laugh, solely because he was the one telling them. If you struggled to navigate the newspaper’s website, he’d come up behind you, lean close, and explain each step patiently. His hand would find its place on your desk for balance, his warm breath would graze your skin, and you wouldn’t listen to a word he said.

There were even days when you pretended not to know how the printer worked. It was a treasure to have him that close, and Clark never questioned it. He was always there, and he’d never make you feel stupid for needing his help.

Around three months in, Lois started asking more questions about your personal life. “So… do you have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, no,” you said, downing what remained of your water bottle. “I’m single.”

“Great, because you know who else is single?” She made a short pause. “Clark.”

Her words of encouragement were the final push. You asked him out, and it was the most ungraceful ramble of your entire life. The memory still plays out in your head, a vivid reel of your voice shaking and your eyes fixed on the floor as you stumbled over each word.

It happened during one particular Thursday afternoon, while the two of you were standing by the printer. “I was thinking that tomorrow we could go out, just the two of us. If you want. I mean—if you’re not busy or—”

He gaped at you, his answer nearly written all over his face. At last, he smiled, and then said, “I’d really like that.”

You knew you'd spend the next twenty-four hours in a state of total anxiety. The world as you once knew it had changed for good. In a moment of madness, you'd even used some of your savings to buy a dress you felt pretty in.

Ten minutes early for your reservation that Friday, you sat alone at the restaurant. You couldn't bring yourself to order, instead staring at your phone, terrified of the blank screen.

With every swing of the door, your heart tightened in your chest. Each new face that entered, you desperately hoped it would be Clark and not a stranger.

Fifteen minutes passed, which later bled into twenty, and then thirty agonizing minutes had gone by.

There was a waitress, a girl perhaps younger than you, who kept circling by your table.

“Still waiting for someone?” she asked.

Suddenly, you felt embarrassed. “He should be here any minute now.”

At some point, your stomach had begun to rumble, and that was the exact moment you read his name on your phone, answering so fast you nearly dropped it. “Clark?”

The line crackled with static, and you could barely hear him over a tumultuous roar. “I’m so sorry,” he said, nearly shouting and sounding breathless on the other end of the line. “There’s this thing I have to take care of—I can’t—”

“Are you okay?” you asked, starting to worry. “Where are you?”

“I wish I could explain, but—” A sudden rush of air swallowed his words. “I won’t make it tonight.”

Your eyes scanned the restaurant, taking in the sea of couples laughing over dinner. “Okay. That’s fine. Thank you for letting me know.”

“I’m—” he began, but to your surprise, the sentence was cut short by the call ending.

Utterly defeated, you clutched your phone, observing as his name faded from your lock screen with every passing second. You remained seated for another five minutes, trying to conjure a believable excuse for the waitress before you left.

She ended up returning to your table. “Will you be ordering anything tonight?”

It seemed she didn't need much to grasp what had happened. When you got home, you peeled off the dress, folded it carefully, and put it back in the store bag. To keep from seeing it, you hid it under the couch, then collapsed onto the cushions, letting out a contained breath.

I should’ve stayed home, you told yourself. Your bed wouldn't have stood you up, neither would your couch or your phone.

You opened social media, searching for a distraction, something simple, like videos of dogs trying to talk with their overreacting families.

What you found was starkly different from your initial vision.

It was a video of Superman, flying high in the sky while holding a phone to his ear. Seconds later, the phone tragically slipped from his hand, plunging into a river below. The video had millions of views and had been posted less than an hour ago.

The comment section was full of users drawing their own conclusions.

d1stalker: GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE 😭how is he literally flying and talking at the same time? multitasking king

elysianymph: i’d love to know who he was talking to… a girl can only dream

dayapad: guys don’t worry IT WAS ME ON THE OTHER END 🥀 he’s safe now. just tucked him in and we’re about to watch a movie (i scream as they drag me back to my room in the asylum)

redgie-69: now he needs to do an ad por iphone or sth. superman get that bag !!!

Unable to stop yourself, you clicked the video again, pausing and rewinding it. The wind was a deafening roar in the background, and you couldn't make out half of what the bystanders were saying.

With the line cutting and his phone falling into the river, the video's timestamp was a perfect match for the time he had called you.

Realization hit you like a freight train. Fuck. That was Clark. Clark was… Superman.

A whirlwind of feelings coexisted within you, but none was strong enough to snap you out of the trance you were in. You kept watching those fifteen seconds over and over again, replaying the memory of the call and his exact words.

There had always been something about him that was slightly off, and not precisely in a bad way. You'd always chalked it up to him being dorky and a little shy, traits you didn't mind in the slightest. But now, after that footage, you couldn't bring yourself to simply unsee it.

You recalled a specific incident that had taken place a few weeks ago. Jimmy, insisting Clark would be the perfect actor for a Superman biopic, had reached to pull off his glasses. With grace, Clark had swatted his hand away, claiming they were too fragile to be passed around like a toy.

You knew better, knew exactly why he reacted the way he did. And, God help you, did that make you like him even more?

That night, you sent him two text messages, having momentarily forgotten he wouldn’t be able to read them.

I think I understand why you didn’t show up tonight.

And shortly after:

I saw the video. You look good in blue.

By the time Monday came around, you’d already picked ‌all your nails. You arrived at the office earlier than usual, and his desk was still empty, but you kept checking the elevator every time it stopped at your floor.

He was nodding good morning at someone when you saw him, and you didn’t hesitate. You strode straight up to him, took his hand between yours, and whispered: “We need to talk.”

“Uh—hi?”

“Now.”

You led him down the hall and into the break room, closing the door behind you once the two of you were inside and turning the lock.

“Is everything—”

“You’re Superman,” you said, not even bothering to mince your words.

Clark looked like he’d seen a ghost, pure anxiety brewing in his eyes. You could imagine the gears turning in his head as he remained silent, lost in thought.

“Cat got your tongue?”

His gaze darted to every object in the room but you. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me. I saw the video, Clark. You called me while flying, and you dropped your phone midair.”

He was breathing differently now, as if he was attempting to calm himself.

“Does Jimmy know? Lois?”

That question made him look up. “No,” he said. “No one knows, except… well, you. I didn’t want you to find out this way.” His eyes bore into yours, his mouth set in a hard line. “I’m sorry I stood you up, but I heard this explosion on the east side, and I couldn’t ignore it.” Clark’s face reddened the more he talked. “And then I dropped my phone. I went back for it later, but I couldn’t find it.”

Recognition settled over you at his words. “I’m not mad at you,” you assured him, giving a nod. The way his brows knitted burned a hole through your heart. “Would you maybe want to reschedule our date?”

The silence between you deepened, making your smile fade off of your face as the tension in the room thickened.

“I—I mean, if that’s something you still want,” he managed, the tone of his voice betraying him. “I don’t know if—I mean, I do want to, but—I wouldn’t want things to be complicated for you and me.”

Were you being friend-zoned? “Right.”

He runs a hand through his hair, getting more notoriously verbose by the minute. “It’s just that, now that you know, I don’t want to put you in danger. And I’m not sure it’d be fair to ask—”

“Okay,” you cut him short. “So what you're saying is that we should just leave it, then.”

“Wait—”

“We can just stay colleagues, if that’s easier.”

He seemed taken aback by your resoluteness. “Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t, but either way, you smiled. “Yes. That’d be better. We shouldn’t ruin what we have.”

You could’ve sworn he was just about to contradict you, but nothing came out of his mouth. Reaching for the door, you unlocked it, and he didn’t seem to be planning on following you.

You cast him a glance over your shoulder before saying, “I promise I won’t say anything.”

Having fled the break room, you thought you might feel better, more professional even, but as you sat back down at your desk, your insides were turning into knots.

When Lois and Jimmy showed up beside you, eager for updates, you gave them a breathy laugh, which was meant to sound casual. “Guys, there wasn’t a date to begin with.”

“What?” Lois whispered harshly. “Why not?”

“He had to go to Kansas,” you explained, the lie feeling foreign on your tongue. “His parents needed him there, so he left Friday evening.”

“Is everything okay now?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t a big deal. But we talked, and we agreed to stay friends. It’ll be for the best.”

Lois studied you a second longer than necessary, her gaze narrowing as if she could hear what you weren’t saying. You assured them both you were fine, that there was no drama between the two of you, and that this was the smartest, most mature decision you and Clark could’ve made. You just hoped they would believe you.

What shocked you the most was that he’d looked so nervous, maybe even more than usual. If he hadn’t wanted to go out with you, he could’ve just said so when you asked him out.

But Clark, always the sweetheart, probably hadn’t wanted to hurt your feelings. It was funny, considering he’d managed that anyway.

Was it stupid to think he might’ve liked you back? Maybe you’d been seeing things that weren’t actually there. Maybe you’d overanalyzed every smile, every gentle gesture, every moment your world seemed to spin faster just because he was in the same room as you.

It made sense: someone who wants to be loved will look for it everywhere, even in places it doesn’t exist.

From that moment on, you stopped looking for his eyes when he walked past your desk. You declined his offers to grab you coffee because his gentleness felt like charity, and you wanted no part of it.

Back to the present. Enough of your sad memories. The credits of the movie are still rolling, but you shut the laptop, getting up and stretching. In the bathroom, you brush your teeth while staring at your reflection, and once you’re in bed, you pull the covers all the way up to your chest.

You’re choosing the fantasy you’ll think about tonight to fall asleep when you hear the rhythmic sound of your neighbor’s headboard rocking against the wall.

You’d run into her in the elevator earlier today, and she’d mentioned her long-distance boyfriend was coming over for the week. You hear her laugh, then his, alongside other noises you won’t try to dissect.

The walls in this building are paper-thin, and on any other occasion, you would’ve grabbed the first thing within reach to knock on the wall.

But you won’t do that tonight, not because you can’t, but because you don’t want to. You stare at the ceiling, thinking they deserve these kinds of moments after being apart for so long.

Plus, it’s only a week. Just because you’re not getting laid doesn’t mean the rest of the world should stop having sex out of pity, so you turn onto your side, pull the covers up over your ear, and decide to sleep.

It turns out that kindness can also sound like silence.

It’s been two weeks since the bet started, and you’ve come to discover that complimenting people is a good way to earn points, especially if you deliver them in public for everyone to hear.

“Lois, I love your blazer,” you say as she walks past your desk one morning.

She stops mid-stride, smiling at you. “Thank you. It’s thrifted.”

You’ve also made a habit of stapling Jimmy’s copies before he gets to them. “I think somebody wants to win,” he notes, watching you finish his stack.

“You would too if interviewing Superman was on the line.”

“Well, you better keep it up, because you’re still behind.”

Safe to say you take that personally. Later that day, Lois gives you a point when she catches you holding the door open for nearly ten people in a row. Clark earns another when he finds someone’s missing phone after searching for fifteen straight minutes.

Just to be clear, you were also looking for it. He just happened to be the one who found it first. But yes, you’ve been trying lately, and Clark notices.

Though today you’re moving more slowly because of a headache that has settled behind your eyes. You spend most of the morning at your desk, head bent while typing out emails, but you’re forced to look up when a cup of coffee lands beside your keyboard.

Your first instinct is to say no. Politely, of course, because of the bet. You haven’t accepted anything from him in a long time.

He places something else down: an aspirin. “It’s 2025. We have advanced medicine to ease your suffering.”

“Are you that desperate to win?” you ask, resting your chin on your palm.

Clark snorts. “What would you like my answer to be?”

You drop the subject, accepting both things and picking up the coffee. “If I kindly take this coffee, would that earn me a point?”

“That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Then I don’t want it.”

“Half a point?”

“We’ve got a deal.” You take a trial sip, tasting its flavor and muffling a satisfied sound. “God, it’s really good. Thanks. How much was it?”

He shakes his head. “Forget about it.”

“Hey, no. I want to pay you for it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can hear you,” he says, walking backwards and away from you.

“Asshole.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you look nice today,” you admit instead, folding your hands on your lap. “I like your shirt.”

It’s a plain one, honestly. Nothing special, but it still looks good on him. He glances down at his clothes, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“How nice of you to say that. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

So apparently, you and Clark are starting to get along.

It’s easier if you hide behind the bet, because you can be decent to each other while racking up points. What’s so bad about it?

Yet you can’t ignore the fact that you kind of enjoy being like this with him, despite the whole challenge finishing in less than two weeks.

Clark: Don’t forget Jimmy’s birthday tomorrow.

You groan around a mouthful of apple, cursing your poor memory

You: Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Clark: I knew it. See, I’m that nice. I could’ve chosen not to tell you.

You: That would’ve made you a prick

Clark: You’re right, but now owe me one.

You: I could bake him a cake… or cupcakes??? Idk

Clark: I’d go with the cake. Just imagine Lois and Jimmy giving you ten points for it.

Pressing your thumb against your mouth, you gnaw at it, holding your breath as you type a message.

You: We can make it five and five if you help me

You put your phone down, covering it with a cushion, but the moment it buzzes again, you snatch it back.

Clark: Sounds fair, though I’ve never baked anything from scratch before.

You: I’ve got the perfect recipe

Clark: Are we having dinner as well? I could bring some takeout.

You can’t help but re-read that text too many times.

You: Sure, whatever you want

Clark: Chinese?

You: Yuppp but please hurry up because I’m starving

He asks for your address, and twenty minutes later, he’s knocking at your door, a plastic takeout bag swinging from one hand. He loosens his tie the moment he’s inside, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves

“So…,” he trails off, pacing around the living room, “you’re in charge tonight.”

You suggest eating first, otherwise, the food will go cold. While you set the table, Clark turns on the TV and lets it run in the background. As expected, you mostly talk about work. Does this count as a date? You’re not sure.

The first thing you ask him to do is to preheat the oven, and he obeys without a word. Your kitchen isn’t big enough for two people, and if anything, Clark’s towering height only makes it more difficult. His elbows constantly bump yours, and he apologizes every single time.

While you handle the measuring of ingredients, he takes the whisk. It seems the Man of Steel has no coordination when it comes to baking. He’s hyper-focused on not pouring the whole bottle of vanilla extract, tongue peeking out slightly as he pours. You can’t resist the temptation, so you give in to it and blow a puff of flour into his face.

His right profile is now covered in white, and he blinks rapidly, nudging his face against his shoulder. “It got in my eye.”

“It didn’t. I’m right here, remember?”

Wide-eyed and frozen in place, Clark stares at your head. “What’s that on your hair?”

“There’s nothing on my—”

He dips his fingers into the flour bag while you aren’t looking and flicks a pinch at you. A malicious laugh bubbles in his throat as he takes in the sight of you, frowning and crossing your arms.

“Now we’re even,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Afterward, you pour the liquid batter into a prepared pan, smoothing the top. You put it into the oven, finding Clark scraping the bowl with a spoon, licking it with pure contentment and savoring the remnants. There’s a small dot of batter near the edge of his mouth, which he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Clark, there’s—” You point to your own mouth, hoping he’ll mimic you.

But he doesn’t get the hint, putting down the bowl instead. “What?”

You sigh, taking a step toward him and wiping your thumb across the corner of his plump lips. He stops breathing in that moment, and so do you.

You clean your finger on the edge of a dirty kitchen towel, then ask, “Can you wipe the counter while I make the frosting?”

He looks astonished. “I can—Sure. I’ll do it.”

Neither of you utters another word for a couple of minutes, focusing on your respective tasks. After testing that the cake was done, you take it out of the oven, unmolding it onto a rack to cool.

Clark plops down on the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. “We can’t decorate it yet, right?”

“No. We have to wait, or the frosting will melt.”

“I’m so tired,” Clark says, yawning, and then his contagious yawn makes you do the same.

“I didn’t realize it was this late.” You sit on the opposite side of the couch, unlocking your phone. “I’ll put an alarm. We can take a twenty-minute nap, and then we finish it.”

His eyelids are already drooping, and he murmurs, “Just twenty minutes.”

You struggle to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. Normally, you’d stretch out fully, but now you can’t, and you blame the giant sitting next to you. By the time you drift off, you swear you can hear him snoring just a little.

The alarm went off twenty minutes later, but neither of you stirred. You only woke up to switch sides, blocking the intrusive light from the curtains. Your eyes opened just long enough to see Clark, still in the same position as before, his mouth slightly parted and his hair a beautiful mess.

The cake.

“Clark!” You bolt upright, almost jumping to your feet. You touched his shoulder, shaking him. “Wake up. We overslept.”

He rubs his eyes, huffing. “What time is it?”

“We have… twenty minutes before we need to leave.”

Both of you get to work. Clark retrieves the frosting from the fridge and tries to help you spread it on the cake, but it ends up looking less like a smooth layer and more like a lumpy hill.

“Oh, God. I hope the cake isn’t dry.”

“It looks good,” he says, admiring it from a distance. “At least from here.”

You melt some dark chocolate in the microwave. It’s surprisingly thick, and you grab a fork, trying to write Happy Birthday Jimmy across the top. The letters are wobbly and melted into one another, but it’s the thought that counts. You grab the single birthday candle you always saved for such occasions, placing it in the center.

Clark hovers just behind your shoulder. “It’s… definitely abstract.”

You glance down at your clothes from the night before, realizing you didn’t even get a chance to shower. “Shit. Do I smell?”

His expression softens, his gaze landing on your head. “You don’t, but you still have flour on your hair.” He brushes his fingers through your hair with the delicacy you’d expect from a man like him.

The pad of his thumb grazes your hairline, and your breath catches in your chest. He pulls back abruptly, grasping what he’s doing a second too late. “There you go.”

Scrambling to get ready, you transfer the cake to a cardboard pastry box, securing it. “Okay, subway. Now.”

As Clark and you rush through the station, you clasp the cake box in your hands. The platform’s already crowded with people. You steal a quick glance at him, catching the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I asked you if you had a boyfriend like, ten times, and you always said no.”

It’s a pity you recognize that voice. Matthew appears at your side, glaring at Clark, his eyes darting from him to you. The look on his face is one of total disappointment.

“He’s not—”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Clark asks, subtly stepping forward to angle his body between the two of you.

“Matt.” Matthew extends his hand in offering, but Clark silently refuses to take it, staring at him. “I just—sorry, dude. I had no idea she was taken.”

You wave your hand at them. “Hello. I’m right here.”

“Honey, you’ve never mentioned him before,” Clark says, draping his arm around your shoulders.

How smooth. “Well, honey, I must’ve forgotten,” you rejoice, leaning into his solid frame, playing the part of the loving girlfriend.

The screeching noise of the train marks the end of that conversation as the doors slide open. Just before the rush of people floods the car, Clark grabs your hand, tugging you inside, and Matthew’s left standing behind on the platform.

Even after finding two empty seats, he doesn’t let go of your hand, and neither do you.

“May I ask who that guy was?” His eyes gloss over the cake box above your legs.

“A not-so-secret admirer. He’s asked me out a few times, but hasn’t had much luck.”

“He seems persistent.”

“Trust me. He is.”

“I hope you don’t mind what I did back there,” he says, lowering his voice. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“It helped.” You squeeze his hand before gently dropping it. “Thank you.”

You make it to the office just before nine, taking the stairs because the elevator’s far too packed. Now it’s Clark’s turn to carry the cake, and he trails after you with precise steps.

To say Jimmy’s thrilled at the surprise would be an understatement. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he opens the box. “Holy crap! You baked this?”

“Yes,” you both say at once.

“I love it so much!” He takes the cake out of the box, looking at it from a different angle. “Can someone please take a picture of me with it? I feel like I’ve just met my firstborn.”

Lois materializes out of nowhere, trying to analyze the situation. “Why are you two wearing the same clothes from yesterday?” She lets a beat slide, then adds: “And why did you arrive together?”

“Well—the thing is—”

“It’s a long story,” Clark jumps in.

“But we have all the time in the world,” Lois shoots back.

And that’s how you know you’re trapped.

Only a week before the bet ends.

There’s a guy with too much gel in his hair lingering a few feet from your desk. You’ve seen him around. He’s one of the new hires who writes for the newspaper’s column on culture and arts.

You’ve been expecting him to approach you for ten minutes now. When he finally does, you see a confident smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, I’m Ethan,” he introduces himself, cocking his head.

“Nice to meet you, Ethan. I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupts you, squinting a little as if he’s embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. “Okay, that sounded weird, but what I meant is that I know your name.” He wraps his arms around himself, taking a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime.”

That’s not what you expected. He’s a handsome guy, charming even, but—

This is the kindness challenge, and you're supposed to be all friendly and polite, at least for another full week.

You plaster a practiced smile on your face. “Sure. Why not?”

He asks for your number, and you rattle it off in a monotonous tone. As he heads off, you catch Clark in the distance across the bullpen, sitting at his desk. He must have used his super hearing because he doesn't tear his gaze away from yours, and you feel as if all the oxygen in the world has been sucked out of the building.

Hours later, you’re in the break room, pouring coffee into your favorite mug, the one with a tiny kitten curled on the front. Clark walks in, closing the door behind him after he sees there’s no one else there.

“You want some coffee?” You ask him while stirring your coffee.

He stays quiet for ages. “What’s the deal with that new guy?”

“You mean Ethan?”

“So we’re using names now.”

“He asked me out,” you continue to explain, lifting the mug to your lips. “And I said yes.”

“Why?”

“It's just a drink, Clark. I’m being nice. That’s the whole point, remember?”

“I had no idea being kind involved bar hopping with strangers.”

Why is he acting like this? “Jealousy doesn’t look great on you.”

“I’m not jealous. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark locks. “You don’t know him. Nobody does.”

“He seems nice.”

“Everybody seems nice if you only exchange two words with them!”

You grind your jaw. “Why are you assuming the worst? Why does the idea of me going out with someone bother you so much?”

Clark doesn't answer immediately. “You can do whatever you want,” he says, his tone shifting to a pained one. “I'm just asking you to be careful.”

“You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Pride claims a full point from both of you.

You’re nodding along to another of Ethan’s stories from his college days, your eyes fixed on the rim of your glass.

It’s not that he’s boring, but for some reason, you’re unable to pay attention to anything he says. He’s talking about some phenomenal frat party he attended during senior year, which you can’t even relate to, because you’d never liked them.

He gulps down his drink, grinning. “I’m not letting you speak, am I?”

“Well—”

“Tell me something about yourself.”

You take a look around the bar, which is dim and cozy. The bartender hasn’t stopped mixing cocktails behind the counter. You shift your attention back to Ethan, lifting your eyebrows. “I’m currently stuck in a kindness challenge at work.”

You can’t blame him for seeming confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Lois and Jimmy had this brilliant idea that Clark and I should compete to see who’s nicer. He’s the guy with—”

“The glasses, I know. You’ve already mentioned him.” Ethan rolls his eyes, sighing at the same time a forced smile flashes across his face.

You can tell he’s bothered. Have you really been talking about Clark this much on a date with someone else? “Sorry.”

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand, waving it off. “And how’s the bet going?”

What an awfully complex question. You toy with the straw you were given with your drink, pressing your lips together. “Pretty much okay. We baked a cake last week.”

He chuckles. “You know what’s funny? I thought you two were dating at first.”

You tear your eyes away from the straw. “What?”

“I’d see you together all the time,” he says with a shrug, resting an arm on the back of the booth. “Then someone told me you hated him or something, and I had to shoot my shot.”

You hear him laugh, and he must expect you to do the same, but you don’t. “Hate him?” you echo his words. “I don’t hate him. Who said that?”

“I… don’t remember now. Does it matter?”

“Well, of course it does. Your source is wrong.”

“Yeah. I figured that around the fifth time you found a way to bring him up tonight.”

In a rare moment of clarity, a stark contrast to the bar's dark interior, you look down at your hands.

Shutting your eyes, and behind closed lids, you can only picture the face of a man who isn’t here, who isn’t the one sitting across from you.

This isn’t where you’re supposed to be.

Pushing back your chair, you reach for your purse. “This won’t work,” you murmur, putting on your jacket. “You’re a nice guy, really. You’re not the problem. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

Even though he calls your name as you make your way to the door, you don’t go back. Outside, driven by instinct, you fumble for your phone in your pocket. Since you’ve never felt this determined before in your life, you decide to call Clark.

It rings twice before he picks up, and when he does, his voice sounds groggy. “Hello?”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Sort of.”

You throw your head back, giving yourself a face palm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Clark assures you, the rustle of sheets reverberating through the line. He must be tossing around in bed, given the hour. “Is everything alright?”

For a moment, pressure wells in your chest. You glance both ways down the street, half-expecting to stumble into him. “I just wanted to say something.” You exhale, pressing the phone further into your ear, as if you could merge it with your skin. “I don’t hate you.”

He offers no immediate response. After a while, he says, “What?”

“I don’t hate you. Not in the slightest.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I needed you to know it.” Each of your words feels thick in your mouth, heavy like sand. “I wouldn’t be able to hate you.”

Judging by the background noise on his end, you guess he must be out of bed and pacing now. “I don’t hate you either.”

“It’s not the same. I already knew it.”

“Right,” he laughs, and the sound fills the line. You can almost imagine the dimples in his cheeks. “Wasn’t your date today? How did it go?”

 “Let’s just say there’s a section of the bullpen I’m not allowed into anymore.”

“Oh. That bad?”

“He said I talked a lot about you, so you tell me.”

The last time you two spoke in person, you had stormed out of the break room. He’d sounded jealous, a fact he fiercely denied, and his attitude had finally gotten to you.

Maybe it was that time of year when you got a bit paranoid, but the thought hit you: you could die at any minute. Living in a city full of unknown threats and creatures, were you seriously going to spend the rest of your life keeping everything bottled up?

Yet, as if reading your very thoughts, he asks: “Would you like to come over?”

“Like… now?”

“Right now.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You hail the first cab you find on the streets of this Saturday night, counting down the minutes until you arrive at his apartment.

Fifth floor. Apartment C. Clark opens the door to you, and the mere sight of him steals your breath. He isn’t wearing his glasses. A pair of gray sweatpants sits low on his hips, along with a navy blue shirt stretched across his chest.

The only thing you can bring yourself to say is: “Hi.”

He invites you in. You hear the door clicking shut behind you as you put down your purse, turning around to face him. You clear your throat, staring deep into his eyes, and you notice he still hasn’t said a word.

“I spent almost ten minutes thinking about what to say to you. I even came up with what I thought was a great speech. It made sense in my head, but I can’t… remember it now,” you explain, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You’re nervous, so freaking nervous you feel dizzy. Has he always been this tall?

“You don’t need a big speech,” Clark says, inching forward.

“I wanted to give you one, like they do in movies.”

“Then, just—come up with one right now.”

As if it were that easy. You press your hands to your face for a moment, imploring some god above for the courage you so desperately needed.

It doesn’t have to be well-structured. Doesn’t have to have perfect grammar. It just has to come from the heart and be true, and you couldn’t be more certain of what you feel for him.

“I would’ve dated you, you know? Even after finding out about the whole Superman thing, I would’ve risked everything, because it didn’t change the way I felt about you. It hasn’t changed it. I feel the same I did yesterday, and the day before that, and a year ago,” you blurt, edging closer to him. “I can’t imagine existing in a world where I’m not madly in love with you.”

You can't read the look on his face. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze giving nothing away as he studies you, and you find yourself wondering what exactly he’s thinking.

“I’ve tried putting it all behind me. I’ve tried starting over. For God’s sake, I went on a date with a man I didn’t even like! Just because you looked so… frustrated about it, and I thought maybe it was worth it.”

The past month’s blur of events rewinds in your mind. Your feelings, which you had tried to quiet and smother for so long, have come roaring back to life stronger than ever. You believe this must be love: that force you can try to extinguish and contain, but one that always burns through, because it is as real as the blood in your veins and the bones in your body.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m not dying to kiss you every time I see you at work. I feel like I’m in hell whenever you’re near me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t let you go, Clark. I don’t want to, but I swear I’d make the effort if you asked me to. I’d try, just for you.”

All the cards, including the ones you were keeping to yourself, have been laid out. You yearn for Clark Kent. You need him in your life, in any way he’s willing to offer himself, with those eyes of his that now look at you like you’ve gone nuts.

You’ve learned that there will always be something wrong. That’s how things work, at least for the alive-and-kicking ones. And you know for a fact that love won’t save you. Clark’s love, in this case, won’t assure you anything. But you’d much rather navigate those complexities with him by your side.

A flush creeps up his face, and he inclines his face. “I’d never ask you to walk away from me. Understanding you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to endure, which sounds absurd considering we speak the same language,” he says, and you can’t help but let out a laugh at that. “I mean it, and not just as Clark, but also as Superman.”

“You’re saying I’m hard to understand?”

“I’m saying that there’s so much you don’t say. I have to translate every look and sigh. I believe I’ve developed a whole new dialect just to make sense of you—”

“I feel like you’re using this as an opportunity to roast me.”

“—but loving you is the easy part, and you don’t even realize it.”

Your heart hammers unpleasantly inside your chest. “Clark, I thought you wanted us to stay friends.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“But you said it. Kind of,” you argue, your forehead creasing.

He holds out his arms, stifling his laughter. “You didn’t let me explain! I panicked. I didn’t know what to say. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

You’re left standing there, beyond stunned. “So this whole time… we could’ve been together?” You make a brief pause, falling silent. “I was so mad at you. So fucking—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Clark takes hold of your chin, angling your head backwards so your eyes peer directly into his. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Complaining about the past. We’re here now. We can make it up to each other.”

You sigh, and he hunches over to rest his forehead against yours. His stare carries so much, but you can’t look away. “I think I remembered my speech.”

“We’ve already moved past that.”

“I could still deliver it—”

You’re cut off by Clark’s mouth on yours. He kisses you with the intensity of a starved man, and you freeze, caught off guard and barely moving your lips, until he guides your arms around his neck, and that’s when your body catches up. His own hands find their sacred place on your waist, clutching the fabric of your sweater.

This is the aftermath of months of pent up-frustration. His tongue presses insistently against yours to seek entry. Ever so gently, he corners you against the nearest wall, and your head nudges a frame that ends up clattering to the floor. It’s not enough to get Clark off of you. He shoves it aside with his shoe, further pressing you into the wall.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he gasps between kisses, holding your cheeks as his nose bumps into yours.

“We won’t,” you say, dizzy from all the kissing. “I promise.”

It turns out that his lips can’t seem to leave yours for long. “And please don’t go on any more dates with new hires.”

You roll your eyes, running your fingers through the short hair at his nape. “I told you it went horribly.”

“Still.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Your mouth crushes onto his once again, your pulse quickening with every second his hands are on you. You then whisper against his lips, “It’s always been you. You can stop worrying about other men.”

He blows out his cheeks, shaking his head. “Golly, this isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“I just—love you so much,” he mumbles, pecking your lips, “and you’re so beautiful, and there’s so much I want to do with you. I want to do everything—”

“We’ll take our time.”

“I know, I know.” He grazes the skin of your neck as he pulls you in for another kiss. “But touching you, kissing you… it feels too good to be true.”

A small chuckle escapes you, and you caress his cheek. “Alright, Romeo. You’ve done enough talking.”

When you come back to your senses, he’s got you all sprawled across the couch, his touch insistent yet careful. You’re struggling to remain still the more acquainted he becomes with your body. He digs his fingers into your waist, your hips, the sides of your thighs, leaving a trail of all the places where he’s been.

He’s kissing down your jawline the moment your mind conjures up an important question. “Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s say that, hypothetically, I spend the night here.”

“…Hypothetically.”

“Exactly. Would you have a spare toothbrush in that case?”

He lifts his head from your neck, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “You’re marking territory.”

“Hey. I said hypothetically. And I care about dental hygiene.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, your head squeezed between his forearms. He ducks down to kiss you. “I do have a spare toothbrush. Don’t worry about that.”

You resume the make-out session after that. You sink deeper into the cushions as he shoves your sweater further up your chest, just enough to ghost his fingertips along your bra, eliciting a choked whimper out of you. The sound seems to spur him on because he pulls off his own shirt, allowing you to get a better look at his stomach.

The words die on your lips, and you draw a pattern over his pecks, then up to his biceps, ending in the happy trail that leads to what remains hidden beneath the tent on his sweatpants.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he breathes, pining your hand above your head. “I thought you were the one who said to take our time.”

“I’m gonna combust and you haven’t even touched me properly yet,” you admit, gaping at his lips as he hovers over you, teasing you. “Imagine the state I’m in.”

That makes him smirk, and he slides a thick thigh between your parted legs, pressing it to your center. You throw your head back, cursing. “You like that?”

You nod, watching him through hooded eyes. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck, Clark. Do something. I need—”

Upon the coffee table next to the couch, your phone starts ringing, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel fills the living room.

The spell breaks, and you hide your face into the crook of his neck. “I hate my life.”

“Ignore it.”

“I can’t. I know who it is,” you say, reaching your arm without looking. Eventually, you drag the phone out of the purse, and show the screen to him. “It’s Lois. She must be calling to ask how the date went.”

“Text her instead.”

“Clark, I can’t—just don’t make a sound, okay? I have to take this, or else she’ll keep calling.”

You accept the call without noticing your voice has gone up an octave. “Hi!”

“Hey! You didn’t text me about the date, so I figured I’d just call you.”

“Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.” You gulp down as he rolls your sweater over your head in one swift motion, and you slap his shoulder when he almost makes you drop your phone. “It was… average.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“We didn’t have much in common,” you continue, drifting your attention to the ceiling to try and stay composed. “He was—oh.”

Clark’s kisses have now migrated to your chest, his fingers sneaking beneath your back to unclasp your bra. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes hold of your breasts in his hands, and you squirm under him.

Lois’ voice breaks through, sounding distant. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yes. I’m here, sorry. We didn’t even talk that much. I left quite early.” You mouth a ‘stop’ to him, holding the phone away from your ear, but he just smiles at you.

“Dammit, that sucks. Are you home now?”

“I was—Clark!” You yelp as he closes his mouth around your right nipple, scraping his teeth against the hardened peak. He looks at you with a horrified expression, and your whole frame stiffens.

“…Clark?” Lois repeats, and she gasps. “Are you—is Clark there? CLARK KENT?”

“IhavetogoI’msosorrybyeloveyouuuuu,” you push out the words quickly in one breath before hanging up, dropping the phone to the floor. “You’re a prick. What the hell was that?”

“I’d put it into silence mode if I were you.”

“That wasn’t fair.”

“What’s not fair is that you’re still wearing clothes.” He sits on his knees to unbutton your pants and yank them to your ankles, his eyes dark with want. Then he does the same to his own, until all that’s left are your underwear and the hardness confined inside his briefs, which presses against you the moment he leans down.

You begin kissing him as he lays on top of you, holding himself up on his forearms so as not to crush you with his weight.

“When did you become a horny teenager?” you ask, biting back a moan as he aligns himself with you, both of you still clothed. You know there must be a damp spot on your panties at this point from how wet you are.

“Always been one around you,” he replies huskily, slipping his hands under your thighs to tug you even closer. As he grinds his hips into yours, his jaw clenches, his breath damp against your skin. “Can I—is this alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shift to give him more space between your legs. “It’s nice.”

The temperature in the room is borderline unbearable. Clark rocks into you in earnest, muttering sounds next to your ear. Some you catch, but some are so low that they are swallowed by the way he murmurs your name.

“I feel stupid doing this,” he grits out, pressing his lips to yours, his brows knitting. “I wish I could do more for you, but—I can’t. I need this. You feel—”

Shushing him, you roll your hips up to meet his mid thrust just right, whimpering when his tip catches against your entrance through the sticky fabric. He shivers, making a strangled noise.

“Oh, God—”

“Clark—”

“I swear—”

You cut him off with a kiss, sucking on his tongue. “Do you want to be inside me?”

He’s panting against your mouth, pupils blown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He flattens his palms on the back of your thighs, his fingernails scraping gently. “I mean, of course I—yes, I’d love that,” he says, laying heavy stress on the ‘love’ part. “But I’d like to make you come like this first.”

A grin curls your lips. “Great. We’ve got four days until the bet’s done. Each orgasm equals ten points.”

That night, you have sex with Clark Kent for the first time, and it’s the best sex of your life.

He earns forty points in the span of an hour and a half.

The day the challenge started, the sky was falling apart, rain had laughed in your face, soaking you from head to toes, and Clark had offered you a spare umbrella, which you declined.

But today, four weeks later, the sun couldn’t be shining brighter, you get to work right on time, and Clark brings you coffee and a pastry for breakfast at the office.

You’re in the break room. He drags a chair across the floorboards so that he can sit next to you. Neither of you are working, though after a month of constant fighting, a short period of ten minutes of peace feels like the real prize after all.

The memories from that first day feel almost laughable now in your mind.

I was just thinking out loud, Kent. I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.

You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?

I don’t know, you tell me. I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.

Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.

Glancing to your side, you find him scrolling through something on his phone. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he reads, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You smile before you can stop yourself.

He must feel your attention on him because he catches you staring. A smile spreads across his face too. “What’s got you like this?”

You shake your head, feeling the rising to your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “I was just… thinking.”

Across the room, Jimmy and Lois hover protectively over the whiteboard where they’ve kept track of every good deed you’ve performed. She attempts to speak, but he shushes her, looking at the two of you over his shoulder.

“Did you two do this on purpose?” he asks, capping his marker, and neither of you know what he’s talking about. It’s only then that Lois and him step aside to reveal the final score.

You lean forward, scrutinizing the numbers on the board. “We’re… even?”

Pursing his lips, Jimmy runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this. There was supposed to be one winner, as in any other game.”

You raise your hands. “Clark should win. He's been preparing for this his whole life.”

“I’m sorry, but no,” he objects, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did some really nice things for the sake of the challenge. You deserve it more than me.”

“But you—”

“She wins!” Clark concludes, standing up to clap for you, encouraging Lois and Jimmy to do the same.

After the round of applause is over, you take a bow, wiping imaginary tears from under your eyes. “I never thought this could actually happen,” you say, glaring at Clark. “My partner in crime, you made this possible.”

“We’ve created a monster,” Jimmy whispers, loud enough for you to hear it, and tugs on Lois’ sleeve. “Alright. Now I feel uncomfortable.”

“You two… are disgustingly… cute!” she chirps, being dragged outside the room.

Arms clasped behind his back, Clark puffs out his chest, looming closer. Behind his glasses, his eyes flicker with mischief. “Congratulations. You can have that exclusive interview with Superman anytime you want.”

“So I finally get to meet him? What an honor.”

“Does tonight work for you? At my place. He told me he’s dying to have a word with you.”

“I see.” You twist his tie around your fingers. “Will you be there?”

“Of course. I’m the mediator.”

Before he can say anything else, you pull him forward by the tie, kissing him. He cradles your face in his big hands, his nose brushing yours lovingly as he trips over his own feet to close the door. You warn him about someone eventually walking in, but he just answers, “We can make it quick.”

To be fair, you like this new version of yourself, the one who’s been making an effort to be nicer.

The one who’s irremediably in love with Clark.