Birdie

You couldn’t stop giggling, the sound spilling through the kitchen and bouncing off the walls. There you were, standing in the center of the room with your belly bare in a little curve that had grown so quickly over the past months. Every time you looked at it, you were reminded of the tiny life growing inside you and right now, that life seemed perfectly in sync with Clark’s exaggerated dramatics. He moved carefully, almost ceremoniously in front of the fridge as if selecting the perfect items from a sacred pantry just for you.

Your cravings had taken on a life of their own lately…sweet, salty, tangy, spicy and everything in between but nausea often made keeping even a small bite in your stomach a challenge. Clark had never once made you feel guilty or pressured to eat more than you could handle. Instead, he hovered with the patience of someone who was both completely in awe and mildly terrified of breaking you with the wrong move.

In his large hands, he held a cold, glistening jar of pickles and a cluster of ripe, ruby-red tomatoes. He brought them close to your rounded stomach, holding them there like ceremonial objects and your laughter shook your belly against them. “Focus, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle yet commanding, as if he were trying to calm a tiny orchestra inside you.

“It’s cold!” you protested while still giggling, feeling the chill from the glass and the skin of the tomatoes. 

Clark only grinned, tilting his head and shrugging. “Had to wake her up, sorry. Ready?”

You nodded eagerly, your hands resting lightly on your belly as your eyes followed every motion he made. Clark placed the jar of pickles first, pressing it softly against your stomach and holding your gaze. The room seemed to hush, your heartbeats intertwining with his heightened hearing, the steady thrum of your daughter inside giving a rhythm to the moment. Three heartbeats quieted into a tiny, measured pause as his focus sharpened and attuned entirely to the life nestled within you. You could feel the warmth radiating through your skin, the faint pressure of the jar against your belly and the careful, reverent way Clark waited as if each second were both a promise and a prayer.

“What’s she saying?” he asked, eyes scanning your face with a mix of curiosity and awe.

“You’re asking me? I thought you were the professional,” you laughed, the sound light and airy, teasing him about being the ultimate baby whisperer.

Clark’s lips twitched into a small, serious smile. “Certified,” he assured, his tone mock-authoritative, before he carefully withdrew the pickle jar and reached for the fresh tomatoes, pressing them gently against the curve of your belly. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, his voice softer now, aimed more at your daughter than at you, a private little conversation between father and child.

You giggled, letting your hands rest lightly on your belly. “I think she wants both,” you murmured, feeling a subtle shift, a tiny little nudge that made your belly twitch in agreement.

Clark shook his head, a small chuckle escaping despite his concentration. “No, she doesn’t. Last time you tried tomatoes with mayonnaise and a glass of pickle juice, you threw up.”

You laughed harder, your belly wobbling slightly with each breath. “She’s feeling brave today,” you said amused by the little life inside you seeming to pick and choose.

“Well, her dad isn’t,” he muttered, opening the pickle jar with careful fingers and handing it to you. Then, lowering himself to kneel in front of you, he pressed his ear to your belly, though he didn’t need it because his senses were already perfectly attuned. “Sniff that…come on girl, talk to daddy,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent, you could practically see the concentration and awe mirrored in his eyes, the tiny connection between them pulling at his heart with every gentle nudge.

You did as he asked, lifting the jar to your nose and inhaling the sharp, briny scent. It wasn’t even a second later that a small but sure kick rippled across your stomach.

“There you go!” Clark exclaimed, his voice full of awe and eyes widening like he’d just witnessed the world’s greatest miracle. His palm flattened instantly against your skin, eager to catch the movement again, his grin stretching impossibly wider.

You couldn’t stop smiling, warmth bubbling up in your chest as you watched him lean closer, his gaze fixed on your belly like it was the most sacred thing in existence. His thumb brushed in slow, soothing circles right where you believed her head was, gentle and protective.

“Teamwork, baby Steel! That’s how it’s done,” he said proudly, his tone caught somewhere between a coach calling plays and a dad already bragging about his kid. He pressed a tender kiss to the exact spot she’d kicked before straightening up and leaning in to capture your lips with a softer one.

When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with mischief as he announced grandly, “Pickles with honey coming right up, ladies!” already heading toward the pantry like he was about to deliver a five-star meal instead of your questionable craving.

He swore his baby-whisperer abilities went far beyond the kitchen experiments with pickles and tomatoes. Especially at night, when you were half-asleep but restless, turning this way and that as your daughter refused to settle. Clark was always the first to notice, his sharp hearing picking up the change in your breathing and the faint frustrated sighs you let slip. He would quietly slide down in the sheets until his face was level with your belly, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone he only ever used when it was just the three of you.

“Hey, bud,” he whispered, his lips nearly brushing your skin.

Even though he’d used his x-ray vision countless times to watch her tiny form shift and kick, it still stunned him every single time. It never lost its magic. 

He always wished you could see what he saw…your daughter’s little fists flexing, her knees nudging out as if testing her limits and the undeniable spark of life that was half him, half you.

“Your mama’s trying to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured softly but with a firm edge, as though reasoning with a toddler instead of a fetus. “In a perfect world, you’d sleep at the same time. That’s called teamwork.” His brow furrowed when he felt her push again, wriggly and stubborn. 

“Don’t you dare kick her, young lady,” he whispered, giving your belly the same stern-but-gentle tone he reserved for Smallville calves that wandered into the wrong pasture.

There was a pause that made him grin as he felt her shift, the pressure easing. He stroked the curve of your belly with his thumb, murmuring low enough that you couldn’t quite make out every word.

“Thank you,” he said softly, like he was addressing a tiny diplomat. “See, that’s teamwork. Now, how about a little deal between you and me, huh?”

His hand spread wide against your stomach, thumb still moving in a soothing circle. “Your mama’s had a long day. I want to make her a nice steak dinner tomorrow night…medium-well, not her favorite but we’re still adapting. All I need from you is a little cooperation, just a few hours of letting her rest, no gymnastics and definitely no rib kicks.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Think you can do that for me?”

Another flutter, softer this time and he chuckled, shaking his head like he’d just been bargained with. “Tell you what. If you hold up your end of this treaty, I’ll hold up mine. Powdered donuts and cream filling with rainbow sprinkles…the good ones from that little shop in Chicago your mama loves.” His grin widened, boyish and fond as he kissed your skin. “We’ll fly there ourselves if we have to…well, just me. No flying for you until you’re like seventy-five. Just…let her sleep tonight, okay?”

Then, quieter still, almost reverently “I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

The baby seemed to quiet under his touch, her movements easing as if she’d actually considered her father’s bargain. Clark smiled to himself, the faintest swell of pride in his chest until he heard you stir.

Your voice was soft and groggy, laced with sleep but startlingly precise. “Mmmm Clark… I have donut hunger… please… precisely half of one drenched in cold milk… for some strange reason.”

He froze, blinking up at you in disbelief before his gaze flicked to your belly, then back to your sleepy face. Then back again to your belly, as if your daughter had somehow whispered the request to you herself. A grin tugged at his lips.

“Smart,” he murmured, eyes sparkling. “Asking for a security deposit.”

“What?” you mumbled while rubbing at your eyes, too drowsy to even process the words.

“Nothing, baby,” he said quickly, smoothing a hand over your hair before kissing your temple. “As long as it’s not pickle juice again, we’re good. I’ll go get that for you.”

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, his silent goodnight to your daughter and then another to your forehead, lingering there for a second like he couldn’t quite pull away. Then in a rush of air, he was gone.

He smiled the whole way there, his flight steady and light, because the thought of you waiting at home made even midnight trips across states feel easy. The owner of that little shop never asked questions anymore, just boxed up the powdered donuts with rainbow sprinkles, knowing someone very important to Superman loved them more than anything. 

By the time Clark touched down again, balancing half a donut and a tall glass of cold milk, the glow in his chest was impossible to hide. Being Superman had its duties but being a superdad-in-training and a baby whisperer on call was quickly becoming his favorite job of all.

The apartment was quiet except for the occasional soft coo or babble from the living room, the hum of the heater and the low murmur of the TV that Clark had put on for background noise. You were bundled on the couch in an absurdly large blanket, wrapped like a burrito against the chill and the lingering sniffles, your nose still stuffy from the congestion. Your daughter, freshly recovered and bouncing with energy, had taken her usual spot on the playmat, a rainbow of soft toys scattered around her like a tiny kingdom of plush and plastic.

The first couple of days on the couch had been normal enough. You sipped tea, read an actual book for the first time in weeks while occasionally sneezing and apologizing to Clark, who merely muttered something about keeping tissues within reach but today, the air felt… different. 

There was a subtle tension, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Your daughter, determined to keep herself entertained, grabbed her favorite little car toy and smacked it against the mat. Normally, it had a habit of lighting up when tapped but the battery had long since died. Clark, already familiar with her routines, had crouched near the drawer looking for a small pack of replacements.

“Almost got it, sweetheart.” he muttered, rifling through the boxes, eyes scanning for the right size. Your daughter's giggles punctuated the quiet room as she shook the car and tapped it again, a tiny drumbeat of expectation.

Expectantly so, you sneezed. It started as a tickle in your nose, a familiar prelude to what you assumed would be nothing more than a normal sneeze. You let it rip, the sound echoing against the walls and relaxed immediately afterward, expecting nothing.

Except the little car toy didn’t stay dark.

In perfect, synchronized timing, it burst into light. Red, blue, green and yellow streaks flickered along its plastic body, spinning in tiny patterns that made your daughter squeal with delight. She clapped her tiny hands, bouncing in excitement, eyes wide with a joy that made your chest ache.

Clark, mid-search, froze, hand halfway into the drawer. His eyebrows shot up. “Did…did you see that?”

You blinked, wrapped tighter in your blanket, nose twitching with the aftereffects of the sneeze. “I…what?” Your voice was hoarse, still thick with cold but the disbelief was plain.

Your daughter raised the toy toward you with a giggle, still fascinated by the now-illuminated car. Clark looked at you, expression unreadable for a split second, then a small, incredulous smile tugged at his lips. “You…you just made it light up, with a sneeze.”

You snorted into the blanket, covering your face, half laughing and groaning. “I doubt I even have the energy to make things happen accidentally. It’s…probably static electricity or–”

“Or that thing you do,” Clark supplied flatly, already beginning to look around the room with a mixture of curiosity and caution, as though the house itself might respond at any moment.

Your daughter, oblivious to the strange adult conversation, tapped the car again and it responded immediately, lights bouncing in an almost rhythmic pattern. Clark chuckled softly, shaking his head in awe.

For the first time, the quiet afternoon on the couch wasn’t quiet at all. The house seemed alive in the smallest, most unpredictable ways. 

Hours had passed since the first mysterious sneeze incident and the apartment was still humming with a quiet, expectant energy. Clark was in the kitchen, carefully stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup, the kind he always made when you were sick, rich with tender chicken, vegetables and golden broth that smelled like comfort itself. You were perched at the counter, wrapped snugly in your blanket like a fortress against the chill, while your daughter sat in her high chair, her tray scattered with tiny bites of carrot and peas, babbling happily.

Clark plated your meal and set it carefully on the counter. “Are you sure you don’t want to eat on the couch? You could just stay cozy…” His voice carried its usual gentle insistence but you shook your head, craving a little mobility.

“No, I need to get moving a little. Sitting still all day isn’t helping,” you said, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself.

He gave a small, approving smile, then returned to washing dishes at the sink. You picked up your spoon and started eating, the warmth of the soup curling up to your nose, the flavors grounding you in a little slice of normalcy before it happened again.

You sneezed.

The sound was sharp, abrupt, a sudden and explosive “AH-CHOO!” that echoed through the kitchen. At first, nothing seemed unusual and you exhaled, expecting the world to stay put but the water in the sink didn’t just splash. The faucet rattled violently, soap suds erupted like a miniature volcano and a torrent of water shot straight up, drenching Clark from chest to hairline. Plates teetered precariously on the dish rack, sliding slightly as the force of the spray jostled them.

Your daughter squealed from the high chair, pointing at him with a tiny, dirty hand. “Uh oh!” Her voice carried the mix of awe and delight only a one-year-old could manage and she leaned forward, babbling excitedly with wide eyes.

Clark froze mid-turn, chest soaked and hair plastered to his forehead, eyes locking on you with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. “I…you sneezed and–”

“I’m so sorry!” you cried, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to. I swear.” You clutched the blanket around yourself, part mortified while still laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

Clark shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I don’t know if this is magic, science or a parenting hazard.”

By the time the kitchen settled into some semblance of calm, you were still wrapped in blankets, Clark dripping and muttering to himself while your daughter babbled and pointed at the counter like it was the most entertaining show she had ever seen. 

Days later, you were finally feeling more like yourself again, walking at a leisurely pace along the quiet neighborhood sidewalk, wrapped in a light jacket instead of your fortress of blankets. Clark was multitasking like a superhero in disguise, he had one hand on the stroller, your daughter on his other arm and his eyes scanning the path ahead for cracks, squirrels or anything that might disrupt the calm.

Your daughter babbled happily, kicking her little legs in delight, occasionally reaching for Clark’s ear to play with. You felt your chest loosen, the sickness that had kept you cocooned on the couch a memory. For the first time in days, the three of you could enjoy something simple: a family walk at the park…and then, impossibly, your nose tickled.

It started subtly, as an innocent flutter and before you could even brace yourself, it erupted. 

“AH-CHOO!”

Clark reacted instinctively, ducking so fast it could have been choreographed. The stroller lurched slightly as he shifted his weight, your daughter letting out a surprised squeak in the process. Passersby slowed their steps, some glancing at him with eyebrows raised, muttering small “what the…?” under their breaths. One man paused mid-run, doing a double take as Clark crouched protectively over your daughter, looking simultaneously heroic and completely ridiculous.

You couldn’t help it. You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach as you watched him. “Clark! C’mon, it can’t be that bad outside.” you managed between giggles.

He straightened slowly, shooting you a look that was half exasperation, half amused. “It might be even worse, sweetheart. Too many variables.”

“Okay, Superman, get up. This is no Justice Gang level threat.” you teased, stepping closer, still laughing.

Clark sighed dramatically, letting out a long breath. “I feel like I’m auditioning for a spy movie or something.”

You shook your head, eyes sparkling. “You do look heroic, though. Totally like a… sneeze-deflecting dad.”

Laughter bubbled between you, until the world seemed quiet enough, convincing Clark to stand straight again. You both glanced around, expecting more of the sneeze-induced chaos.

“Is it over?” you asked cautiously, raising a hand to your nose in mock suspicion.

Almost comically on cue, a bright red rubber ball, flying from across the park, smacked Clark directly in the…well, balls. His knees buckled instantly and he crouched over, a strangled noise escaping his lips as the world tilted slightly. You squealed, startled but quickly reacted, taking your daughter from his arms to protect her from the chaos that may ensue.

Clark groaned, face twisted in a mixture of pain and disbelief. “Really!?” he wheezed.

Before you could apologize, a small voice shouted, “Ball!” and a kid came running down the sidewalk, sneakers squeaking against the pavement, hands outstretched. “I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to hit you!”

Clark, still crouched and wincing, lifted a trembling hand. “It’s…okay! Just…be careful next time, I’d like to keep these.” His voice was strained but the humor behind it wasn’t lost and you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling again, shaking your head and rolling your eyes at his comment.

You caught Clark’s eye, still crouched like a dramatic statue of pain, and whispered, “See? It’s over. So this can be a totally normal day out.”

He groaned but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Normal. Yeah. Totally normal,” he muttered, shooting you a pointed look that promised this wouldn’t be the last sneeze-induced adventure of the day. Then, after a pause, he added, voice low and dramatic: “We need to find a way to make you immune to sickness…for my wellbeing”

You frowned playfully. “I thought you were indestructible?”

Clark shrugged, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head. “I guess you make me soft… in the best of ways.”

Your daughter giggled between the two of you, her tiny hands waving excitedly as if she understood every word. The three of you continued walking, stroller steady and you couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculous, chaotic rhythm of your lives,  a rhythm punctuated quite literally, by sneezes, laughter and tiny explosions of unexpected magic.

Clark, Superman, stepped up to the microphone. The crowd hushed at once, a living wave of silence broken only by the insistent staccato of camera shutters. The sound reached his ears in sharp bursts but he kept his eyes closed, steadying his breath. For just a moment, he let himself go back to when this all began, when this press conference became the only way forward.

36 HOURS AGO

Clark carried the last of your boxes as though they weighed nothing, his long strides taking him straight into the guest bedroom of his apartment. You trailed behind with the lightest stack you could manage, ignoring his earlier offers to just let him do it.

“Are they still there?” you asked, a touch of dread in your voice. You hadn’t been back to your apartment since the media swarmed it.

Clark set the boxes down gently on the floor, not even winded. “Unfortunately, but your landlord said you’ll get your safety deposit back by the end of the week, so there's good news.”

You groaned theatrically and collapsed face-first on the bed. 

“I’vebeenthinkingaboutsomethingbutidontknowifit’sagoodplan,” you mumbled into the mattress.

Clark tilted his head, amused, hands resting on his hips like he was about to scold you. “What was that?”

You peeked up at him with one eye. “What’s your superhearing even good for if you can’t understand me like this?”

He grinned. “For hearing you sing in the shower when you think I’m not around. Now try again and articulate, please.”

With a sigh, you rolled upright, tucking your knees up as though to gather courage. “Fine. I’ve been thinking about something. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

Clark sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I’ve yet to hear a bad idea from you. Well, except for the time you wanted to become a nun after Joshua Mollet stood you up at that college gala.” His mouth pulled into a grimace, as though even the name soured his tongue.

You snorted, covering your face with your hands. “Clark, you’re literally the only person still mad about that.”

“He left you standing in the rain, in October, without a jacket,” Clark said, his voice suddenly low and sharp with protective heat. “You caught pneumonia. I thought you were gonna–” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “A week of me panicking over every sneeze and you still think I’m overreacting?”

You reached out, nudging his arm gently. “I survived, didn’t I? Thanks to you. Joshua Mollet is not the villain in our story, okay? Let him live his boring, jacket-having life.”

Clark muttered something under his breath about “paying for it one day” before pinching the bridge of his nose, collecting himself. “Fine. Fine. Joshua gets a pass for now. So, your idea?”

You scratched the back of your neck, nervous energy thrumming through your body. “I think Superman needs to go to the media.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“And with all due respect, I don’t mean the Daily Planet. I mean live television. A real broadcast, national, maybe international.” You leaned forward, your voice gaining speed and certainty as the thought unfurled. “You’ve been doing so much good, Clark but now people are watching too closely, speculating and building their own narratives. If you don’t set the tone for us, someone else will.”

Clark dropped down on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress dip. “No Daily Planet?” he asked, even though he already knew your answer.

“No Daily Planet,” you repeated firmly, arms crossed. “Clark Kent can only do so much. This has to be bigger. Not flashy, not a spectacle, just…undeniable. Something no one can twist. If you want, you can break it first in print…credit and byline and all that but the reveal itself? It has to be televised. We need to clear the air.”

He didn’t respond right away, letting the silence linger. Not because he was hesitating, he wasn’t, but because he was furious with himself, deep down, for putting you in this position at all. For dragging you into the storm when all he’d ever wanted was to keep you outside of it.

“A single speech,” you added, softer now. “And that’s it. One. But… I’d understand if you don’t want to–”

“You’re gonna have to media train me.”

Your head snapped up, surprise flickering across your face before you caught yourself. “I–yes, of course. That’s the plan.” You checked your watch quickly, needing the distraction. “But after work. You’re late already. Assuming you’re going to take public transport like a normal person.”

Clark huffed out a laugh through his nose and rose to his full height, towering over the box-strewn room. He crossed the space to where you sat, bending down just enough to press a feather-light kiss against the crown of your head. His voice dropped, warm and guilty. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

“Don’t be.” You tilted your face up to him, smiling softly. “This is probably going to be the highlight of my career and I’m glad it involves you.”

His chest ached at that and his hand moved almost without permission, brushing your cheek with his thumb, lingering there like it was a right. The way he looked at you in that moment said all the things he couldn’t risk saying out loud.

You cleared your throat, breaking the spell. “That sounded terrible. What I meant is… I’m glad I’m not going through it alone.”

“I know.” His hand dropped reluctantly, retreating before you could push him away or worse, gently remind him that you were best friends ...just best friends. “I should–uh, I should get to work.” He nodded once, almost to himself, before pointing vaguely toward the door. “Everything’s where it always is. If you need anything, just call instead of yelling up at me.”

You smiled. “Does it really always reach your ears? Like…can you hear everything all the time?”

“Uh.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting away as his pulse quickened. Just you. “No… well, yes. I don’t know why I said that.”

Your smile deepened, your expression all mischief. “Can you tell it’s me?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, the sound barely audible as he gave the smallest nod, eyes darting toward the window instead of at you.

You squinted at him. “Is it because I call you by your full government name?”

The corner of your mouth twitched before you winced theatrically. “Sorry, but it’s hilarious. Someone has to do it. Clark Joseph Kent…it’s comedy gold.”

“Yeah. Yup. That’s what it is, for sure…” he said quickly, too quickly. “Um, I–yeah, I’ll see you tonight?”

You nodded, though you kept watching him with that look, the one that always made him feel like you could see right through every layer of him, deeper than even his x-ray vision went. He did this strange, half-turn shuffle, spinning as if his body wanted to leave but his heart hadn’t quite given permission. Finally, he managed to reach the threshold, hovering there in indecision.

Your eyes narrowed. “Clark?” you called softly.

He froze, hand still braced on the doorframe. “Yes? Yeah?” His voice pitched higher and he didn’t dare step back inside, as though the closer he was to you, the more likely the truth might just tumble out.

“…Have you been keeping tabs on Joshua?” you asked.

His whole body stiffened. “What? Me? No!” The denial shot out like a gun misfiring, so quick and sharp it was practically suspicious. His voice climbed an octave in protest. “How would I even…yes.”

Your brows shot up. “Yes? How? Even I don’t know his socials anymore, or where he–” You stopped, pointing an accusing finger at him as realization hit. “Clark Joseph Kent. Have you been flying to spy on him?”

“I’m sooo late for work…” he blurted, words tumbling out in a rush as he scrambled for the front door. His voice cracked halfway between panic and embarrassment. “We–we’ll talk about this! …Hopefully never. I’ll see you tonight!”

The last thing you saw was Clark bolting out of view in a blur of awkward limbs and red cheeks and soon heard the latch of the front door clicking shut a little too forcefully behind him.

For a second, the apartment was silent, so still you could almost convince yourself none of that had just happened. And then it hit you.

The image of his face when he cracked under pressure, voice high, eyes wide and flustered beyond belief, tore through you like a wave. Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, spilling out of your chest until you had to clutch your ribs. You folded over on the bed, gasping between giggles, tears stinging your eyes as you replayed it again and again: Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter and alien savior of Earth… undone by the mere mention of Joshua Mollet.

Your best friend, was the most powerful man alive and still absolutely terrible at lying to you.

By midday, you’d already wrangled every string you had to organize the press conference, typing with the speed of someone fueled by adrenaline and coffee fumes. Clark had every detail forwarded to his inbox, time, place and wording, all that was left for him was drafting the polished Daily Planet piece that would go to print the next morning. 

Easy. Simple. Routine…Except Clark wasn’t writing.

He sat slouched at his desk, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, chin propped in his palm as he stared at the small polaroid framed neatly beside his computer. One of the two of you from college, laughing at something outside the shot, heads tipped toward each other, his arm draped around your shoulder like it belonged there. His thoughts circled endlessly but none of them had anything to do with press releases or headlines.

A sudden whrrrr of wheels yanked him out of it. Jimmy barreled backwards in his chair like a launched rocket, nearly clipping a reporter balancing two mugs of scalding coffee. Clark’s hand shot out without thinking, steadying Jimmy by the elbow before disaster struck.

“Yeah–got it! Had that under control,” Jimmy wheezed, cheeks pink. Then, tilting his head, he squinted at Clark. “How’re you doing, man? You look…” His voice trailed. “Well, I don’t know how you look. I lost the bet, so now I have to ask.”

Clark’s head turned slowly, just in time to catch Lois, Cat and Steve watching him. The second he made eye contact, they all ducked like schoolkids caught staring at the teacher. Clark exhaled through his nose, resigned. “Thanks for the honesty.”

“Of course.” Jimmy followed the line of Clark’s gaze, his eyes dropping to the polaroid just as Clark’s hand came down over it in one swift motion. 

“I’m great, Jimmy.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said, unconvinced. His voice softened, curiosity poking through. “So…college, huh?”

Clark’s jaw flexed slightly. Of course, with your name, address and phone number out in the open, your full educational history had splashed across headlines and forums in record time. The press hadn’t shown nearly as much interest in him—his life in Kansas was too quiet, too unremarkable but the fact that the two of you had been friends long before Superman ever appeared was still enough to make its way into the chatter. 

Rumors bloomed like weeds: stories about study sessions, late-night libraries and even a conveniently invented love triangle between you, Clark and the hero.

Jimmy, oblivious to the way Clark’s pulse picked up, pressed on. “Look, man…I know you already convinced Big Blue to give us something and everyone’s stoked but if you could get her to–”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Clark’s voice was quiet but the steel in it made Jimmy pause mid-word.

“One interview, Clark.” Jimmy leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Here, where it’s safe. She’s a pro, she knows the game. C’mon…if you could just–”

“I said no.” Clark’s answer was clipped, flat and sharp enough to slice.

Jimmy leaned back, eyebrows jumping. He hadn’t expected that kind of edge from the usually mild-mannered Clark Kent. For a beat, the hum of the newsroom filled the space between them, broken only by the clatter of keyboards and the faint rattle of the presses below.

Clark adjusted his glasses, turning back to his computer like the conversation was over and as far as he was concerned, it was.

“Oookay,” Jimmy muttered, screeching his chair forward until it bumped his desk. “That went terrible…as expected.” He threw a helpless glance at Cat, Steve and Lois before spinning back around.

Lois was the first to groan, head tilting back like she was asking the ceiling for divine intervention. “Do I have to do everything myself?” she muttered, already rising from her chair.

She strode over and stopped at the edge of Clark’s desk, arms crossed, tone flat and businesslike. “Will she be there?”

Clark didn’t look up, pen moving steadily across his notes, though the muscle in his jaw ticked.

Lois exhaled loudly. “Clark, I’m sure this is… complicated, both professionally and personally but you know what she does for a living. The public doesn’t just want Superman…they want her.” She leaned in a fraction. “Superman can’t hide behind a newspaper now. Whatever he has to say will matter more if you just–”

“He feels terrible about this,” Clark blurted, the words slipping out unpolished, unfiltered.

Lois faltered, caught off guard. “I–I’m sure he does, but–”

“And so do I.” Clark’s pen stilled. He forced himself to meet her eyes. “The plan here is to clear the air, not give them more to feed on. I know she’ll never say it–just like she never told me about that parking ticket she got with my car and how she worked through half the night during finals to pay it off–but she’s scared, Lois. And she hides behind work when she’s scared, that’s what she does. And it’s exactly where she’s going to stay because that’s where she’s safe.”

Lois’s sharpness softened, just slightly. “So you know where she is…”

Clark exhaled, already rising to his feet and snapping his briefcase shut. “I’ll finish this from home. Perry will understand. I’ll send the copy before the end of the day…and tell him he needs to be at the Square before eleven tomorrow. I won’t be there.”

“How are you so sure he’ll show?” Lois pressed, one brow arched, tone sharper than her folded arms.

Clark’s gaze didn’t waver. “Just be there.”

He was already striding toward the exit, briefcase in hand, when Lois called after him. “Clark.”

He paused mid-step, shoulders squaring, expression smoothing into that careful, unreadable mask he always wore when the conversation edged too close. Slowly, he turned.

“You’re a great friend,” she said quietly, almost reluctantly. “She’s lucky to have you.”

For the briefest moment, his composure cracked. His breath caught and the line of his jaw faltered. Lucky, Lois had said but the truth sat heavier in his chest. It wasn’t your luck but his, and more importantly, it wasn’t luck at all. It was choice. The way you’d kept choosing him in every small and unremarkable moment, in every dangerous one too. 

He swallowed, unable to answer without giving too much away. Instead, he turned on his heel and left, his heart pulling him forward, past the newsroom chatter, past the clatter of keyboards and ringing phones, past everything that blurred into noise.

Until all that remained in his mind was you, the only place the world ever seemed to quiet.

You had been unpacking boxes when a series of failed attempts at opening the door caught your attention, the keys missing the keyhole, a foot pushing fruitlessly against the frame and the desperate little thuds echoing down the hall. Instinctively, you reached into the nearest box for your spray-on deodorant and from the top of the dresser, grabbed a lighter. All but army-crawling to the end of the hallway where the door came into view, you positioned both items in your hands like some absurd defensive arsenal.

The door swung open and Clark stepped inside, carrying more than seemed humanly possible in his arms. You let out a long, defeated sigh, your body slackening.

“What?” he mumbled through a paper bag clamped between his teeth, closing the door behind him with his foot. Then he dropped everything on the counter with a practiced thud. “Didn’t think you’d be so…unhappy to see me.”

You snorted, lowering the spray and lighter. “It’s not that,” you said, then held them out to show him. “I got excited…thought I’d finally scratch it off the bucket list.”

Clark glanced down, ensuring nothing vital was in his grasp, then stepped toward you with a faint shrug, as if the invitation to proceed was written in the very air between you.

“Really?” You raised a brow.

“Yeah,” he nodded, voice calm, “Your heart’s racing over it and I’d rather you not end up in a cell because you–”

Before he could finish, you pressed the buttons on both items, a quick flare of fire dancing across your face. It lasted ten seconds, enough to crisp the collar of his shirt and top of his tie.

“Nice,” you said, satisfaction clear in your tone.

“Happy?” He patted the remaining embers off his slightly singed shoulders, like it was all part of the plan, completely unfazed by the faint curl of smoke drifting from his collar. 

“Super,” you smiled, then your gaze fell on the counter, eyes quickly catching something colorful. Flowers. “You got me flowers?”

“Yeah, I–” Clark started but the words faltered.

Your jaw dropped and you slapped a hand to your forehead. “Clark! I just tried to burn your pretty face off and you allowed it! What’s wrong with you?!”

Clark’s mouth opened, closed and he inhaled deeply, the faint smell of singed fabric curling into his nostrils. His eyes met yours and it was clear he had no verbal answer, because the moment you called him pretty, he short-circuited. Every single time.

You groaned, moving closer to inspect the flowers…well, the flowers, the pastries he’d somehow picked up from your favorite bakery and the neatly packaged lunch from that restaurant you visited together twice a week...before all of this happened. “I am…a comically terrible friend and you just deal with it.”

Clark blinked,“Y–you’re not,” then stammered, voice thick. “You’re…unarguably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” And while gesturing vaguely at his scorched collar added, “I–I…this tie was a terrible choice anyway.”

Your lips fell into that half-happy, half-sad frown that managed to break Clark’s heart in every way possible. Without a second thought, you b-lined to him, arms wrapping around his torso as tightly as you could manage, practically molding yourself against him. You squeezed, ignoring…well, trying to ignore, the faint, lingering scent of burnt fabric clinging to his collar.

“You’rethebestthingthat’severhappenedtometoo,” you mumbled, voice muffled against his chest.

Clark froze for the barest second, feeling the weight of your words settle over him like gravity he couldn’t escape and then, just as quickly, a warmth spread through him, the kind that makes everything else fade into insignificance.

You. Are. The. Best. Thing. That’s. Ever. Happened. To. Me. Too.

He could hear it, perfectly, as if the universe had handed him this one, unrepeatable gift. 

That’s exactly what his superhearing was for, not eavesdropping on the mundane or scanning the city for danger, but to catch this unarticulated confession from you.

Clark’s hands moved instinctively to your back, holding you a fraction closer just as his lips brushed the top of your head, pressing softly. 

While you arranged the flowers in a vase and unpacked the lunch and pastries, Clark ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he emerged, he looked impossibly composed in casual clothes but you could tell from the slight tension in his shoulders that something had happened at work.

 You didn’t press, some things were better left unspoken, especially when the other person could surely hear your thoughts if they tried hard enough. You also refrained from asking how many times over the years he’d kept tabs on Joshua Mollet, you suspected that story would unfold on its own, eventually, in some ridiculously perfect and quiet moment.

Lunch was easy, very much domestic and Clark didn’t bring up work once. You shared bites of pastries, exchanged glances over your glasses of water and made quiet jokes about the ridiculousness of his tie collection. The world outside seemed to pause, the chaos momentarily forgotten.

Afterwards, he perched on your bed, laptop balanced on his knees, finalizing details for the press conference, while you continued unpacking boxes, turning the guest bedroom into a space that felt like your own. By the time the last item found its place, you both moved to the living room.

You stood in front of the TV, pointer in hand and a triumphant grin on your face. On the screen, bold letters read: “Media Training for the Superpowered.”

Clark raised an eyebrow from his seated spot on the couch, tilting his head. “You made…a slideshow?”

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly. “I had some time to waste and I figured…why not? You know, visuals help.”

As you spoke, you caught him rising to his feet. He rifled through his briefcase, pulling out a pen and notepad, then returned to the couch and looked at you expectantly, poised and ready to take notes like the diligent student he always was.

You snorted, quickly covering a smile with your hand, feeling a warmth bloom deep in your chest that made your skin tingle all over. You cleared your throat, trying to sound professional, though your heart was betraying you.

“Welcome to Media Training 101,” you announced, pointer raised with mock authority and the corners of his mouth twitched, already hinting at the amusement and admiration he felt for you.

Clark settled back into the couch, eyes locked on you, pen poised, utterly captivated. You caught the slight tilt of his head, the soft exhale and the tiny spark of pride and affection in his gaze. 

You clicked the remote and the first slide appeared: “The Media Landscape: Superman Edition.”

“Okay,” you began, pacing a little in front of the TV, “Step one: understand that the press loves drama. They will exaggerate every thing you do to fit their narrative. Maybe the new head of MetroNews hates the superpowered, so on a random Wednesday ‘a bus flipped upside down’ no longer is ‘saving lives,’ and becomes ‘Superman’s reckless stunt of the week.’”

Clark frowned, pen hovering over his notepad. “Reckless? It’s clear I try to save people.”

“Yes but the headlines won’t care. They care about you, the symbol and symbols make for better stories than ordinary humans.” You tapped the pointer against the screen. “Which is why, Clark…you can never smile too little or too much. Too serious? Menace. Too cheerful? Threat to decorum. You get it?”

He leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms. “So, basically…there’s no winning?”

“Exactly,” you said, shrugging. “But there are workarounds. Smile strategically, speak clearly…keep sentences short and whatever you do, do not…do not under any circumstance…let them pin the ‘man in tights from outer space gets too friendly with human woman’ narrative on us.”

Clark tilted his head. “I…feel like that’s what the world already thinks.”

“Then we’ll beat them to it.” You clicked forward. The next slide read: “Interviews: Do’s and Don’ts.” You read aloud: “Do stay calm. Do sound confident. Do answer the question asked but don’t overexplain. Don’t get cute. Don’t–”

“Don’t what?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Don’t try to be charming,” you said sharply, eyes narrowing playfully. “Seriously, Clark, charm can get you into trouble. Remember, ‘I fell from the sky, I’m an alien’? That wasn’t the smoothest confession I’ve ever heard.”

Clark’s ears turned slightly pink. “I…still don’t know why that came out like that.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, pointing the remote at him, “if that’s your idea of subtlety, we’re going to have to rehearse every word, tone and smile you give tomorrow.”

He pretended to groan, dramatically flopping back against the couch. “You’re terrifying when you do your professional work mode.”

“I’m your professional work mode,” you replied with a grin. “I have a masters in saying what people don’t want to hear in a way that sticks and right now, that’s you.”

You clicked again and slide three appeared: “Handling Live Questions: The Trap Zone.”

“You’re sure to get questions you didn’t see coming. Your job is to answer them, only if you want to but subtly redirect. Do not volunteer anything that could make headlines about me. Got it?”

Clark scribbled a note, pen moving faster than you expected. “You mean…protecting you without me saying it outright?”

“Yes,” you said, arms crossed. “Keep it short and ideally uninteresting…if you fail, the next headline will read something like: ‘Metropolis’ hero has a hidden agenda.’”

He glanced at you, mock-offended. “That sounds…tragic.”

You laughed, walking closer to the couch and leaning on the armrest. “It will be but if you somehow survive it, then congratulations, you’ve passed Media Training 101. I’ll even give you a gold star sticker.”

Clark smiled softly, eyes warm, pen paused mid-note. “You really do make this sound…fun.”

“Fun?” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Clark, it’s terrifying but I promise, if anyone can survive the media circus and make it out alive, it’s you…with my help, of course”

His gaze softened and for a beat the chaos of the outside world didn’t exist. Just you, him and the ridiculous, impossible, completely necessary job of training Superman to speak without breaking the world…or himself.

Silence stretched in the room, thick and almost tangible. You noticed how his eyes kept flicking from you to the TV, tracing the slides you’d painstakingly prepared. He cleared his throat, then spoke quietly like his next words could break the illusion of belonging.

“Do you…do you think that narrative fits? The…‘man in tights from outer space who got too friendly with a human woman’?”

“No,” you cut sharply, tone slicing through the air. “Don’t even think about it. You were and are still right about keeping both lives separate. I think that way now and I did too in college…and yes, we got friendly because we both let it happen not because you’re some…extraterrestrial mastermind. We don’t need to justify that to the world. Just go up there, tell them gently that it’s none of their business…and come home to me.”

Your last words lingered in the room, echoing in his mind like a lifeline. Clark’s gaze snapped up to meet yours. His breath caught, full lungs struggling to release the tension. Come home to me. The memory of your voice, calm yet commanding, wrapped around him like armor.

Just…Come. Home. To. Me.

PRESENT DAY | METROPOLIS SQUARE – PRESS CONFERENCE

Clark opened his eyes to the glaring reality of the moment, even after wishing that a walk down memory lane would pull him away. He was standing exposed, a solitary figure framed against the endless cameras, microphones and live broadcasts. The murmur of the crowd was a constant undercurrent, punctuated by flashes of light even in the daylight, the click-click of shutters and the hum of helicopters circling overhead. Millions of eyes were on him, hungry, dissecting and just like you had said, waiting for any misstep and yet, despite the chaos, he wouldn’t let them get to you.

Even in the roar of the press and the glare of cameras, he felt a strange clarity. This was the line he wouldn’t cross. This was the moment to assert control without losing himself, without letting the world drag you further into the fray. He straightened, shoulders squared, heart steadying under the weight of responsibility and something far more personal.

Your heart raced as if you’d just run a marathon, though you hadn’t moved more than a few feet in the last hour. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, clutching a half-empty bowl of popcorn like it was a life preserver. Not because you expected this to be theatrically comical, it wasn’t, but because your hands needed something to do, anything, or else you were going to wear a groove into Clark’s floor from pacing.

The TV glared back at you, broadcasting him in crisp, high-definition, every angle of him scrutinized under merciless cameras. Superman, to the world but Clark, to you. The disconnect made your chest ache.

Popcorn crunched between your teeth, too loud in your ears and you found yourself whispering like he could hear you from across the city. “Don’t forget what we practiced. Short sentences, breathe. Don’t…smile too much.”

Your eyes didn’t leave the screen. Because you knew, every word, glance or pause from him out there in Metropolis Square…was tethered back here, to your living room, to the ridiculous slideshow and the promise echoing louder than the crowd. Come home to me.

The square had gone silent the second he stepped up to the podium, the weight of a million eyes pressing down on him like gravity itself. The cameras clicked in rapid-fire bursts, flashes scattering against glass towers and steel even when the sun was bright. He wasn’t Clark Kent here, no glasses or slouched shoulders to soften the frame. He was Superman and there was no daylight anonymity to shield him.

In the front row, Lois, Perry and Jimmy sat shoulder to shoulder, their pens ready, faces set with the mix of awe and impatience only seasoned reporters could muster. He couldn’t look at them, couldn’t risk a single flicker of familiarity. Here, Clark Kent didn’t exist, not under the sun or in front of the world.

He leaned toward the microphone, cleared his throat and the speakers screamed with a sharp, high-pitched feedback that cut through the hush. The entire crowd flinched. His ears warmed while the faintest flush creeped up his neck and for a second it was almost funny: all the powers in the world, and he still couldn’t manage a microphone.

On the couch, you let out a laugh. Small, involuntary, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere between nerves and affection. His ears immediately caught it, even over the restless shuffling of the crowd and suddenly, the pressure in his chest eased. His jaw unclenched and his lungs filled properly again because you were there, close enough, steadying him without even trying.

He gripped the podium, gaze sweeping the sea of expectant faces and when he finally spoke, his voice was steady, low but clear, carrying past the cameras and into every living room tuned in.

“For weeks now,” he began, his voice carrying steady and resonant across the square, “the world has been focused on the wrong things.” He let the silence that followed stretch, watching the crowd lean closer. “On speculation, rumor…On who I am when I’m not wearing this symbol.”

From your couch, you adjusted the popcorn bowl on your lap, muttering, Here we go…

Superman’s gaze lifted, not to anyone in the front row, not Lois, Perry or Jimmy but somewhere beyond, higher, almost like it could find you. “But the truth is simple. Everything I’ve done, every life saved, every time I’ve stood tall instead of falling…isn’t because of who I am. It’s because of someone who believed in me before the world ever knew this name.”

You froze, mouth full of popcorn. “Clark, no.” You spoke it aloud, straight at the television, knowing full well he could hear.

Onstage, his jaw tensed but he pressed on. “She’ll tell you not to print that…she’ll say I’m giving her too much credit but the truth is, without her, there is no Superman.”

You flung a kernel at the screen. “Stop it! You’re going to start something you can’t walk back.”

He heard it, the quiet urgency only for him and for the barest fraction of a second, his lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. Then the Superman mask returned, steady and solemn as the cameras zoomed in.

“Some stories aren’t for the headlines,” he finished, his voice softening just enough to make the microphones lean forward. “They’re just…for me.”

The crowd erupted into murmurs, pens scratching furiously and on your couch, you sat frozen, popcorn bowl sliding onto the cushion, pulse racing because you knew he’d just rewritten the narrative entirely.

The murmurs rolled across the square like a wave, a hundred voices speculating while pens scratched and cameras flashed bright against the midday sun. Superman waited, stone still, until the noise dimmed. Then his voice rang out again, measured but edged with something heavier.

“In the last week,” he said, “I’ve seen how quickly the media can strip a life down to pieces of paper. How privacy becomes a headline and how dignity morphs into entertainment.” His gaze swept over the sea of microphones, the cameras stacked like towers, faces craning forward to catch every syllable. “She never asked for any of this. She didn’t volunteer to become a story.”

On the couch, you leaned forward, arms wrapped tight around your knees, whispering at the screen, “Clark, don’t–don’t do this for me.”

But he kept going. His shoulders squared, eyes lifted above the mob to some invisible horizon. “She didn’t need to know who I was to believe in the cause. Long before the world had Superman, she believed in the work…she believed in the man trying to do right and I think the world owes her as much.”

Your throat tightened, a mix of panic and something that felt dangerously close to tears. You pressed your palms over your face and groaned into them. “You’re insane. You can’t just…say things like that on live TV.”

And yet, when you peeked back through your fingers, the sight of him, the way he stood so unshakable, so certain, made your chest ache with a warmth you couldn’t shove down.

The square erupted again, questions shouted in voices colliding into one deafening roar but Clark didn’t flinch. He just let them clamor, his expression unreadable, words lingering heavier than the chaos that followed.

The shouts grew sharper, overlapping like crashing waves. “Who is she?” “Is she your partner?” “How long have you known her?” Flashes burst like fireworks, drowning out every syllable until the square was a riot of voices clawing for an answer.

Then, suddenly, a hand appeared on the podium. The mayor of Metropolis, dignified in his dark suit and jaw set in firm resolve, stepped up beside Superman. His voice boomed into the microphone with practiced authority.

“That’s enough.”

The noise broke, fragmented into uneasy murmurs. Cameras tilted just as reporters leaned forward, their pens frozen in midair once again.

“He’s agreed to this press conference in good faith,” the mayor continued, glancing briefly at Clark before addressing the crowd. “But he will only take one question. One.” He let the word echo, firm as a gavel. “And it goes to the Daily Planet.”

A ripple of frustration moved through the press line, but already Perry White was on his feet. Lois stood beside him, notebook in hand and Jimmy’s camera was already raised. Clark’s chest tightened at the sight…his world on both sides of the glass.

“Daily Planet,” the mayor confirmed. “The floor is yours.”

The square stilled again, every lens and every ear tilting toward the one paper that had always, somehow, been closest to him.

A beat of silence passed, the air thick with expectation, before Lois stepped forward. Her notepad was tucked under one arm, her other hand resting lightly on the microphone stand. Even from a distance, Clark could sense her sharp focus which was exactly why he feared her like this.

Lois’s prepared with the precision of someone who had faced impossible stories before but her eyes locked on him with something sharper, almost pleading. 

“Superman,” she began, her voice carrying across the square and into every camera feed, “the world has watched you save lives, stop disasters and show us what hope looks like but today, you’ve called this press conference. Can you tell us why? Is this about choosing one life over another? Choosing yourself over the world, or…her over the mission?”

Your eyes widened at the TV. “Clark, don’t you dare answer.”

His mouth opened, then closed, the weight of the crowd pressing on him. Your voice interrupted his train of thought and he froze for a fraction too long.

“I know you can hear me, Kent–” you added threateningly, voice threaded through his mind like a tether.

Clark cleared his throat, a weak attempt to drown out your words. It didn’t work…he felt you too deep, all the way to the marrow of his bones. He swallowed, letting the words come unpolished but sincere, each syllable carrying the strain of a man still learning how to balance the world and the person who mattered most.

“You’re speaking of sacrifice,” he said, voice weighted with raw honesty. The microphone caught the slight hitch. “When I owe a debt I could never pay–”

“You don’t owe me anything but you will if you don’t stop speaking!” you shouted at the TV, clearly panicked, knowing him well enough to see the vulnerable space he was exposing.

“Yet it requires efforts I’m willing to make,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. “Thank you.”

Even as the crowd buzzed and the cameras whirred, all he could focus on was you, the voice only he could hear from the person who had always been the reason he tried, the reason he stayed centered and the reason he could stand in front of millions and still speak truth.

Before the moment could settle, the mayor appeared beside him, adjusting his lapel and leaning into the microphone with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, Superman,” he said, voice booming across the square, “it sounds like you’re speaking of someone…more than special. Can we just clarify for the public…she’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?” 

Clark’s mouth parted, then stammered. “That’s–that’s not what I said–” 

The mayor beamed as the crowd erupted, phones raised, cameras flashing and live feeds exploding with speculation. 

“You heard it here first, folks! Superman has a girlfriend!” he shouted, waving his hand like a game-show host. 

Clark’s jaw tightened, the roar of the crowd around him barely registering over the sudden, vivid memory of you at home, sitting in front of the TV surely wide-eyed and jaw slack, trying not to hyperventilate. He could hear your heartbeat, loud and certain in his ears and all the noise of the square, the city…the entire world, seemed to fade into the background.

It was clear the media had already chosen its angle, long before Clark touched down in the square and all of it, the frenzy, the spectacle, was being fed by the mayor. His presence here wasn’t about civic duty, it was about capital. Publicity, tourism, re-election campaigns…whatever the motive, the man had won before the first question was even asked.

The mayor’s grin gleamed too wide under the cameras and over the rising noise he mouthed, “The City of Metropolis thanks you for your service.”

Clark stepped closer, his shadow falling sharp against the podium. For the first time, the mayor faltered, his grin staggering into something nervous as he instinctively took a step back but before Clark could say a word, before he could let his anger sharpen into something reckless, he heard your breath catching like a stutter in his ears and that was enough.

He straightened, took a deep breath then launched upward. The sound of the crowd warped into static as the colors of his suit blurred into the sky, red and blue streaking against the clouds. The higher he climbed, the softer the city became…yet your heartbeat didn’t fade. It pressed against his skull, a relentless reminder, thundering louder than any cheer, chant or question below.

Home. That was where every fiber in him wanted to be but the thought of landing at your side now, of meeting your eyes after what had just unfolded felt impossible.

Because what he felt wasn’t just anger but fear. Fear that he’d let you down, that his words had betrayed you, that his devotion, undeniable and uncontainable, had just been laid bare before the world, when it had always been meant for you alone.

For one irrational moment, he wanted to outrun time itself, to force the Earth to spin backward, to undo it all but even he wasn’t fast enough and by the time his thoughts settled into clarity, duty was already waiting at the Daily Planet. The weight of both of his lives pressed down on him heavier than the sky.

His steps felt heavier than they should have, as if the sidewalk itself were trying to hold him back, every footfall dragging against concrete that wanted him to turn around and fly in the opposite direction. His briefcase handle dug into his palm, his grip so tight it ached, while his other hand remained locked around his phone, pressed to his ear like a lifeline. He had already called you four times, each attempt ringing out into emptiness, every unanswered tone widening the gulf between you and him until it seemed impossible he’d ever reach you again.

The instant he crossed the threshold of the Planet, he felt the heat of dozens of eyes snapping onto him, coworkers leaning half over their desks, voices ready with questions they thought they had a right to ask but none of it registered, not really. All he heard was the sharp, merciless ring of a call you wouldn’t answer, so loud in his ear it swallowed everything else whole. He pushed through, past them, the phone still pressed tight against him while his chest constricted with the existence of your silence.

When the elevator doors slid open, the sound wasn’t a relief but a mockery. The air inside the box was too thin, his reflection in the brushed metal walls too sharp, his thoughts rattling louder with every floor that ticked by. He listened again:

‘The person you’re trying to reach is…’ and his thumb was already stabbing the call button before the recorded voice could finish.

The moment he stepped out, Perry was there like a wall and Lois at his shoulder, their words already clawing at him.

“There you are!” Perry barked, waving a paper in his hand. “I assumed you went to find him–”

“Clark,” Lois cut in, sharp and insistent, “if there’s any way you could get him to talk again, to you, for tomorrow’s exclusive… the–the way he left things…we need more.”

“Yes,” Perry agreed, pacing at his side, almost blocking his path. “Whatever you did to get him to open up, you do it again.”

Their questions chased him, snapping at his heels but Clark barely heard them, his eyes locked on the glowing screen of his phone as he plowed forward until finally, mercifully, he reached his desk. He dropped his briefcase with a muted thud, the sound drowned beneath the frantic staccato in his chest. His phone remained in one hand, clutched too tight, while the other reached for the desk phone with a force that rattled the receiver against its cradle. His fingers slammed at the buttons, dialing his apartment’s line with all the urgency of a man launching missiles in a war room, desperate to stop something catastrophic before it could land but then…nothing. Only the hollow, endless static of a dead line.

So there he stood, with two phones pressed to his ears at once, his body taut as steel, every muscle straining as though waiting for the voice of command in a crisis but this wasn’t the world about to end…it was you and whatever you both shared and the mere possibility of it was somehow worse.

Clark hung up, the silence of the dead line still ringing in his ears and all but collapsed into his chair. His shoulders sagged under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying, his hands dragging down his face before falling to the desk.

A white mug slid into his line of sight. It was Jimmy. “So you introduced them?” he asked, casual as always, though his grin was edged with curiosity. “I thought you had a crush on her.”

Clark blinked, his throat tight. “I–yeah…no, look, it just happened.” The words came out low, nearly lost in the roar of keyboards, telephones and distant conversations. The newsroom felt like it was closing in, his desk shrinking smaller as more bodies edged closer, colleagues orbiting him as though he were the center of some story they had yet to write.

Jimmy gave a low whistle, shaking his head as if narrating his own headline. “Man, if my most precious contact turned out to be dating my best friend…the one I’ve been in love with since college–I’d freak out.” He sighed, sipping his own coffee.

Clark’s chair scraped the floor as he sat straighter, his jaw snapping tight. “They’re not dating!”

His voice cracked like thunder across the newsroom, sharp enough to slice through the noise. Every head turned, phones paused mid-dial and conversations cut short, even the hum of typing stalled.

Lois leaned closer across his desk, her eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a scalpel. “They’re not?”

Perry pulled his cigar from his mouth, squinting at Clark as though he could see the truth written across his face. “Are you sure?”

Steve half-jumped from his chair, stabbing a finger toward the television mounted just above Clark’s desk. “He just said–”

“What!?” Jimmy yelped, flailing an arm so wildly he nearly sloshed coffee down his shirt.

Cat leaned against the closest wall, her earrings swinging as she tilted her head. “How come he–?”

Clark exhaled hard, forcing his lungs to slow, forcing his pulse to stop rattling like a caged animal. He raised a hand, palm out, the gesture more an apology than command. His voice dropped lower, steadier, his tone shedding all traces of panic until only the professional veneer of a reporter remained.

“No,” he said again, quieter, firmer. “They’re not dating.”

The words hovered in the silence that followed, brittle as glass, before the pressroom roared back to life, only now, the chaos was colored with suspicion, curiosity and a dozen unasked questions that would not go away.

“Explain yourself?” Perry pressed, his cigar bobbing as he leaned over Clark’s desk.

Clark sighed, his shoulders heavy. He looked at Perry with a pleading expression, one the editor-in-chief had likely never seen directed at him before. It was a look that said, You’re the last person to deserve an explanation right now, but Perry was still his boss. Still waiting.

“Well–He…” Clark stammered, but then his head tilted ever so slightly, catching a rhythm against the noise of the bullpen. A staccato he knew by heart.

And like a man rising for the last act of a play, Clark pushed to his feet. The room quieted, conversations falling away into curious murmurs as the door opened and you stepped inside. Every head turned but you only searched for one. It didn’t take long, Clark stood taller than most even when he tried to make himself small. His presence was magnetic, pulling your eyes across the room.

You crossed the floor toward him and he swore he felt your name slip unbidden from his lips. “You–you didn’t answer your phone. I tried to call you.” 

You could hear the devastation in his tone.

“Remember the times you suggested I get a speaker for the shower instead of bringing my phone in?” you asked. Clark nodded, brow furrowed, watching your hand dive into your bag. You pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with rice, your phone floating like some strange experiment. “You can say ‘I told you so.’ I’ll live.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, soft and startled. “Maybe later…I–” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping so low it barely carried. “I called the apartment. You didn’t pick up.”

Your brows lifted, incredulous. “You mean the landline you never connected?”

Clark blinked. “It’s–it’s not connected?” he stammered.

“No!” you chuckled, shaking your head.

A polite cough cut through the warmth between you.

 “I’m sorry to interrupt this very sweet moment,” Lois said, stepping forward, sharp-eyed as ever. “I’m Lois Lane.”

You gave her a small nod. “Yup. Saw you on TV…loved your outfit.” Then your gaze flicked back to Clark and you smiled faintly. “Do you guys mind if I steal Clark for a minute?”

“Uh, we’d actually love to interview you for tomorrow’s segment–” Perry started, ever the opportunist but your eyes never left Clark’s. In that gaze, his steady and unflinching focus, you found something unspoken. Trust. That you could walk into this lion’s den and he’d be right there.

“I actually just came to give this to Clark,” you said, pulling a neatly bound stack of documents from your bag and handing it to him.

Clark’s fingers brushed yours as he took them, his brow furrowing as he flipped through. His suspicions laid bare in black and white, the mayor inflating profits while lining his pockets, turning Superman into a tourist attraction and a spectacle to sell the city.

The bullpen held its breath the way a theater hushes before the next act, the fluorescent lights hummed while keyboards clicked in a staccato undercurrent and the smell of too-strong coffee threaded the air like a dare. For a moment everyone watched, waiting for the next headline to be born but Clark didn’t look at any of them, he looked at you. The stack of papers felt heavier in his hands than its weight in ink, not just evidence but the shape of a choice, the outline of a story that could topple a man who’d already turned a scandal into a revenue stream. The newsroom’s noise pressed against that group silence like waves against a fragile shore and for once the sound could not reach him.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, as if the words themselves might make the pages combust.

You rolled your eyes with a wry little smile that belied how steady you felt inside. “The internet…you know, that cursed thing you still pretend doesn’t exist? Oh and by the way, your printer’s out of ink…and paper.” 

You stuck out your tongue and Clark’s nervous half–smile flickered and disappeared under the weight of the moment.

Lois, who’d been hovering with the impatience of a predator, pushed forward and tilted the dossier toward herself. Her nails tapped the top sheet once before she began skimming, her jaw tightened in the way that meant the angle was interesting. 

“What is this, exactly?” she asked without looking up, already thinking in headlines and leads.

You met her eyes evenly, hands folded at your waist. “About the mayor padding his pockets off of our city’s mess while turning Superman into a sideshow and selling the spectacle. It’s scraps…message-board rumors, odd filings, a few receipts someone left in a public folder, but it’s enough to point the way. You’ll have to debunk, verify, thread the needle if you want a solid piece for tomorrow, because I’m not going on record.” You turned to Clark, your voice sharpening into something brittle and certain. “And neither is Superman.”

Heat traced the line of Clark’s spine. The room seemed to tilt infinitesimally as Lois set the file down with decisive calm and Perry’s editorial brain clicked into gear, he already had the look of a man who’d smelled blood and was lining up the hunt.

“Cat, Steve, pull the city archives. See what this mayor’s been doing for the last ten years,” Perry said, voice clipped and efficient, each name a command that sent people scattering to the task. “Jimmy, wipe your white boards clean, start mapping donors and shell companies. Lois, comb through everything in the first hour; find me a smoking gun or at least a paper trail long enough to drag him out into the light.”

Perry’s hands, stubby and insistent, moved as he spoke, pointing, pacing and folding the room into action. 

Lois blinked once, then fixed him with that look that always meant she wanted more than the headline. “What will you do?” she asked.

Perry’s answer was quiet but absolute. “Make sure he doesn’t find out we’re coming for him. We’ll set up in the conference room upstairs… work out of earshot. Keep this tight, no loose lips and keep her inside this building.” His gaze landed on you for a beat, intentionally, then on Clark. “Clark, take that minute…” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “I want to know everything you can get about the guy in the sky.”

Everyone scattered like chess pieces at the bark of Perry’s orders, the bullpen breaking into purposeful chaos, papers lifted, phones dialed and chairs dragged across linoleum in a hurried symphony. Clark didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He gathered his briefcase, the notepad he hadn’t even realized he was gripping and then, with a hand firm but not ungentle at the small of your back, guided you toward the elevator. It wasn’t a walk, it was a steady retreat, an escape from too many prying eyes, too many ears waiting for the slip of a word.

“Hey, I walked here just fine on my own–” you began, protesting as he quickened your steps. He didn’t look back. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on the glowing elevator doors like they were the only way out of a storm.

The second the doors slid closed behind you and he pressed the button for the upper floor, you leaned forward and smacked the bright red emergency stop. The elevator shuddered and halted.

“You are in so much trouble, young man,” you hissed through your teeth, jabbing a finger at him like a sword.

Clark blinked, startled by the sudden sharpness in your voice and instinctively tried for humor. “I’m older than you–”

“Do you need to get your hearing checked? Because it’s starting to worry me,” you cut him off, stepping forward. He, of course, stepped back, the wall creeping up behind him until the distance between you was a matter of breaths.

“What do you mean?” he asked but his lips betrayed him, the corners twitching with the faintest, nervous curve.

“What do I mean?” you echoed incredulously, stabbing a finger into the hard plane of his chest. “Clark Kent, I know you heard me tell you not to say quite a few things you ended up spilling like an overeager intern on his first day.”

Clark raised his arms in surrender, palms out, his heart rattling against his ribs louder than any crowd. “You told me to be honest!” he blurted, as though the defense would absolve him.

“I told you to be careful!” you shot back, eyes flashing. The close walls of the elevator made your voice sharper, echoing in his ears with nowhere to hide. “And since when do you owe me, huh? This?” Your hands gestured between the two of you, a line in the air, fragile but unbreakable. “This has never been, and will never be, some kind of business proposition. Get that through your thick head.”

Your words landed harder than your finger jabs and for once, Clark looked less like the man who carried the world on his shoulders and more like the boy who never wanted to let down the person standing in front of him.

You sighed, looking away from him for half a second before smoothing your hands over the lines of his suit and tie, as if your jabs at his chest had somehow disturbed the impossible neatness that made him who he was. “You…thank you, for what you said out there,” you whispered. “You did really good, even if you completely failed Media Training 101, which was…expected. I was never a great teacher anyway.”

His reply came just as soft, low enough that the words almost vibrated more than they sounded. “Don’t say that…you did great. I’m just stubborn, even I wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

You pressed your lips into a thin smile, careful but trembling. “You looked very handsome–” The words slipped before you could stop them. You stumbled to catch yourself. “I–um, I mean visually. On TV. The…uh…the livestream on my laptop looked really good too. They have great cameras and uh…whatever–” You stabbed the emergency stop button again, once, then twice, as though the elevator itself might swallow you whole if you didn’t hit it hard enough.

Clark leaned in then, tall enough that the air shifted between you. You couldn’t look up. Your eyes found the expanse of his chest instead, the place you knew would always feel safest. He pressed the button once, slowly and the elevator groaned back into motion. “The buttons get stuck sometimes,” he said gently.

You nodded, humming the smallest sound, retreating a step like distance could trick your heart into slowing down but it didn’t. You stood at opposite ends of the elevator, the silence swelling between you, so dense it pressed against your lungs. You looked at him, this man giving you the credit for his strength when all you had ever done was stay, selfishly, because from the first time you’d spoken to him you knew there would never be such a thing as leaving.

Your lips parted, something almost-words trembling on your tongue but then the elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened, slicing through the fragile stillness, offering you an exit you didn’t want. Because how much higher could life take you?

Clark’s hand caught the door, holding it back with a patience that burned. His eyes stayed on you. “You first,” he said softly.

And there he was, the man who knew everything about heights, reminding you that whatever that moment between you had been, this was your stop for now.

You both stepped out of the elevator, the air between you still charged, only to find Jimmy halfway up the stairs, arms full with three whiteboards teetering dangerously in his grip. His face was red, his collar crooked and every step looked like a negotiation with gravity.

When he spotted you and Clark stepping calmly out of the elevator, his jaw practically hit the banister. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he wheezed, shifting the boards before one could slide off. “I thought it was out of service!”

Clark blinked, his mouth twitching like he was fighting not to smile. “It–It…was.”

You leaned just enough against the doorframe to make your amusement obvious. “I’m told the buttons get stuck sometimes.”

Jimmy groaned dramatically, thumping the side of his head against one of the boards. “You could’ve mentioned that before I volunteered as tribute.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened. I would know…it was five minutes ago” you teased.

“Okay, fine, I was assigned,” Jimmy admitted, nearly losing his balance on the last step. “Same difference.”

Clark finally allowed himself a quiet chuckle, stepping forward to lift two of the boards from Jimmy’s arms as if they weighed nothing at all. You caught the glance Jimmy threw you then, half-exasperated, half-relieved and you couldn’t help but think the elevator wasn’t the only place secrets had to be held close.

Once you settled into the conference room, it didn’t take long for the rest of Clark’s colleagues to arrive, their presence immediately filling the space with the low hum of focus. Papers shuffled, keyboards clicked, pens scratched across notepads and soon everyone was nose-deep in the case, following lead after lead, chasing the threads that might unravel the mayor’s carefully constructed narrative. Hours passed in a blur so you barely noticed time slipping by, your attention absorbed by the meticulous work of untangling the story before it could spiral further.

You didn’t leave the building, not that you could have risked it. No one had seen you enter and the slightest sighting of you leaving could draw the city’s spotlight back onto you, undermining everything they were quietly trying to protect. Clark, of course, made sure you were comfortable: a warm mug of coffee appeared when your hands got cold, snacks were thoughtfully placed within reach and he occasionally adjusted the chair or offered a jacket when he saw you shiver, each gesture quiet, careful and entirely unspoken in meaning.

Before you knew it, darkness had settled outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The hum of the newsroom gradually faded into the distance, replaced by the soft rhythmic breathing of those who’d given themselves over to exhaustion. You felt the pull of sleep, a calm, much-needed reprieve from the relentless pace and let yourself drift into it.

You didn’t wake, even as the sensation of warmth envelopped your shoulders. Clark stood beside you, draping his suit jacket over you gently, the faint scent of him, a mix of soap, fabric and something indefinably home, wrapped you in a sense of safety that had nothing to do with the power he held.

“I have one question,” Jimmy’s voice piped up from his chair, cutting through the quiet like a feathered dart. He pointed at your sleeping form with a pen, eyes almost gleeful. “Didn’t we technically kidnap Superman’s…whatever? I mean, is no one concerned about him showing up and seeking some kind of vengeance?”

Clark glanced at him with a raised brow, expression carefully neutral but his lips still twitched with restrained amusement.

Jimmy shrugged, spinning slightly in his chair to face the rest of the team. “Unless…that’s the plan.”

It wasn’t until hours into the night that everyone began drifting out, the room slowly emptying until only the quiet hum of the city remained outside the windows. Clark, of course, volunteered to clean up, not out of necessity but so he could fly you home without waking you, carrying you through the night sky like a secret kept between the two of you. He marveled quietly at the trust you placed in him, the ease with which you surrendered to sleep in his arms, snuggling closer without a stir. What have I done to deserve this? he wondered, heart tightening in a way only you could provoke.

Once he got you home, he carefully set you in his bed, enveloping you in the subtle scent that seemed to have a gravity all its own with something so uniquely him that seeped into the very edges of your subconscious. Even awake, you sometimes wondered what it was about him, what small alchemy rewired your sense of safety so thoroughly that you could exist in it without question.

Hours later, you woke with that sudden disoriented feeling of having slept through something important, eyes blinking open to the soft light spilling into Clark’s bedroom. Familiar fragments of your shared past lined the shelves, mingling with echoes of his childhood…a framed photograph here, a tiny model rocket there. You rose slowly, letting the warmth of the light guide you toward the living room, where you found him crouched behind the TV, fidgeting with cords.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, still half-lost in a dream-soft haze.

Clark rose quickly, hitting his head on the corner of the shelf and wincing as he turned toward you. “Figuring out how to connect the landline…until we get you a new phone,” he said, eyes flicking up at you with a sheepish grin.

“You don’t know how to do that,” you said, stepping closer, incredulous.

“I looked online,” he replied, holding up a hand defensively.

“You’re not very good at that either,” you teased, reaching for his phone to peek at what he had typed.

“C’mon, have some faith in me,” he said, watching you scroll through his search history. “Not bad, huh?”

“How long have you been going at it?” you asked, lifting a brow.

“Not long…two hours, maybe,” he shrugged, the faintest pride curling at his lips.

“It says here it usually takes fifteen minutes,” you noted, smirking.

“Got distracted,” he mumbled and the sound made you chuckle softly. At that sound, Clark drew the deepest breath he could manage, as if inhaling not just air but every tiny spark of warmth and life in the room was enough to keep him alive.

“We–uh…we have our story, by the way,” he added quietly, eyes meeting yours. “Thanks to you.”

You nodded slowly, unable to meet his eyes, as if the gravity of the moment anchored you to the floor.

“Hopefully, soon you’ll be able to go back to work, live a normal life…get rid of your roommate,” he added carefully, each word tentative, as if even the sound of it frightened him.

Your eyes lifted to meet his and your voice wavered, almost shyly. “I…well, I wasn’t really…thinking about leaving but I can start looking for–” You chuckled, humorless, palming your forehead. “Of course, what was I thinking–”

You made the smallest step toward the door and Clark’s body shifted instinctively, one foot tangling in the wires he’d been fussing with. “Uh–unless you’re okay with staying,” he said, the words barely louder than a whisper.

You shrugged lightly, shaking your head, the faintest tremor in your shoulders betraying your composure. “I…I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother.” His voice cut through your doubts, firm but soft, carrying a weight you couldn’t ignore.

You laughed, bitter but unguarded. “I…yes, I’m a bother, Clark. I’m needy, I’m nosy…I like the A/C to be high so I can wear fuzzy socks in the middle of the summer. I take forever in the shower and my singing…my singing is nowhere near Beyoncé’s level. It’s such an insult I’ve considered sending her an apology letter just for comparing what I do to her talent. I mean…I've probably made your ears bleed with it.”

You looked at him, letting the words tumble out, each one laced with the raw honesty you rarely allowed yourself. “You…you must want me as far away from you as possible by now.”

A shaky laugh escaped you, but it was tinged with something more…fear, longing, something almost desperate. “Here I was, ready to propose we get Superman into a fake relationship with me if exposing the Mayor didn’t work, because…why not fully lean into the narrative instead of running from it? That would keep me here, with you…even if it was fake.”

You pointed emphatically at the last word, as if rehearsed a hundred times in your mind, your lips faltering under the weight of its meaning. Finally, you met Clark’s wide, unblinking eyes, raw and open.

“If…if you want me to leave, you’re gonna have to kick me out,” you confessed, your voice breaking slightly. “Because I don’t know if I can.”

“Even I don’t possess the strength to do that,” he shook his head, pausing only briefly as if gathering the precise words that could carry everything he felt without breaking them. “We’re in this mess to begin with because I wanted you closer. Even like this, I still want more of you, because I’m selfish…and I didn’t know it until I met you. When someone asks about you, my mouth can’t help but go on and on about how you’ve made me a better man and here you stand, halfway apologizing for the very things I love most about you.”

His gaze pinned you, unwavering, fierce and vulnerable all at once. “The night I told you about me… the words I rehearsed weren’t the ones you heard, because guess what!? I’m a coward too when it comes to you…and you make me love that sometimes too. Just earlier today, you were yelling at my TV, telling me to stop speaking of you the way I do… and I heard every word, because all I ever hear is you. I see you, I hear you… I love you.”

The confession landed like a force and he didn’t let up, he couldn’t now. “Those are the words I almost told the entire world before I told you, because maybe that would give me the same strength I lift buildings with. I love you… so no, I don’t want you to leave and no, you’re not a bother… sweet mercy…you are everything I stand for.”

His arms moved in wide, sweeping gestures, his body taut with a storm of emotion that could be mistaken for anger by anyone who didn’t know him. It was passion, frustration, fear and devotion all at once. Words spilled so quickly you weren’t sure he even processed them before speaking. “I–I had little clue about what humanity really meant until I saw you, standing outside in the rain, crying about…but you’re right, he doesn’t matter anymore, because you…” He paused, swallowing. “I wish I could put into words exactly what I felt when I ran to get you but I can’t…”

“Clark, what–” you began but he cut you off, his tone near desperate.

“If I loved you any less, I might be able to talk about it more,” he said, his voice breaking under the weight of the admission, as if the simple truth of it devastated him beyond words. “So yes, I do owe you… a lot.... Let me make you breakfast, allow you to perform your weird pyromaniac activities on me, argue about you sprinting five blocks straight into danger, just…Please, let me find you here, when I get home from work at night.” He shook his head slowly, taking a step towards you with a hand over his heart, fearing it might leap to get to you. “Don’t ask me to make you leave, because if you do… I’ll break into a million pieces and then I’ll let the words burn the inside of my mouth on their way out…only because it’s you asking.”

The silence that followed was unbearable and electric, filling every inch of the room like a storm waiting to break. Clark’s chest rose and fell, his breaths uneven, as if each one carried shards of all the words he hadn’t yet said. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides now, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare, not until he knew you wouldn’t pull away.

You stood frozen, your pulse pounding in your ears, his words still echoing, their weight sinking deeper into you than you thought possible. You could now see it in his eyes, not just the love but fear. Fear that by loving you out loud, he’d cursed it. 

“Clark…” Your voice was barely there, soft and trembling, like a secret you hadn’t planned on speaking. “You really have the worst timing.” You let out a shaky laugh. “No amount of media training can fix that.”

He finally moved, one step closer, slow as if every inch was asking permission. His hands came up, hesitant, stopping just short of your face. He was giving you every chance to stop him, to walk away but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Your breath hitched when his palms cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized had fallen. His touch was warm, like he was steadying both of you at once. “I have always loved everything about you. Even what I couldn’t understand,” he whispered, though there was no doubt in his tone, only the rawest kind of truth. “What I feel for you is a certainty. You’re the kind that settles in the soul and stays…so please do.”

Clark let the silence hang between you, letting it stretch long enough that the apartment seemed to hold its breath with him. He found a kind of resolve in that hush, then forced his lungs to obey, slow in, slow out as though steadying himself might steady the entire world.

“What do you say?” he asked finally, the question small but steady, as if he were bracing to spend the next handful of years proving he was worthy of your time, your trust, your love. There was an earnestness in his voice that made the air feel raw and honest.

In that breathless second, you felt the strange, delicious certainty that if you could rewind the tape of your life to the exact minute he’d first sat beside you, or to the thousand tiny pauses between, your heartbeat would have answered the same way. The thought was so absurd it made you want to laugh and cry at once, so true it was ridiculous. You imagined being strapped to a polygraph and, just for spite, answering “no” to whether you loved him, only to watch the needle stutter and spike with the rhythm of his laugh.

You stepped forward until there was no distance left, and the words came out soft and utterly inevitable. “Clark…you had me at ‘hello.’”

You closed the distance and his whole face softened like someone had finally answered his prayer. He dipped his head and your lips met, slow but sure, the kind of kiss that rearranged everything you thought you knew about forever. His hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb grazing your jaw while yours threaded into the collar at his nape, keeping him close to you. For a heartbeat the world narrowed to the press of lips and breath and the quiet ache behind both your ribs finally fading away and when you broke apart you rested your foreheads together, laughing without sound, eyes wet and ridiculous and utterly certain.

Clark had finally come home.

Taglist: @2345perez @farrentalon @a-quick-request @cheeseman @herejustforbuckybarnes @chknnwffls @st4rlightisa @helalokithor

The crayons rolled in uneven arcs across the desk, one bouncing to the floor with a soft clack. Your daughter didn’t notice. She was hunched over a piece of paper far too big for her little hands, tongue poking out as she filled the page with streaks of color. A crooked sun beamed down on a square house with three wobbly stick figures: one tall, one shorter and one with messy curls just like hers.

You shifted in the chair nearby, pretending to read a report, though your eyes kept straying to her little fist clutching the crayon. Simon had told you it would be safer to keep her away from the base but today had been an exception. A last minute emergency had left you with no sitter and his office was the one place she could stay quiet and most importantly, unseen.

Simon was down the hall, still tied up in a debrief. He’d promised he’d be quick but you knew how those things went.

The quiet hum of the air vent filled the room, until the door swung open without warning.

“Ghost, ye—”

Soap stopped dead in the doorway, his usual grin slipping as his eyes landed on the child perched at the desk.

Your stomach plummeted.

Your daughter blinked up at him, curls bouncing as she tilted her head. Then, with the absolute lack of guile only a child possessed, she announced brightly, “Hullooo!”

For a beat, the room was silent. Soap’s eyes flicked from her to you, back to her, then to the crayon rolling toward his boot. He bent down slowly, picked it up and turned it over in his hand like it might be an IED.

“Uh… hi?” he managed, his usual easy charm cracking with confusion.

She beamed, completely at ease. “I’m drawin’ Daddy.”

Soap froze and his eyes snapped to yours. Your mouth opened and then closed, not being able to form words as your mind raced.

“Daddy?” he repeated, voice pitched low, careful, like he was treading on a live minefield.

Your pulse hammered while heat crept up your neck. “It’s not—It’s…well, how should I say this…”

Before you could spin something, the sound of heavy boots filled the corridor. A shadow moved across the threshold and then Simon’s voice cut through.

“Simon! Perfect, you’re great at explaining things…uhh, you deal with it.”

“What’re you doing in my office, Johnny?”

Soap’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes darted to the little girl at the desk and then back to Simon, who had just stepped into view, mask in place but eyes narrowing at the scene.

The silence stretched and you swore you could feel Soap’s brain short-circuiting from across the room.

“Ghost…” Soap said slowly, pointing at the child with the crayon still clutched in his fist. “Ye, uh—ye’ve got a wee stowaway.”

Simon’s gaze shifted to his daughter. For the first time all day, the tension in his shoulders softened. She held up her drawing proudly.

“Look, Daddy!” she chirped. “It’s us.”

Simon crossed the room in three long strides and crouched beside her chair. He studied the page with all the seriousness of a briefing, then nodded once. “Looks just like us, poppet.”

Soap’s jaw all but hit the floor. His hand went to the back of his neck. “Hold the fuckin’ phone…poppet?”

Simon turned his head slowly, eyes dark and unamused. “Not. A. Word.”

You bit back a laugh, watching Soap’s face cycle through disbelief, confusion and dawning amusement.

“You’ve been hidin’ a lass this whole time?” Soap whispered, like the walls themselves might tattle. “And a missus too, I’m guessin’?.” His eyes darted to you, a grin starting to spread. “Bloody hell, Ghost. Yer full of surprises.”

Simon rose to his full height, looming, mask shadowing most of his face. “She’s not base business,” he said flatly. “Neither is she.” A flick of his chin toward you.

Soap raised his hands, grin turning sly. “Say no more, big man. Mum’s the word but…” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Wait ‘til Gaz hears ye’ve been domesticated.”

Simon’s glare could have burned through steel. “Gaz hears anything, Johnny and you’ll be pulling latrine duty for a month.”

The warning only made Soap grin wider. He glanced down at the little girl again, who was happily adding a bright purple dog to her picture. “She’s a bonnie one, mate. Got yer eyes but thank God not yer scowl.”

Simon didn’t answer. He just stood there, one big hand resting on the back of her chair, grounding himself in the quiet presence of his daughter.

Soap shook his head, still smiling as he backed toward the door. “Never thought I’d live to see the day… Ghost, a dad.”

Before Simon could respond, Soap slipped out, muttering to himself down the hall.

The office was quiet again. Your daughter scribbled a sunbeam onto her picture like nothing had happened.

Simon sighed, tugging the mask up to rest on his head. His eyes found yours, the storm in them tempered by something softer.

“Well,” you said, trying not to laugh, “so much for keeping her a secret.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “Bloody Soap.” He ran a hand over his face. “Was bound to come out sooner or later.”

You leaned back in your chair, watching him with your daughter by his side. “Better sooner. She deserves people who know she exists.”

Simon looked down at the coloring page again, at the crooked little family drawn in bold crayon lines. His thumb brushed a smear of purple wax across the paper.

Penny nods studiously, little hand in yours, toddling along at your hip towards the couch. Even in the short time you’ve been away she’s grown, physically and mentally, more words added to her repertoire than you thought possible.

Your palm slides over your belly. Kids grow so fast.

“Baby?” You help her onto the couch and then plop down beside her. She was up before the sun this morning, and somehow managed to slink into your room without a sound. You rolled over to find her staring at you in the dark, whispering your name.

“Yes Penny, that’s the baby.” You sigh and heave your ankles onto the ottoman. It’s getting harder and harder to live, to exist, to bend over or walk up the stairs, or stay awake for longer than six hours without needing a nap.

“My baby.” Pen announces just as she does everyday, like she’s getting a baby doll instead of a sibling. Sometimes it makes your nose sting with the threat of tears, and others it makes you laugh. It’s a toss up. “Cules?” She signs for strong, and you ruffle her hair.

“We can watch Hercules for a bit but then you have to have breakfast.”

A throat clears from the kitchen, and your heart leaps out of your chest.

“Good morning.” Simon’s voice is rough. Tired. Like he’s not getting any sleep. Like he’s staying awake on the other side of the wall, staring at the ceiling just like you are for half the night.

There’s sympathy. There’s anger. And it’s all wrapped up in hurt.

Penny claps her hands, slides off the couch to run towards her dad, who scoops her up like she’s as light as a leaf.

“She came into my room…” you trail off, and she snuggles into his chest, his arms tightening around her, his nose skimming through her hair. It’s a stolen moment, one you’re outside of, and you can’t help but think about how he’ll hold the baby-

“Have you had breakfast?” He interrupts your thoughts, and you shake your head.

“We were going to watch a bit of a movie and then… yeah. Do breakfast.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he deposits Penny back over the couch, plopping her down at your side. “You girls hang out.” You want to go back upstairs, retreat, but you can’t make yourself move. It’s a simple reprieve from the weight of your pain, and you’ll take it.

Even if it is only for this moment.

“I made tea.” Simon’s standing awkwardly where your feet hang off the edge of the outdoor loveseat on the patio, two steaming mugs in his hands.

Two.

You blink. “Oh.” He looks so… unsure. Sad and twisted up, so hesitant he can’t tell whether he should take a step forward or backward.

Sometimes you wish he’d just take the step forward.

Sometimes you wish he’d take enough steps backward until he’s outside the house.

“D’ya want…”

“Yeah, sure.” You push up onto your elbows to roll to your side, panting as you heave yourself up afterwards. He’s watching you like a hawk, one mug now sitting on the table, free hand out in front of you like he’s afraid you’ll fall. “I’m okay.” You reassure him, shocked at how it comes to immediately, so naturally. Like you actually want him to be reassured.

Weeks ago, you wanted him to go play in traffic.

There’s another chair out here, a few scattered around a larger table, and he pulls one over, positions himself across from you, not too close.

He keeps his distance because he thinks you fear him, but he’s wrong.

It’s not fear. You know deep down, they’d never hurt you or the baby. It was hard to grapple with at first, the truth. The knowledge that they’re killers, everything you read in those documents, the sick and twisted tangled web that’s connected the three of you for so long without you ever knowing it.

They’re killers.

But for some reason, even after everything, you know.

They’d never hurt you.

That doesn’t mean everything else goes away. It doesn’t mean the trauma they’ve inflicted, the pain they’ve caused you is gone. The hurt. The pain. The sadness. It’s all still there.

But it’s in him too.

“Thanks for the tea.” It’s like sticking a toe in the water. Carefully calculating, testing the boundary of when it will be too much, when to stop before the cold envelopes you.

“It’s raspberry leaf.” His cheeks pink, just barely. “I uh, read online it’s safe.” Safe for putting you into labor maybe.

The thought hits you like a truck.

Labor.

Will they be there? Will you want them?

“What’s wrong?” He’s still so attuned to you, picks up on every fidget, ever micro movement, every single tick.

“Nothing.” Your finger traces the rim of the mug and he watches like he’s hypnotized, clearing his throat after a slow blink.

“I wanted to tell you-”

“Don’t.” You can’t listen to it again. The sorry, the guilt, the explanations. You’ve heard them so many times, they’re ceasing to matter. They mean little in the face of your pain.

“Bun-”

“Simon.” You slam the mug down on the table and struggle to your feet. “I said don’t! I don’t want to hear it, I don’t care. You can’t just apologize and think everything will be okay, this is not okay. What you did is not okay!” You’re yelling now, loud enough the neighbors can probably hear, loud enough it’s cracking your voice, your stalwart anger started to blister and crack, wound bursting open at the immense pressure of what’s building inside of you. “You should have tried to explain-”

“You wouldn’t have listened.” You explode. The rage is so acrid it sours in the back of your throat.

“And that would have been my choice!” You shout, and he takes it. He doesn’t move a muscle. “But you took that away. You took my choice away, and you know who used to take all my choices away? You know who took them for himself?” He flinches this time, agony drawing his brows together, dragging the wells of his eyes deeper. “Don’t look at me like that.” It feels good, to yell at him. The silent treatment and scathing looks haven’t been enough, and you need the blood letting. “What you did… what you did is so beyond-”

“We did what we had to.” He snaps, stopping you in your tracks. “We didn’t have time to spend weeks trying to get you to listen to us, trying to pin you down. We knew if we tried to talk to you, you’d run, and considering how good you are at it, we worried we’d lose you again. We couldn’t risk you being out in the world alone, unprotected when we have no idea where he is. So yeah, what we did was wrong. We took away your choice but we did it for you, because we love you, because we want to protect you.”

“Don’t-”

“I was scared. I was fuckin’ terrified.” You look up from your tea and find his eyes, pits of devastation that don’t seem to end, defeat sinking down into his shoulders. “I was scared that if we didn’t… if we didn’t get you home right away, that if you didn’t listen to us and ran, we might lose you.” Your heart twists violently in your chest and skips a beat. Scared. You think about him, the loss of his family, how he almost lost Johnny, all he’s been through. Seeing the world through his eyes is fucking terrifying.

You physically feel yourself soften. A brittle, hardened piece of your anger falling away.

“Everythin’ okay?” Johnny’s stepped onto the patio, wary and worried, eyeing you like he always does now. Like you’re an animal caught in a trap.

“Yeah. Everything is fine.” You take a long look at them, your two broken men. Maybe just as broken as you. There’s a part of you who wants to give up, wants to give in, lay down and let them fuss, let them whisper sweet apologies to you in the night and make promises. That part of you is growing, and you don’t know how to process it. You gather up your blanket and your tea, eager to run. Escape. “I need a nap.” Simon nods stoically, and Johnny wilts.

“Alright then.”

You brave dinner.

You don’t know why.

You wash your hands, exchange your sweats for different ones, stare at yourself in the mirror-

And laugh.

Going downstairs for dinner, like you’ve been sulking upstairs, a child after a time out, a teenager after a slammed door? Like any of this is normal?

Like you’re starting to accept it all.

That’s the worst of it. Your heart remembers. It remembers everything, the nights in their bed, the way the three of you fit together so naturally, perfectly, like it was intended to be all along. Simon’s arms around you during a nightmare, his careful coaxing when he could tell you needed to talk but couldn’t find the words, Johnny’s heartbeat under your ear, the plush of his lips against yours. There was so much hope, so much anticipation for the future. For your family.

You had a heart full of trust, a heart that was full of love.

Stupidity, the girl in the mirror reminds you. A heart that was full of stupidity.

Sunbeam kicks like they disagree. Two sides of a war, stating their positions.

Simon is the first one to spot you. His head whips around so fast his neck cracks, but he doesn’t wince. He doesn’t move a muscle. He just stares, the two of you frozen in time for a long second before anyone else notices. The vulnerability in his eyes is like a knife to the heart.

“Bunny!” Pen holds her arms up in her high chair, carrots hiding in her chubby little fists, and you smile at her.

“What’s for dinner?” She squeezes and soft carrot oozes between her fingers. Simon sighs, ruffles her hair, but stays focused on you with a question in his eyes as you hover at the threshold.

“Chicken and vegetables.” You can smell it, sweet scent of caramelized carrots, garlic and rosemary roasted together, Johnny’s bread rolls, his mum’s recipe. It smells like family dinner, inevitable, and you take a step forward, dragged in by the warm gravity of Johnny’s cooking, the familiarity of his love, of how he takes care of his family.

When Johnny comes around the corner into view, he’s just as surprised as his husband. “Bun.”

“Hey.” The table is set for three, and as soon as he realizes, he trips over himself to get another set of silverware.

“Ye hungry?” Dinner, just dinner. It should be, but it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel the rising tide, the soft wave of hope, of forgiveness, the one that clashes against an angry tide, trying to drag you into the ocean and anchor you to the sea floor.

“Yeah.”

Sunbeam jams an appendage into your side, insistent.

Guess you are.

“I have an appointment tomorrow.” You announce it casually, and they both freeze. Here goes nothing. “You can come if you want.” The truth is, a part of you wants them there. It’s been a slow revelation. They’re not forgiven, but something about carrying their baby makes you crave their support, and holding them at a distance during this pregnancy hurts. They’ve never even felt Sunbeam move inside you.

“Yeah.”

“Aye.” They speak at the same time, and then Johnny follows up with gentle reassurance, as always. “O’ course we want to come.”

You changed midwives.

You couldn’t go back to the hospital, your hospital, not with everything that’s happened, everything weighing on you. The idea of possibly running into someone made you incredibly anxious. The web is already tangled enough, you don’t want to have cinch it tighter trying to come up with ideas and excuses to explain where you went.

“How are you feeling?” What a loaded question.

“Fine, Good. Tired of being pregnant.” You shrug, and she nods sympathetically, pointedly ignoring the two men in the room.

It’s probably weird to them, but you know it’s standard. You’re the priority here.

“Okay, well I got your message. Normally we wouldn’t do another ultrasound unless we suspected something was amiss but I’ll make a special exception.” She smiles as she wheels the cart over, the one with the screen that will be flickering alive in a moment, showing you, and them, the whole human life that’s growing inside you.

You roll your shirt up self consciously, fidgeting on the paper to get comfortable as you lean back. She’s talking, explaining something about fundal height and weeks, but you’re not really listening. You’re watching, waiting for the black and grey image to light up, bracing for the tidal wave emotions you know will flood you.

“And we don’t want to know what we’re having, right?” You lick your lips. Nod. One of life’s only true surprises, you always told yourself every time you wanted to ask. Cold jelly is squirted onto your skin and the wand presses down, galloping hoofbeats, a tiny heartbeat, filling the room. A baby on the screen. “There we are.” You close your eyes. Memories swell, the smell of the offices in Scotland, the way the midwife smiled at you so kindly, squeezed your hand when you told her you were alone, that it would just be the two of you. Sunbeam on the screen, thriving despite it all, despite their mother who had no one, to turn to, to trust, to depend on. No one to help build their crib or paint their room or unpack the baby box except you. Just another statistic, another woman on the run from a man, men, who would hurt her, bruised and scarred and scared, trying to protect the only thing that mattered. Someone living in fear, paranoia, trying to keep calm and keep her head above water. You blink back your tears.

“Bunny.” Johnny breathes, and then his hand is on yours, taking it into his own, warm and firm, reassuring.

It’s all it takes. You begin to cry, a few tears at first before your vision starts to blur and you’re wiping your face frantically, sitting up and blindly reaching for the tissues the midwife is trying to hand you. She’s saying something to the guys about hormones and then they’re asking her to give you a moment.

Next thing you know, it’s just the three of you.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.” You cry, words scratched out and raw. “It was supposed to be… we were supposed to be a family.” It hurts to say. You’re defeated. So, so defeated. Tired and achy and sore all over, wounded, overflowing with pain. You were supposed to give Sunbeam a good life, the best life, and now… now you’re bringing them into a broken family.

“We are a family.” Simon’s at your side now, and Johnny’s half sitting on the exam table in front of you, still holding onto your hand for dear life.

“Ye’re our family pretty girl. Ye’re a part o’ us now. An’ what we did…” his swallow is so loud it reverberates off the walls. “What we did, it was wrong. We though’ it was best, what was safest, but it was wrong. An’ we know that.”

“I d-don’t trust you.” You sob. “How can I trust you? With myself, with this baby, I- I don’t know what to do.” Everything is coming down on top of you, rock cracking and crumbling from a mountain, falling onto your shoulders. The weight of reality is too much to bear.

“Give us a chance, one chance Bun. Please.” Johnny is begging. You can see the desperate pools of blue through your teary vision, his eyes so bright, so earnest they shine. Solid in his conviction. “Give us a chance, an’ I swear, we’ll take care of ye. We’ll keep ye safe. We’ll love ye like ye deserve.”

“Or you can leave.” Johnny flinches. You peer up at Simon through wet lashes. “You don’t have to stay with us. We’re not holding you captive, we never have been.” He makes it sound like you’ve had the chance this whole time, but the truth is you haven’t been able to even think about moving, not being this pregnant, this upset.

“I know that. I’m not exactly in good condition to be finding a place to live-”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m sayin’ if you want to, after the baby is born, whenever you’re ready, you can go.”

“Si-”

“Johnny.” He shuts him down firmly with a tense jaw. “Get a place nearby. We’ll keep you safe, no matter what.” You sniffle.

“You will?” Simon nods. The idea of living on your own with a baby doesn’t scare you, but the fact of the matter, the truth that Phillip is out there somewhere, waiting, maybe even watching, terrifies you. It’s not just you now, it’s you and Sunbeam, you and Penny, you and them. A family. And there’s that piece of your heart, your soul, that never wants to leave. It wants to stay by their side. You’re not sure you could over power it.

“We want ye to stay.” Johnny follows up, glaring at Simon. “We want ye to be at home, w’us.”

“I know.” Of course you know that.

“But we want you to be happy.” Simon doubles down. “And if that’s not with us, we will understand.” Johnny looks pained, and Simon looks steadfast. Two sides of a rope being pulled in opposite directions with you in the middle.

You look at the print out left on the counter, a reminder. What’s best, what’s safest? You know the answer, but the girl in the mirror disagrees, and she hisses at your through clenched teeth.

You’d met Clark in college, back when his glasses were just glasses and not part of a disguise that could fool the entire city. You’d majored in communications…PR, crisis management and the art of spin were your thing, while he was buried deep in journalism but because universities apparently loved throwing everyone into the same “Intro to media ethics” lecture hall, you’d ended up next to him.

He’d been shy, sweet, fumbling with his notebook while you breezed through debates about public perception and messaging. He admired you instantly and you found him… endearingly easy to tease. Before long, he was the guy who saved you a seat and carried your books when you had too many and you were the one making sure he didn’t get steamrolled in discussions.

Then, in a way that was entirely his, both impossible to anticipate and entirely inevitable, he saved your life. The way he tore open the jammed dorm exit door during a fire was anything but subtle and neither was his choice to use his superspeed to drag you out before anyone else could react. That night, he had planned, down to the smallest detail, to finally tell you he loved you, to let the words at last leave his chest but instead, after the smoke cleared and after he had made his abilities painfully obvious in your presence, the only thing that came out of his mouth was: “I fell from the sky.” What followed was an impromptu, slightly frantic rant about being an alien, his words tumbling over one another as he tried and spectacularly failed to explain just exactly who he was.

Afterward, he looked as though he wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the pavement beneath him and all these years later, despite everything, the fires he’d walked through, the battles he’d fought and cities he’d saved, he still hadn’t quite learned how to say those three little words correctly.

Somehow, instead of running screaming, you stayed. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like the very thought of losing you was more terrifying than kryptonite, or maybe it was because his quiet sincerity was exactly the counterbalance your sharp wit had been missing. Either way, you became his confidante, his secret-keeper and over time, his closest friend.

Fast forward a few years and Clark was working at the Daily Planet, still that earnest Kansas farm boy wrapped neatly in a suit but now carrying a monumental secret beneath his tie after he had decided it was time to do more, to step fully into the role that the world would come to know as Superman.

You could still remember watching him streak across the sky for the first time, your heart in your throat. The headlines were instantaneous, the public obsession unstoppable and overnight, he wasn’t just Clark anymore, he was The Man of Steel.

Which meant you had a brand-new full-time job, making sure “The Man of Steel” didn’t turn into “The guy in tights who scares the elderly.”

He never asked you to do it, you just…did. You were the one in his ear through a secure line, reminding him to soften his expression when he saved people, to wave once in a while and to maybe not growl at reporters when they crowded him after a save. You tracked statistics, crowd reactions, hashtags and memes, building him not just into a hero but into a symbol.

He simply let it happen, because if Clark Kent trusted anyone to tell him how to be Superman, it was you.

Just like that, the two of you had settled into this strange rhythm, best friends, business partners in a way but ultimately tethered together by secrets and saves. You managed his image while he carried the weight of the world and somewhere in between all that responsibility, there existed the unspoken affection, the inside jokes and the way your laughter made him feel as though he could finally exhale. No matter how many times he had pulled you from danger or flown halfway across the globe in the blink of an eye, that first day in class still held the sharpest rush of adrenaline to him, the memory of you with your razor-sharp wit and fearless tongue and him with his nervous smile and secret strength, two halves of the same impossible story, bound together long before either of you fully understood how.

PRESENT DAY | 4PM

The second your phone buzzed with the alert, you knew. You didn’t need the news anchors shouting over one another or the hashtags already trending, you just felt it deep in your chest. This was going to be one of the big saves.

You bolted from your actual, legitimate job, half-shouting something about an “urgent PR emergency” to your bewildered boss, snatching your iPad on the way out. Your shoes clapped against the pavement as you ran, lungs burning and heart already pounding in time with the wail of distant sirens. 

As you ran, you dug the little earpiece out of your bag and jammed it in, already opening the line. “Clark…Clark, are you there? Big one. I repeat, this is a big one, focus. Clark? Do you copy?”

Silence.

You ducked around a corner, narrowly avoiding a hot dog cart and nearly colliding with a businessman glued to his phone. “Clark! For the love of everything above, I swear to Kansas if you don’t have your comm in–” You tipped your head back and yelled into the open air, utterly unconcerned with the pedestrians staring, “Clark Joseph Kent, you better get your earpiece in right now! These things were expensive!!”

A mile away, mid-air, Clark winced. Not from the enormous robot trying to spear him with a piece of rebar but because your voice, sharp and familiar, cut straight through the chaos like a beacon. With a muttered, “Sorry,” he fished the tiny device from his belt and popped it in.

“Go ahead,” his voice crackled through your ear, calm and steady, like he wasn’t currently fighting something that looked like it ate tanks for breakfast.

“Oh, now you’re listening,” you huffed, weaving through traffic as horns blared and brakes screeched around you. “How’s your day been?” you asked, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Busy,” he grunted, metal screeching in the background. “Where are you?”

“Uhhh… working? Field work. Let’s call it that. Don’t worry about me,” you said, breathless, narrowly avoiding a courier barreling past. “I’ll just be over here, tripping over civilians and doing my job. Someone has to keep you from tanking your approval ratings.”

A low chuckle vibrated in your ear, even as another crash rattled the city blocks, reminding you both that the world was still very much on fire.

You flicked your iPad on, stats already streaming in: sentiment trackers, live comments and trending photos. “Okay, good news…the lighter color on the new suit is playing really well. People are saying you look approachable, less ‘goth alien,’ and more ‘guy who could help you move a couch.’”

“Approachable,” Clark repeated, gritting his teeth against the groaning of shifting concrete around him. “Sure feels that way right now.”

“And–oh! Try not to get too much blood on it, people are still making memes about the last time.”

“I wasn’t bleeding that much,” he muttered.

“You sneezed blood on a child, Clark.”

“…Okay, fair.”

Still at the far end of the street where the fight was unfolding, you darted through the surging crowd, people drawn toward the chaos like moths to a flame. Ahead, thick smoke curled into the sky and through the haze, you saw it: the full bus, teetering half in, half out of the river, with Clark’s broad back braced beneath it. You glanced down at the live feed on your iPad, heart in your throat.

“Clark, if you don’t smile after you pull that bus out of the river, half the city’s going to think you’re heartless,” you called, voice sharp with equal parts worry and mock admonishment.

His reply was tight, strained, carrying every ounce of effort he was pouring into holding up the vehicle. “Kinda hard to grin when you’re bench-pressing public transport, Stats.”

“It’s called branding. Suffer for the brand,” you shot back.

Despite himself, he let out a huffing laugh, audible even over the groan of bending metal and somehow it made the impossible weight of the moment feel just a little lighter.

“C’mon, Clark. Give ‘em the Kansas farm boy special. Teeth, dimples…the whole package.”

“Would you like to trade places?”

“God, no. I still call you to carry my groceries,” you puffed, juking around a police barricade. “Now lift, smile and for the love of optics, don’t scowl at the mayor again if he shows up.”

You heard a grunt of effort and then gasps swelling from the crowd and your screen lit up in real time with photos, hashtags and little hearts floating upward as Clark, Superman, heaved the bus onto solid ground.

And sure enough, there it was, that sheepish, sun-warm grin. You slowed your run just enough to watch him for a second, chest tight. He was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous and somehow, entirely yours, even if you didn’t know it yet.

The crowd’s gasp swelled into thunderous applause. Water cascaded off the bus frame, paramedics surged forward and people started chanting his name. You watched the ripple of relief spread through the crowd and then–

“Hey, you fuck!!” you yelped as someone nearly ran you over. The taxi screeched to a stop, the driver finally tearing his eyes away from the screen of his phone, which he’d been using to film the scene with a zoom that you were fairly certain would do more harm than good for Clark’s image.

“Language,” Clark murmured in your ear.

Your eyes went wide. “Language!? While you’re bleeding, covered in river water and wearing spandex?”

“Technically, it’s a Kryptonian textile, w–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” You huffed, pivoting toward the taxi guy, who now looked at you like you were talking to yourself, though you were sure it looked exactly that way. “Watch where you’re going, asshat! I’m doing community service.”

“Lady, you’re in the middle of the street–”

“And you’re driving while recording. Wanna talk about breaking rules?” You tapped your earpiece. “Hold on a second, you’re doing great.” Then you turned back toward the driver. “Eyes on the road, fanboy.”

Clark chuckled softly in your ear and the sound, God, that sound made your irritation melt just enough that you found yourself grinning despite the chaos.

Approaching the square, you stood on top of a car like so many others trying to see over the crowd, iPad hugged to your chest like a lifeline. There, in the middle of the chaos, he finished disarming the last of the killer robots and somehow still managed to look like every poster for “hope” ever printed.

“How about that for statistics?” Clark called, grinning toward the public despite the scorch marks on his suit, his voice warm and smug as he straightened, looking more like he’d just finished a light workout than saved a hundred people.

You waved your iPad at him, then nodded. “Congratulations, Superman. You’ve officially beaten cat videos in online engagement. That’s a terrifying amount of cultural power and I sincerely hope you’re ready for the responsibility that comes with it.”

His grin faltered, even from this distance. His head tilted, sharp eyes scanning you up and down, not missing the sweat beading on your forehead or the way you clutched the device like it was a lifeline. “Hold on…your office is five blocks uptown.” His tone shifted somewhere between disbelief and frustration. “How are you here right now?”

You shot him a look, completely unfazed, already easing down from the top of the car and blending into the crowd to escape that stern gaze and hopefully find a less congested corner. “I ran? Not all of us can fly, Kent.”

“You know I can still see you, right?” he asked.

“Well, I’m trying to see you,” you shot back.

Clark exhaled sharply, like he couldn’t believe you. “You ran through gridlocked streets and a panicking crowd during this.” His hand gestured at the wreckage around, smoke still curling into the sky. His jaw tightened. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Where are you g–? Go to the north side of the square.”

“That’s where I'm going! Do you have any idea how much trouble you’d be in if I wasn’t here to tell you not to scowl while lifting buses?” you fired back. “Public opinion matters, Clark. You may be invincible but your reputation sure isn’t.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he strode toward the meeting point. “You could’ve been hurt.”

“And you could’ve been branded the ‘Moody sky menace’ if I didn’t remind you to smile. We all have our crosses to bear.” You grinned, lifting your iPad like a shield when you finally spotted him. The spot was far enough from the chaos to catch your breath. “Mine just happens to involve cardio.”

His eyes narrowed, lips twitching as if torn between lecturing you and laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable is me keeping up while yelling PR tips in your ear. You’d be lost without me.”

“Lost?” He raised a brow. “I just pulled a city bus out of the river.”

“And you scowled the whole time. Which, newsflash, looks terrifying on camera. You’re supposed to be Metropolis’s hope, not its grumpy gym teacher.”

Clark actually barked a laugh at that, deep and disbelieving but the concern never left his eyes as they swept over you again, lingering like he needed proof you were okay.

“I’m kidding. You did great but you were three seconds slower than the model projected,” you announced, brushing ash and dust off his cape like it was lint on a sweater. “We’ll need to work on that. I can’t be the fastest between the two of us and I don’t think there’s enough time to make another spandex suit before the next world crisis.”

Clark blinked at you, incredulous. His hair was mussed, his chest still rising and falling with leftover adrenaline, scorch marks smudging the blue of his suit and this was what you opened with?

You let him simmer in it for exactly two seconds before your lips curved into a grin. “Jokes! You looked amazing. Heroic. Probably made half the city fall in love with you.” You tilted your iPad toward him, scrolling through trending hashtags that had exploded in the ten minutes since he first appeared. “Seriously, I’ve just now seen the public’s reaction in real time, which means I can practically determine how the whole battle started.”

Clark leaned down slightly, peering at your screen. “And?”

You tapped a stat with dramatic flair. “And… apparently people are obsessed with the way you pulled that bus out of the river. Top comment calls it ‘Sex on a stick.’ Another says you look like a firefighter calendar model. So, you know, important data.”

He gave you a look so dry you almost burst out laughing right there in the middle of the wreckage. “That’s the vital analysis you ran five blocks for?”

“Yes,” you shot back without hesitation. “It’s called contextualizing narrative framing, Kent. Try to keep up.”

You grinned when you finally registered the tone he had used. “I love when you sound like me. Do you think that’s self-centered? Probably…I’ll make sure to bring it up to my therapist next week.”

His lips twitched, torn between amusement and exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, irreplaceable,” you teased, raising your iPad like a mic drop.

For a moment, he just looked at you, that fond, almost boyish smile flickering across his face, as if the soot and chaos around you weren’t even there. Then the wail of sirens pulled his gaze skyward again.

“I’d like you about five blocks away from here, right now. It’s not safe yet…actually, make that six.” he said softly, his voice carrying that gentle warning only you got to hear.

Before you could quip back, he shot into the air, cape snapping like fire in the wind. The crowd gasped, pointing upward but his eyes lingered on you until he was nothing more than a streak of red and blue against the clouds.

“So bossy,” you murmured.

“I heard that,” his voice rattled in the earpiece.

“Oop,” you yelped, tugging out your earpiece. “I’m leaving,” you muttered under your breath then, knowing full well he could still hear you. “Damn superhearing, too.”

In seconds, the noise around you grew louder. At first, you dismissed it as background, the familiar aftermath hum after one of Clark’s saves. Sirens, distant shouting and the steady thrum of news choppers circling overhead. You’d grown used to all of that but then you noticed the shift, the crowd wasn’t looking up at him anymore. 

When you turned, you realized they were looking at you.

Your stomach dipped as you caught the first glimpse of it on the massive screen above the square, the kind usually reserved for stock tickers or ball game replays. And there you were, standing on the sidelines, iPad clutched to your chest and lips moving with words the cameras must have picked up when you were speaking under your breath.

A bright chyron scrolled beneath your face in bold white letters:

“WHO IS SHE TO METROPOLIS’ HERO?”

Your stomach dropped straight to the pavement and for a beat you simply froze, suspended between stunned awe and pure panic. The volume of sound hit you suddenly like a physical thing, helicopters thudding overhead, their rotors whipping the air into a furious wind that tossed your hair and rattled your eardrums, floodlights blaring down from every angle until the square was washed in harsh, unflattering white as if the last of the afternoon had been erased. People screamed and pointed, phones thrust into your face before you could even blink; the nearest news crew had practically parked on the grass beside you, their cameras swiveling, mics extended while anchors’ voices crackled with static as they tried to shout over the chaos.

Your pulse hammered in your throat while your eyes darted from screen to screen, every billboard, every LED face in the plaza suddenly seemed to have you plastered across it, larger and brighter and more impossible with each passing second, the city itself hemming you in, glass and concrete folding close like a cage. You tried to step back and found there was nowhere to go. The press and the curious had multiplied as if sprung from the pavement, phones recording, cameras snapping and flashes strobing so frequently your stomach dove with each one and the shouted questions, part accusation, part demand, layered over the whine of drones until everything blurred into a single, crushing wall of sound.

“Are you his handler?” someone shoved a phone so close to your face you could see your floodlit reflection on the screen. 

“His girlfriend? Wife?” a woman crowed, manic and live-streaming, shoving what looked like a microphone under your chin. 

“Tell us what he’s like!” “Is Superman even his real name?”

 “Does he live here in Metropolis?” The voices came from every direction at once, a dozen threads of inquiry that tangled in your head until the one steady thing you could hear was your own inner voice chanting the only instruction that made sense: don’t panic, don’t panic, except it was impossible not to.

Your careful boundaries, data, analysis and the neat armor of professional distance you cultivated, dissolved in a single, bright second. You were exposed, a person with a heart that raced and palms that shook, utterly human under the scrutiny of thousands. You stumbled backward, trying to duck behind a street vendor’s cart, fingers fumbling as your bag strap snagged on the metal pole and your tablet rattled against your chest, your legs going soft with the sudden hot rush of vertigo. There was literally nowhere to go. The exits were clogged with cameras, reporters and faces craning toward you like you were the next headline.

Then, as the helicopter blades chopped the air and the crowd’s roar swelled into something almost celebratory and accusatory at once, the thought that crossed your mind was simple and decisive: the only way out is up. You closed your eyes and before you could arrange panic into anything useful, a strong and unshakable weight wrapped around you and the world tilted. You were moving so fast distances collapsed and city noise smeared into a thin, faraway hum. Your face was buried against Clark’s chest, breathless, ridiculous and impossibly small and you did not open your eyes because you did not need to, his arms held you like a promise and for the first time since the screens lit up with your face, the only thing that registered was that you were safe.

You didn’t stop trembling until your feet finally touched solid ground again, the polished hardwood of Clark’s absurdly spacious penthouse. He set you down carefully, almost sheepishly, as though apologizing for scooping you out of the crowd like a damsel in distress.

“I–I remember very clearly telling you how dangerous that giant hole in your wall is–” you blurted before he could even open his mouth. Your hand was already reaching for the coffee table, patting around for the remote.

Clark winced, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s a window–”

“It’s a death invitation, Clark.” Your voice pitched higher, quick and somewhat scattered. “Also, maybe next time you give me a heads-up before you swoop in like some kind of swoony romance novel cover? My organs are still in midair.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but you’d already jabbed the remote, the TV clicking on with a loud pop, making your stomach drop instantly.

Your face. Your very, very mortal and shocked face, plastered on every single channel. Anchors were replaying the footage in slow motion, freeze-framing on the exact moment Clark turned toward you, soft smile on his lips. One chyron at the bottom screamed in bold red: “Metropolis mystery woman. Who is she to Superman?”

You blinked rapidly, your throat tight. “Oh my gosh,” you muttered, voice thin, “I’m surprised I’m not throwing up all over the place right now.”

The screen cut to black in the middle of your sentence. You whipped around, eyes wide and found Clark standing there, cord dangling sheepishly in his hand like a kid caught stealing cookies.

“I think you’ve done enough data collection for the day,” he said gently, tucking the cord behind the TV like it hadn’t just happened.

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, pacing the living room like you were back in a midterm exam. “Okay. Okay. Crisis management. I got good grades in that class. This is fine.” You waved your hands vaguely in the air. “Step one: control the narrative. Step two: don’t hyperventilate on national television. Step three: invent a time machine and go back to when no one cared who I was–”

“Step four,” Clark interrupted, crossing his arms with that maddening calm, “stop spiraling in my living room.”

You shot him a glare, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You don’t get to say that. You literally flew me out of a mob and have a skyscraper-sized hole in your wall!! I’m allowed to spiral.”

He bit down on a laugh, his mouth twitching into that stupid almost-smile. “I saved you.”

“That’s what I meant, yeah,” you deadpanned, still pacing, “right after accidentally shoving me into the spotlight so hard I’ll probably trend under three hashtags by midnight.”

Clark stepped into your path, steadying you with two big hands on your shoulders. His expression softened, that familiar fondness seeping in despite the chaos. “We’ll figure it out. Together. You’re not alone in this.”

You stared up at him, half-panicked, half-exasperated. “Don’t go all Superman-commercial on me right now. I need you as Clark Kent, the guy who used to eat instant ramen with me in college and once set a toaster on fire trying to make me Pop-Tarts.”

He chuckled low in his chest, squeezing your hand. “Fine but Clark Kent thinks you’re overthinking and need to sit down before you hyperventilate.”

You groaned but you let him steer you toward the couch anyway, your knees buckling under you as you muttered, “Step five: survive the PR disaster of the century.”

Clark was the first to break the unspoken tension. With a quiet sigh, he went to peel the suit off, folding it with more care than seemed necessary for something he got shot at in daily. When he finally reemerged in gray sweatpants, a faded Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses, you felt your chest loosen for the first time all night. Superman was gone and Clark Kent was standing there, somehow that difference, the simple shift of persona, made everything manageable again.

You slipped into his closet not long after, resurfacing swallowed whole by one of his flannels. The sleeves, rolled messily to your elbows, paired with sweatpants that definitely weren’t your size, made you look like you’d wandered straight out of his laundry pile. The fabric was soft, smelled faintly of him and settled the storm that had been rattling in your chest.

When he spotted you, he paused mid-motion, a look flickering across his face, fond amusement blurred with something you couldn’t quite decipher, before he wordlessly held out a pair of metal chopsticks.

“What?” you asked, taking them and glancing down at yourself as if to check for hidden commentary. “If you’re about to say I look like I’m wearing diapers, I’d like to remind you that you’ll be in diapers before me.”

He only chuckled, low and warm, forcing his gaze away like the effort cost him something.

Dinner came in the form of a knock at the door a few minutes later, Clark already handing over cash before you could ask what he’d ordered. By the time he sat cross-legged on the floor with cartons of lo mein and dumplings spread between you, the apartment felt eerily familiar, like it had been years rewinding instead of hours unraveling.

It reminded you of simpler times, before couches or good plates, when the two of you sat cross-legged on hardwood floors, shoulder to shoulder, eating straight out of greasy takeout boxes. Back when “making it” meant splitting an order of dumplings and praying rent wouldn’t bounce.

For a while, silence was enough. Chopsticks clicking, noodles slurped, the occasional shared glance. You let the rhythm soothe your nerves, though your eyes kept flicking to the far corner of the room where your iPad and phone sat stacked very high on a bookshelf and safely out of reach unless you dragged a chair over. Courtesy of Clark.

Your chopsticks hovered in the air, indecision pulling at you. He didn’t even look up, shoving a mouthful of noodles into his cheeks like a man starved, when he muttered through it.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You made an exaggerated whine in your throat, collapsing back against the wall. “You’re suffocating me, Smallville. That’s literally my work.”

“That’s your doomscrolling,” he countered flatly, stabbing a dumpling with his chopsticks like it had offended him.

You shot him a look, dramatic and wounded. “You’re much more bossy when you wear glasses. Did you know that? It’s–It’s appalling.”

He finally turned, a noodle dangling ridiculously from his mouth and smiled crookedly. “Did you know you’re quieter when you’re not holding a tablet? It’s… nice.”

You shoved him lightly with your shoulder, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself and then dug into your carton again. For the first time since the crowd, cameras and the flashing headlines, you almost felt normal.

You took a deep breath before speaking again, trying to steady yourself. “I’ll need to stay here, just a few days, see if it’ll blow over.”

Clark didn’t so much as blink, as though he’d been expecting that exact sentence. “I figured,” he said softly. His chopsticks hovered midair, forgotten. “If you make me a list, I can go grab anything from your place…not that you need to. You can wear my clothes…take anything.”

There was no hesitation, no caveat. Just that warm certainty in his voice that made you look up from your noodles. He said it so casually, like it was obvious, like your comfort belonged to him as much as his heartbeat did.

You smiled despite yourself, the smallest curve of your mouth tugging against the nerves still clawing at your chest. “Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence thick with things that felt too heavy to put into words. Clark shifted, resting his chopsticks against the edge of a carton, his gaze never quite leaving your face.

Finally, you filled the space. “You can’t talk to the media, either. No ‘Superman speaks up’ by Clark Kent in the Daily Planet. Not even a statement. If they find me and trace back to college, they’ll find you and then we’ll be two people tied to Superman instead of one.”

His brow furrowed, his lips parting like he wanted to argue but for once he actually swallowed the protest before speaking. “People on the internet go to those lengths?” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving but there was something protective in it too, like the idea of you being dragged into that mess soured his stomach more than any kryptonite ever could.

You nodded. “You’d be surprised. Only if you were strong enough…” You smirked faintly. “Don’t make me remind you how you reacted over the hashtag Supershit.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Threats, really? C’mon, you know that one specifically irritated me!”

“Exactly,” you cut in with a chuckle, nudging his foot with yours. His glare was soft at best, barely hiding the way his eyes lingered on you like you were an anchor he couldn’t let drift but you could feel it too, the way his attention weighed, the intensity of it and only when you relaxed back against the wall did he finally lean into his food again.

“It’s too soon to tell how it’ll unfold,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “For now…I stay here.” A groan escaped you as the absurdity of it sank in. “Congratulations, Smallville. You’ve officially managed to turn me into Beyoncé…without the paycheck.”

Clark nearly choked on a dumpling, eyebrows climbing over his glasses. “Beyoncé?” he echoed around a mouthful. His tone was incredulous, amused. “Don’t recall you singing that well in the sho–”

Your eyes went wide, heat flooding your cheeks. “Clark!!”

He grinned, utterly unrepentant, dimples flashing as his glasses slid a little down his nose. He looked at you the way he always did, like you were both the punchline and the prize, the mess and the miracle.

After dinner, you parted ways. You slipped into the guest bedroom, even after he insisted, half-pleaded, that you take his own, far more comfortable bed. The only way to end the argument had been to walk away mid-debate and shut the guest room door behind you.

The apartment sank into darkness and silence. Hours ticked by as unease crawled along your spine, keeping sleep just out of reach. Finally, barefoot and restless, you padded down the hall to his room. His door was ajar, tilted open as though waiting.

When you leaned in, he wasn’t asleep. His eyes found yours in the shadows, soft and knowing and without a word, he lifted his arm, peeling back the blanket in a quiet invitation.

“You’ve tossed and turned over twenty times in the last five minutes,” he murmured, voice rough with drowsy warmth. “I was starting to wonder if the distance between the bedrooms was even worth crossing to you.”

“It always is,” you whispered, slipping under the covers, where the world finally felt steady again.

You spent a long, quiet week at his apartment, a week that felt like it existed outside of time. No phones buzzing, no news feeds, no emails or social media, just the two of you, meals on the floor, movies half-watched and conversations that wandered from the utterly mundane to the ridiculous. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you began to forget the chaos of the streets, the glare of cameras and the suffocating scrutiny. Clark never brought it up, after he returned from work or Supermaning, he slipped in quietly, a soft “hi” and a warm smile that erased the world outside, never once mentioning the media storm that had prompted this self-imposed exile.

By the end of the week, it was time to go home. You flew there and landed on the firescape, you snuck in first but Clark hovered by your tiny window, his frame awkwardly hunched, shoulders brushing against the windowframe.

“See? Having a hole in the wall is great,” he quipped, struggling to twist his body through the narrow opening.

“Well, for instance here, size matters more than you’d think,” you replied, biting back a laugh as you leaned against the sill, arms crossed.

When you finally got to your own apartment, the contrast between the quiet refuge and the chaos you’d left behind was stark. You didn’t turn on your perfectly functioning TV. You didn’t even glance at your phone. Instead, you marched straight to your closet, fingers digging through the clothes that clearly belonged to Clark. Oversized shirts, sweaters and pants that were long enough to double as capes, you pulled them out and set them neatly for him.

“Here,” you said, voice casual but firm, gesturing to the pile. “And before you get excited, I’m picking the movie.”

He groaned, shrugging out of his suit mid-struggle, the cloth folding around him awkwardly in the middle of your living room. “You’ve picked the movies all week,” he grumbled.

“Not the whole week,” you corrected smoothly. “You picked the one we watched Wednesday night.”

His shoulders slumped with mock defeat. “I remember you saying you loved it.”

“Yeah, I said it was fine once,” you teased, voice light, “don’t let it go to your cape-sized ego.”

He laughed, shaking his head, sliding his glasses on as he gave you that look, the one that made you pause mid-breath. “You love the cape. You’re practically Superman’s number one fan!”

“I’m not criticizing Superman, only my best friend. Actually…maybe I should start. I wasn’t a big fan of how we landed on the fire escape, it needs to be softer, you know?. Yeah, I should really start giving you a performance review for rescues.”

“Please,” he smiled, tossing the empty suit onto the couch, “I live for your critique.”

“I’ll go easy on you, don’t worry. You know I—” You began, only to be interrupted by the shrill ring of your doorbell.

Clark’s head snapped toward the sound, his jaw tightening as his chest rose in a sharp, controlled inhale. His heart was pounding, not in flight or danger but sudden fear. He realized that for an entire week, he hadn’t listened to anything else but you when he was in your presence, never allowing his hearing to go beyond your voice. There was no need, you were safe in his apartment but now…

“Don’t open that door!” he barked, voice low and urgent.

“Relax, it’s just the pizza we orde–” you started, hand reaching for the knob.

Before you could even process the blinding flashes, a sudden swoosh of air hit your face. Clark had moved faster than the eye could track, closing the door with such precision that the lock clicked into place before you could blink. You whipped your head toward him, heart still racing, and found him leaning lightly against the door, one arm braced against it, chest rising and falling with controlled urgency. The glasses perched on his nose were slightly crooked and the faint pink on his cheeks only made him look more…human, somehow, in the chaos.

Your stomach dropped as your brain finally caught up. “Clark…what just—?”

“I said don’t open it!” he murmured, voice low but steady and you could hear the tension vibrating beneath the calm. “They–uh…they found you. The public, media…every phone camera in the block. You’re…well, you might be trending.”

Your jaw went slack. He nodded, eyes sweeping over the walls and windows, seeing through them all. “Yeah. On another note…uh…congratulations? I’ve always wanted you as my roommate,” he said, voice casual, almost teasing but the underlying edge made it clear this wasn’t a joke. “Looks like you’re going to be staying with me for a while.”

Hopefully forever.

Of course, the only guy who could make this kind of chaos feel like home…was Clark.

The kitchen already smelled like sugar and brown butter, the soft glow of the stove light warmed the space as you leaned against the counter, lazily spooning dough onto a second baking sheet. Clark hovered, and you really meant hovered, like a child who’d just learned how to stand upright. He wasn’t helping so much as… monitoring.

Every thirty seconds, his hand brushed your lower back, your wrist and then your belly. Not rough or obvious, but purposeful.

“You know,” you said, arching an eyebrow without looking at him, “you checking my pulse every time I blink is not going to keep the baby from coming out.”

Clark gave you that boyish, sheepish smile you loved. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

“You’ve been making sure for the last nine months,” you teased, plopping another mound of dough onto the tray. “I’ve basically been living with a walking, talking Fitbit.”

His smile softened but his eyes didn’t leave you. If anything, they sharpened. “Fitbits don’t hear heart murmurs.”

You froze mid-scoop, turning to him. “…Are you telling me something’s wrong?”

“No!” He put his hands up instantly, eyes wide. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re just… elevated. Your heart’s beating a little faster than normal.”

You squinted. “Clark, my heart rate goes up every time I bend down to pick up a sock. It’s called pregnancy...which you caused and I allowed.”

He tilted his head, listening and you hated when he did that, when his super-hearing tuned in on you and you suddenly felt like a lab rat. He frowned, murmuring, “I’m aware, thank you but It’s not just elevated. It’s… rhythmic. Like…contractions.”

You laughed, maybe too loudly. “Contractions? Clark, I think I’d know if I was in labor. That’s kind of a hard thing to miss.”

He just stared at you, dead serious. “You wouldn’t always know right away.”

You waved him off with the dough-covered spoon. “Says who? Because Reddit says otherwise…and Reddit is a hive mind of very panicked, very vocal mothers who all swear they knew the exact moment it started.”

Clark blinked. “…Reddit?”

“Yes, Reddit,” you shot back. “You think I’ve been reading ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’? No. I’ve been doomscrolling Reddit threads at two in the morning and those women would never let me live it down if I missed the signs.”

For a man who’d faced alien warlords and burning skyscrapers, Clark looked absolutely baffled. He blinked again, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sweetheart… you’re citing Reddit to argue with someone who can literally hear your uterus contracting.”

You dropped the spoon, gaping. “…You can hear my uterus?”

He gave a helpless little shrug, like it was just part of his everyday life. “It’s not like I'm trying…”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, pressing your hands over your face. “Do you have any idea how invasive that sounds? Like, ‘Hi honey, I can hear your organs whispering.’”

Clark’s lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “Well, for the record, they’re not whispering. More like… thumping. Strong, steady thumping.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You know how creepy that is, right?”

“I know,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “But it’s also why I’m telling you… I really think this is it.”

You sighed dramatically, scooping up the fallen spoon with exaggerated flourish. “And I really think you’re overreacting again. I told you, if something was happening, I’d know. Just like the women on Reddit.”

Clark muttered under his breath, “I can’t believe I’m losing an argument to Reddit.”

Before you knew it, he was pacing with his arms folded across his chest, brow furrowed in that way that made him look more like a stressed-out dad of four than the Man of Steel. You, meanwhile, were perched against the counter now, arms crossed, holding the spoon like it was a gavel.

“I’m telling you, sweetheart,” he said, voice measured but intense, “your heart rate isn’t just up because you’re tired or standing too long. It’s–”

“Don’t say rhythmic again,” you cut in sharply. “You say rhythmic one more time and I swear I’ll start timing my blinks to prove I’m fine.”

His jaw ticked but he actually looked like he was considering it. “That’s not… the worst idea.”

You rolled your eyes. “Clark, normal people do not monitor their spouses like Fitbits with super-hearing. This isn’t a Marvel movie. I’d know if I was in labor.”

He shot you a look, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t risk it. “You said that already and you cited… Reddit.”

“Exactly!” you jabbed the spoon toward him like it was evidence in your favor. “Reddit moms have never lied to me. They said you can tell when it’s the real deal and this–” you gestured vaguely at your still-very-pregnant body “–is not the real deal.”

Clark tilted his head in that eerie way he did when he was listening to something no one else could hear. His lips pressed together, his frown deepening. “Sweetheart, it is the real deal. I can hear the contractions. You’re in labor.”

You gawked at him. “Clark, you cannot just say things like ‘I can hear your contractions’ and expect me to take it at face value at 10pm. That’s not normal husband behavior.”

His voice softened, serious now. “You and I know that I’ve never been normal and you were just fine with that when we made that happen…Look, I don’t want to scare you. I just… I know what I’m hearing.”

The kitchen had turned into a courtroom drama. You were standing there by the cookie tray like it was Exhibit A, glaring at your husband moving his hands in the air like he was presenting closing arguments. His glasses had slid down his nose and you swore he looked more serious now than when he fought the Hammer of Boravia.

“Clark,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm but with that edge of sass that always came out when you were dug in, “I promise you, she’s chilling in there. I’m telling you, it’s fine.”

He folded his arms, chest puffing a little. “And I promise you, I can hear your uterus. I know what contractions sound like. I know what your heart sounds like and I know what–”

“Do not say you know what my cervix sounds like, I swear–.”

Clark’s ears turned red and he gave a little cough into his fist. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, you were!”

For a moment, it was just the hum of the oven and the smell of half-baked cookies between you, the standoff holding steady. You’d been here before: the unstoppable force of your certainty versus the immovable object of his Kryptonian stubbornness. Usually, he won but then… something in his expression shifted. His shoulders dropped, his lips pressed together and he exhaled like a man finally throwing in the towel.

“Fine,” he said softly, his voice almost tender. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m overreacting.”

Your mouth fell open a little. “Wait. Did you just–?”

“I yield,” Clark said simply, holding his hands up in surrender.

You blinked. “You never yield.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” He gave you a small, reassuring smile and for the first time that night, he didn’t look like Superman scanning for disaster, he just looked like Clark, your husband, deciding to trust you.

It was a sweet, quiet moment. Your chest loosened and you smiled back, almost giddy at your small victory. You both stood there, basking in the silence and then…

Splash.

The sound was loud enough to break through both of your sulks. 

“…Was that the sink?” you asked immediately, your voice a little too high-pitched and a little too hopeful. You knew what it was, but your brain latched onto denial like a lifeline. “Please tell me the sink broke again.”

Clark didn’t answer. He was staring at the floor, at the small but very obvious puddle spreading across the tiles just under your feet. His expression had gone from surrender to deer-in-the-headlights in less than a second.

“…Clark?” you called carefully.

His eyes flicked up to you, then back to the puddle. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Yes…my sweet, lovely–and I hope, very calm–wife?”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of the wet cling around your socks. “…Why are my socks wet?”

That did it. All the calm you’d been radiating all pregnancy… gone in seconds. You gasped, clutching his arm like he was about to float away. “Oh my god. My water just broke. My water just– Clark!”

“Uh, looks like it.”

“I’m gonna give birth to…” you sucked in a shaky breath, words tumbling out in a frantic rush– “an extraterrestrial baby?! In our kitchen?! Next to a tray of unbaked chocolate chip cookies?!”

Clark’s hands flew up, flapping in that helpless “don’t panic” gesture that absolutely never worked. “No, no, no, no– you’re not giving birth in the kitchen. Like you said, she’s…the baby’s chilling…sort of.”

“Oh my god, I knew this would happen. You– you jinxed me! All your Fitbit speeches, all your ‘I hear your uterus’ warnings–” Your voice cracked as you pointed at him, socks squelching on the tile. “And now look! Now we’re standing in… in amniotic fluid!”

Clark winced, like the word itself physically pained him. “Sweetheart, please–”

“No! Don’t sweetheart me right now!” You paced a step, hands flying everywhere, heart pounding in your ears. “I am not ready! I don’t even have the hospital bag zipped! What if the zipper gets stuck now? I haven’t shaved my legs in two weeks! I thought we had more time, Clark!” You paused, “A Kryptonian baby…I–I couldn’t ask about that on Reddit.”

He moved in quickly, catching your hands mid-flail and bringing them to his chest. His own voice was steady, steadier than it had been all night even though his eyes were wide and his ears were pink. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You glared up at him, on the verge of tears. “I am looking at you! At the man who’s about to watch me give birth to a half-human, half-Kryptonian spawn on the kitchen floor! Does that make us horrible parents!?”

Clark’s lips twitched, like he wanted to laugh but absolutely knew better. He smoothed his hands over yours, speaking low and calm. “You’re not giving birth on the kitchen floor, my love and it’s far too soon to say we’ve failed.”

“You promise?!”

“Promise.”

There was another beat of silence. The oven dinged cheerily behind you, announcing the first batch of cookies was done and you both stared at it like it had personally offended you.

Clark cleared his throat. “…Do you still want the cookies?”

You gaped at him. “CLARK!”

The kitchen had turned into a sitcom set on fast-forward. You were moving in jittery circles, grabbing random things off the counters that had nothing to do with going into labor. Clark was zipping around the apartment, clearly trying to look calm but radiating the same energy as a golden retriever trapped in a thunderstorm.

“Okay–okay, uh, I need my slippers, the fuzzy ones, not the ones with the hole–” You were halfway to the hallway, then spun back around. “And my charger, because obviously labor takes forever and I am not letting my phone die during this, she’ll want to listen to white noise when she’s out or maybe she won’t like it anymore…and the car seat, we have the car seat, right? Oh my god, Clark, did we ever even install the car seat?!”

“We did, sweetheart, I double-checked this morning.” He was already at the bookshelf, flipping through a thick binder.

You froze, pointing at him with wild eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Finding the list.” His voice was clipped, focused. “I made a list for this exact moment. Actually, I made several lists. Hospital checklist. Emergency bag checklist. Post-birth checklist. The secondary post-birth checklist and the–”

“Clark!” you shrieked. “You made, like, hundreds of lists! If you try to go through all of them right now, I’m going to give birth in this kitchen and haunt you for the rest of your Kryptonian life!”

He froze, binder halfway open, looking properly chastised. “…Okay, no list then.”

You ran your hands over your belly. Your heart was pounding so hard you felt like you could hear it in your throat. “Oh god, oh god–maybe… maybe it’s not even happening. Maybe this is… you know. Just…pee.” You gestured vaguely at the floor, your wet socks squelching again as if to prove it. “Yeah, it’s probably pee! Happens all the time in pregnancy. Everyone says it on Reddit. Definitely pee. Totally not about to push a baby out of my body.”

Clark stared at you with an expression that very clearly said ‘you don’t even believe it yourself’.

But you stood there nodding anyway, almost convincing yourself. “See? False alarm. Totally fine. We can just clean the floor, put the cookies on a plate, cook the second batch and–”

“UGHHHHH!”

The contraction hit like a freight train.

Your entire body stiffened, breath catching in your throat as pain bloomed and spread hot across your belly. Your hands shot out to grip the counter turning your knuckles white as your eyes went wide in panic. “Oh my god–ohmygodohmygodohmyGOD–”

Clark was there in an instant, both his hands bracketing yours on the counter, voice calm but urgent. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you. Breathe with me. Just breathe–”

“Breathe?! BREATHING IS A LUXURY!” you practically shrieked, face scrunching as another wave rolled through. “Oh my god, this isn’t pee. This is so not pee!”

“Definitely not pee,” Clark confirmed quickly, eyes wide with worry but tone even, trying desperately to ground you.

Then, the oven beeped again and both of your heads snapped toward it once more. The smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies filled the kitchen, utterly mocking you.

“Clark,” you panted through clenched teeth, jabbing a finger at the oven.

“…Sweetheart, I don’t think now is the–”

“CLARK. THE COOKIES!! Your daughter wanted cookies! Or are you going to make her wait until she can chew to have them!?”

His jaw tightened. For half a second, the Man of Steel looked like he was calculating whether saving cookies was worth risking his life but then he sighed and sped over, yanking the tray out with his bare hands.

“Damn it, that was really hot…” you squeaked between rapid breaths, eyes watering almost against your will.

“Baby, focus.” he warned, voice steady but serious.

You rolled your eyes, tone rising. “I meant the tray… see? This is exactly why I’m pregnant! When will I ever learn?”

The cookies were still bubbling dangerously, steam wafting up. Without missing a beat, Clark pursed his lips and blew a gentle stream of arctic breath over them. Instantly, the steam vanished, the cookies firming up into perfect golden-brown rounds, ready to eat.

You blinked at him through the aftershocks of your contraction, sweaty and wild-eyed. “…Did you just super-breathe my cookies?”

“Priorities,” he said gravely, setting the tray on the counter.

Despite everything, the puddle on the floor and the fact that a baby was about to arrive, you burst out laughing, tears streaming down your face from the sheer absurdity. It was half-hysterical, half-genuine but it was enough to break the panic for just a second.

Clark’s lips twitched into a shaky smile as he rubbed your back. “See? Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ve got the bag. We’ve got the car seat. We’ve got the cookies. What else do we need?”

Another contraction started creeping up and your laughter dissolved into a groan. “An epidural, Clark. I need an epidural.”

“Right,” he said immediately. “Epidural. Got it."

Clark was already hovering, arms out like he was ready to whisk you away at any second. His whole body was taut, vibrating with tension, like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun.

“Okay, I can get us to the hospital in thirty seconds if I–”

“NO.” You jabbed a finger at him, panting through another shallow breath. “Don’t even think about it. You are not zooming me down Main Street in labor, Clark!”

He blinked, utterly scandalized that you’d cut off his plan. “But–but what if there’s traffic? Or a pothole? Or a red light? Sweetheart, there are so many variables at normal speed–”

You stared at him, sweat dripping down your temple, socks still wet and delivered the flattest, deadliest line of your entire life: “The only red light I’m worried about is the ones we might run if you don’t calm. The hell. Down.”

Clark shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked, then nodded like you’d just given him the wisdom of the ages. “…Except I already put money aside for the traffic tickets.”

You groaned through another contraction, gripping the counter. “Okay, okay! That works too.”

Clark nodded so frantically he looked like he might shake the whole house. “Good, let’s be positive. This is a completely casual trip to the hospital. I’ll even–uh–use the blinker...she might not even want to come out that bad.”

You squinted at him through another contraction. “Oh, trust me, she does.” You paused, breath stuttering. “And you’d better. If Superman doesn’t use his turn signals, our kid is never looking up to you.”

“Sweetheart–”

“I’m good. Bag the cookies!” you barked, gripping the counter like it might steady you.

Clark startled, then spun toward the counter where the already-cooled cookies sat waiting. In record time, he had a paper bag open, carefully sliding them inside with the precision of someone handling priceless artifacts. When he turned back, he offered the bag with a sheepish little smile. “For… morale?”

You grabbed the bag and picked one out with trembling fingers and took a bite, glaring at him mid-chew. “If I’m about to give birth to an extraterrestrial baby, Clark, the least I deserve is a damn cookie.”

His lips twitched like he was about to argue, then he thought better of it. Instead, he darted into the living room and snatched up the hospital bag you’d prepped together weeks ago. Slinging it over his shoulder, he hurried back, his whole body buzzing with adrenaline.

Then he bent and swept you up bridal-style, as if you weighed no more than the cookie bag you tucked carefully onto your belly. You clutched it like a prize while he steadied you in his arms.

He was trembling, not from fear anymore but from the sheer rush of this is happening. As he headed for the door at “normal speed,” you heard him mutter under his breath, low and almost reverent: “Good grief, we’re really doing this…”

You groaned, shifting the bag. “Not without the cookies we’re not.”

Clark’s eyes flicked down at you, exasperated but helplessly in love, even as you adjusted the cookie bag closer to you. You took a bite mid-contraction, chewed, then sighed into his chest as the pain ebbed.

“Told you she wanted a cookie,” you mumbled smugly around the crumbs.

“I believe that but we are definitely going to need to have a long, serious talk about your Reddit habits once this is over.” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You muttered under your breath, “Party pooper.”

Clark just chuckled softly, clearly having heard you, his lips twitching in amusement as he pressed another quick kiss to your temple. “If this is a preview, I can only imagine how fun the next eighteen years are going to be. Can’t wait.”

A/n: Thank you for joining me again guys! If you enjoyed this, a like or reblog goes a long way and if you keep seeing my work and can’t resist, maybe hit follow too. Stay tuned for more dad!Clark antics coming up next!

This was Clark’s face when you kept mentioning Reddit btw:

Frost covered blades of grass crunch under your boots as you stare past the fence into the pasture, food bin and scoop falling to the ground. All the horses are lined up respectively in front of their buckets, except one.

Bolt.

Foreboding gathers a knot in your stomach as you slip through the gate, ignoring the Mable’s indignant huff. He’s not moving, still as a stone on his side, and you know before you get there.

He’s dead.

“Fuck. Fuck.” The second one cracks, breaks with the pressure of pain, sadness splintering it into two. “Bolt.” He was Liam’s. One of only two geldings, the only thoroughbred in the group. Retired from the amateur circuit, Liam bought him at an auction on impulse, brought him home without a word, just a shrug. He fit in well enough, was an easy ride, fun when he got going. You haven’t had him out in ages. “I’m sorry buddy.”

Your mind is already racing, trying to figure things out, make a plan. The process of disposing of a dead horse is not an easy one. You need a tractor, or a skid steer. You need to decide if you’re going to bury them on the property somewhere, or load them into a trailer to be taken for cremation, or pay a disposal service. To bury them, you need to rent an excavator. For cremation, they charge per pound. And the removal service, the costs vary. Either way, you’re shelling out money you don’t have, and either way, you won’t be at work today. You’ll have to take Riley to school and come back, sort it-

Riley. What are you going to do about Riley?

Riley’s talked about Bolt. Her dad’s racehorse. Dreamed of riding him, and now she’ll never get the chance, another connection to her parents, severed. Just another thing that will hurt her, another thing she’ll have to mourn. Another thing you can’t change or protect her from, another part of her life that will be painful.

You let yourself be sad for one minute. One quick minute of blinking back tears and holding your breath, one minute of rebuilding a bunch of blocks and walls that have been decimated. You can’t be weak, you can’t be like this. You have to do better, for Riley.

You have to be strong.

Your manager answers on the second ring.

“I’m sorry,” you start, already cringing, “I know it’s last minute but I’m not coming in today.” She sighs on the other end of the line, but doesn’t give you much shit. She can’t. You’re fairly reliable compared to others.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” No. “Everything’s fine.” She says something else but you’ve stopped listening, too busy scrolling through a website offering the removal service and then you hang up with an apology.

It’s less than ten minutes before your phone is ringing again.

Except this time, it’s not work.

It’s your husband.

“Maria said you called out. Are you alright?” It rushes out of him through the speaker, stress hanging from every syllable. “What didn’t you call me?”

“Yes.” You answer, clinging to a facade of control. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Is it Riley?” He presses.

“No, we’re… it’s fine.”

“Okay… do you need me?” Yes. Yes, you want to scream, yes I need you. Come here. Help me. Hold my hand while I do this. Kiss me and tell me everything is going to be okay like you always do. Hold me.

“No it’s just… something with the horses.” Key jingle in the background and you bite your lip until it stings.

“I can. I don’t have anything scheduled, I’m just here for call. I’m-”

“It’s okay, really.” The truth is, you don’t know what would happen if he came. You might crumble. You might lose your mind, fall apart, turn into a mess, and you can’t have that. You need to handle this. “I’ve got it under control.” He’s silent in response, and you swallow. “I’m fine.” It’s too familiar. The conversation is a ghost of months past, and you expect him to override you, overrule, the usual insistence, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he sighs.

“Alright Daisy.”

Work is busy.

The unit is on divert. Half the hospital is on divert, the full moon hanging over everyone’s head like a guillotine making you eternally grateful you’re off at seven. You’ve been there, done that. No thanks.

You’ve been dodging Simon left and right. Calls, texts, in the hallway, at bedside. You’ve gotten by with quick conversations, peeling away at every opportunity, throwing out excuses left and right. He keeps trying to pin you down in between the madness of this week, the over influx of patients that never seems to stop, all of it giving you ample time to escape. You shouldn’t be avoiding him, and you’re stricken at the pain it causes you, like a sore spot under your ribs, a blooming bruise sprawling across your skin. He’s changed you, broken down bits and pieces and reshaped them, made them soft, vulnerable, chinks in your armor turned to crevasses. The worst part of it all is these pieces aren’t even yours anymore.

They’re his.

“Daisy!” He barks over the heads of dayshift, charging down the hallway at break neck speed. “We’ve got one landing, let’s go.” Key’s eyes are as wide as saucers, and you shoot her a pleading look, even though you know she’s irritated with you because he’s been on a tear. She shakes her head vehemently. That’s gonna be a no.

You struggle to keep up, practically tripping over yourself in the race to the elevator, rattling off questions about what exactly is coming in, and getting short, succinct answers in response.

The elevator doors close, and he punches the button for the roof before crossing his arms. It’s stifling. Suffocating almost, and suddenly you’re not his wife, you’re the new hire, the one who left a stuffed animal in a crib, who misinterpreted a blood gas.

Though you haven’t really been acting like his wife this week.

You’ve been running in the opposite direction of him.

“I…” you want to explain yourself, apologize, but you don’t know how, and at the same time you think you owe him none of it at all.

“You what?” Frustration rattles your name on his lips and it’s jarring. He hasn’t snapped at you in so long you almost forgot how it sounded. How it felt.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.” He cocks his head.

“No one likes a liar Daisy.” You turn stiff, palms now sweating at your sides. Jesus Christ. “Are you ready?”

“I- what?” You can’t collect your thoughts, thrown too far off track, and his jaw clenches.

“Are you ready? Can you do your job or do I need to find someone else to do it?” You’re the bug again. The one under his microscope or worse, his shoe.

“I can do it.” You’re on his heels down the hall to where a helicopter has landed, your patient already off-loaded. She’s tiny, and grief cements around your heart. She must be barely viable, and just looking at her, how small she is, her nearly translucent skin, you already know. Her chances are worse than slim, they’re practically non-existent.

You say nothing on the way down as Simon thumbs through a tablet and goes over the need-to-know with the flight team. You just press your hand to the incubator, watch her little chest rise and fall, counting each one. It’s moments like these, patients like these that have you convinced you’re not cut out for this, that you shouldn’t be here at all, no matter how good the raise was.

“Daisy.” Simon snaps, redirecting your focus, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “Focus.” Right. Focus. You don’t look his way, but you nod. It’s the best you can do.

It’s late when the headlights flash across the house. Late enough Riley is already in bed, and you’re on the couch in a thread bare sweater and pajama pants, watching tv while trying not to look at your phone. You were livid today when you left work and it’s been left to fester, rotting your brain and turning the tissue black.

The lights have your heart jumping out of your chest. No one comes here. You’re almost two miles from the road, and while it’s not unheard of for Liv or Ava to randomly show up, you highly doubt that’s who it is.

You don’t even have to look out the curtain. You know it’s him.

His steps are heavy on the front porch, knuckles leaden against the glass, and you’re breathless as you stand at the door, trapped in flight or fight.

“Hi.” You croak. His arms are crossed, lips pressed into a firm line. If this was his office, he’d be leaned against the desk, legs stretched out in front of him, unimpressed glare frosting his eyes. But this is not his office, it’s your house, and the way he’s looking at you is all too familiar. Scrutinizing. Studying. “Um-”

“We need to talk.” The words are staccato, short and detached.

“Right. Yeah.” He follows you inside to the kitchen, and neither of you sit, instead taking respective places across from one another. You lean against the counter and try not to lose your nerve. “So-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Your jaw drops. Even if you wanted to try to control your response, you couldn’t. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, or whatever you’ll say to try to explain it all away. I want the truth.” Your jaw drops. You couldn’t hide your reaction even if you wanted to, because what would you say? You’d just end up stacking another lie on top of everything else if you told him he was wrong. And you both know it.

“I had a tough week.” He shakes his head.

“Liam’s horse died.” You freeze, eyes widening in disbelief.

“I- what- how-” You snap your mouth shut. Olivia.

“Don’t be mad at her,” he says quietly. “I don’t think she realized Kyle would say something.”

“Kyle. Nice.” Your words fall flat. Fucking Olivia.

“This isn’t about Olivia. It’s about you, not telling me that you were going through something difficult, not askin’ me for help.” His accent is thicker, sharper. A knife to your heart.

“I didn’t need it.” You sniff, and he smiles but it’s not the one you’re used to, it’s not the small one, or the one that’s warm and spreads all the way to his eyes. Instead, it’s almost cruel. There’s no love in it, and it’s a revelation realizing how much you want it to be there.

“Right, you didn’t need it. You don’t need anything, you don’t need help, you don’t need me, do you?”

“Simon.” You don’t know what to say, everything is falling away. Masks, armor, foundations. All of the control you spent this week trying to gather up and hide away in, it’s fleeing.

“Because you’re fine. Sounds familiar.”

“I really didn’t need help, it was just stupid horse stuff, and I wasn’t ready...” To talk about it.Your defense of your decisions, your words, is flimsy as hell, pathetic. It tastes like failure. He looms in front of you, moves closer, impenetrable rock standing tall in the sea, no matter how violent the waves that crash against it are.

“You weren’t ready for what baby?” For this. For any of it. For Liam’s horse to die, to lose one more connection to them, to get farther and farther away from a world where they existed.

“I don’t know.” You stare at the floor, try to ignore the ghosts of his fingertips trailing your jaw. He’s trying to crack you open, dig around in all these soft spots he’s made. You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” His hand slides to your nape, rests there. “I’m so sorry sweetheart.” Oh fuck.

“For what?”

“For what you’ve been through.” The backs of his knuckles stroke your cheek. He has two hands on you now, and the one at the back of your neck is solid in its grip. You can’t take a step back or to the side because he’s got you anchored. “For who’ve you lost.” You jerk but he holds you still.

“Thanks.” It’s void of emotion, flat line. He traces your bottom lip before slipping his thumb past it to find your teeth.

“I know how much it hurts to be here when they’re not, when they’re gone.” Your heart’s dull rhythm sharpens, and you swallow.

“Yeah, well.”

“Losing a sibling… nothing will ever take away how painful it is.” Jesus Christ. You try to sidestep him, try to get away but it’s pointless. Hunter, hunted, predator, prey, it’s playing out in your kitchen. “But you haven’t even had to time mourn them, have you? You went from being a sister to a parent overnight, takin’ care of a little girl who lost her parents.” It’s like he’s shot you, the pain is so real you wouldn’t be surprised if you were bleeding out from a hole in the middle of your chest.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” You intend it to be strong, but it comes out as a choke.

“You have to. It’s hurting you, keepin’ it all to yourself, and I won’t let you hurt yourself like this anymore.”

“I’m not, I’m not hurting myself.” His hold slackens and he shifts, just a little, but it’s enough for you to dip out from his hand and through the gap between the counter and his side.

“Daisy.” His tone is so even, so calm, like he’s not affected whatsoever by his this. You slide across the tile, no idea where you’re going. No end goal, just fleeing on instinct, looking for an advantage, a way to shut this down, shut him out, force-

He grabs you from behind. It’s so fast, and before you can truly process it, he has you pressed against the wall, your cheek flush with the paint.  The shiver of the thrill, of the chase, illogically ricochets up your spine, and desire sparks in your belly. It makes you all that more angry. You thrash, wiggle, rock from side to side but he’s too strong, his entire weight pressed against you too formidable to throw off. “What-”

“Relax, Daisy. Just relax.” His lips brush the shell of your ear, and then your cheek, your jaw, each kiss sweeter and sweeter, tender to the bone. His chest expands slow, steady, deep breaths and yours follow, syncing together naturally, seamlessly. “That’s good baby, that’s perfect.”

“What are you doing?” You snap, twisting, but it’s useless.

“I’m takin’ care of you.” He kisses the back of your neck and then works upward again, grazes your earlobe, finds your temple. You shiver. An animal has taken over your mind, your instincts and blood running hot, memories of his fingers, his mouth, his touch everywhere. You wear him like a brand. “Everything’s okay.” You feel his words, and you don’t want them. You don’t need them. He’s always saying it, you’re okay, Daisy, everything’s okay, everything is going to be fine.

“Stop.” You hiss. This time, you really try. You wedge a foot against the baseboard and push, arcing, creating a minute amount of space before he forces you back into position, pressing you against the wall.

“Try again if you want.” His knee knocks yours wide and you shake your head. “Tell me you don’t want this,” his hand moves across your stomach, slow, patient, locking you in place. You try to roll the words off your tongue but they’re stuck, jammed up behind the whirling storm that’s taken over your mind, your heart, the ache blooming between your legs. “Maybe you want something else instead? You don’t want it sweet, we already know that. You’re not sure you even deserve it, but maybe this…” A switch flips. He goes from tender to cold, and you know if you could see his face, you wouldn’t see your Simon, you’d see the surgeon. “Maybe this is what you want. This is who you want. This is who doesn’t make you think about your sister, who lets you run away when it hurts, who doesn’t care how hard it is for you, who let’s you hide, right?” This fucking man. You hate him.

“What? No, I don’t know.” Nothing makes sense and you’re lost in it, the fog that’s rolled in, the one that has you moaning when he nips at the junction of your neck and shoulder, worn out sweater pushed to the side to reveal your skin.

“Such a smart girl, but so wrong and you don’t even know it.” He slips beneath the band of your sports bra to find your nipples, already stiff, tight as he rolls one under his thumb. Your stomach clenches.

“You’re an asshole.”

“No baby, I’m your husband.” He tugs your jaw, turns your mouth to his and claims it, swallows your half hearted protest, sucks the bitter rage free and leaves longing in its wake. It just makes you all that more angry.

“You can’t just come in here and- and-” His hand snakes downward, beneath your sweatpants to find your shame. You’re wet. It’s unfair. Being touched by him, even like this ruins you, could bring you to your knees without a fuss.

“An’ do what?” Kiss you. Touch you.

Love you.

Ruin you.

It’s getting to be too much.

“Simon-” His hand plunges into your pants. Threadbare flannel, years old, they give immediately, and his fingers slide into your panties.  You jolt like a live wire.

“What?” Teeth on your ear, a pinch then a kiss. Sharp then sweet, symbolic in a way. “Simon what?”

“I- fuck.”

“What is it sweet girl?” He murmurs into your skin, thumb rolling across your clit. “What do you want?”

“More.” He doesn’t listen, doesn’t give in. Instead, he practically yanks you away from the wall, pushes you towards the couch until he’s folding you over the back, ass in the air, pants at your ankles.

“Yeah? You want more, ’s that it? You want your husband to touch you, make you come?” You nod, whimper, pathetic noises betraying your desperation. You don’t care about anything except this, this right now. Him and you. “Never thought,” his fingers find their hold between your legs, slipping through where you’re soaked and inside, hitching upward against that small spot that makes your spine curl, “this is how it would be our first time.” You try to turn, to see, but his other hand is firm at the small of your back, and you don’t have much slack.

The drag of his zipper ricochets around the room like a gunshot, and the noise you make is more animal than human. Fight or flight.

“I- are you-” The head of his cock drags along the back of your thigh and you gasp. His hand clamps down on the back of your neck, pinning you in place, smearing you across the slide and settling you under the microscope. You can’t move, yet he orders you to anyway. “Stay still.”

“Simon.” it’s you can manage, is his name. It’s all you have to convey your confusion, your desire, your hesitation, until, weakly- “condom?” He’s closer, cock slipping between your folds, every movement a bolt to your swollen clit.

“A husband doesn’t fuck his wife with a condom.” You almost black out right then and there. Struck by lightning, darkness ebbs, waiting to close in around you. A husband doesn’t fuck his wife with a condom. “Spread your legs baby, there- good.” There’s a notch, a key in a lock, and you try to garble out some nonsense about a condom again. “I’d never put you at risk.” A full body shudder rattles against yours, and you arch. “I take care of you Daisy, I look after what’s mine.” He nudges, it pinches, and you whimper. “C’mon, open up f’me.” He doesn’t wait, doesn’t linger in the aftermath, and the weight of his cock inside you grows heavier. Too big. Too much.

“Oh, oh-” You try to inch away but the hand on your neck doesn’t give. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips. “It won’t- you’re too big.”

“”I’ve got you,” he reassures, squeezing your hip, the flesh of your ass, but the stretch is burning, and panic is rising in your chest. Your breath hiccups too sharply. “Breathe through it baby, you can take me.” Each word is a balm, a command that coaxes you, and he strokes a hand down your spine as he waits, patient as ever, watching as always. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.” He pushes deeper and you stiffen again. “Easy- there you go.” You’re so full it’s like he’s in your stomach, in your chest, but each kiss, each languid trail of his fingertips soothes you, softens you. As always. You push up, tipping your head back to find the pillow of his flesh and close your eyes as you rock against him. He drags his mouth down your throat, kissing the frantic pulse beneath your jaw, each one more reverent than the last. Something burns at the back of your eyes, something long lost and hidden away, something that almost doesn’t recognize what’s happening, what’s been happening all along. It’s hard to remember what it’s like to do anything but survive.

His fingers slip between your legs to your clit to circle the bundle of nerves slowly. Each touch intentional, every single second thought out, planned with patience, tender, and the sound you make is less of a moan and more of a choked cry, the raging river running beneath your skin threatening to force it’s way out. He’s slow with it. Methodically pushing you towards an orgasm but not giving quite enough to unravel you, instead leaving you right there on the edge as he grinds his hips and fucks you deeper.

“Simon.” Your lower lip is trembling and your eyelashes are dewy. What is happening to you? Panic closes your throat. “I need- I can’t-”

“Just breathe Daisy. You’re alright.” Another thrust, another circle of his fingertips and you’re arching, straining onto your tiptoes, trying to find more. “That’s it, perfect. You’re perfect.” You’re drowning. Drowning alive, gasping and shaking and holding onto the arm he has around you so tight there might be blood beneath your nails, desperately trying to fight the wave that’s about to crash down and break you. “Come for me.”

“I can’t- ah,” you shake your head repeatedly, stuck in a loop.

“You can baby, it’s okay.” But it’s not okay. This is not okay. “I’m right here, I’m with you. Let it out, give it to me.”

“N-no.” This time, it truly is a sob, and your wet cheek turns into his chest. “You don’t… you don’t understand.”

“There isn’t a single piece of me that doesn’t understand you, Daisy. From the very first day I met you, I’ve always understood you. I’ve-” It’s choked off, whatever he was going to say, and instead his teeth find your shoulder, the pressure of a bite clamping down. It smarts, just enough to spark a fire in your belly and pull you from the fight. You loose your grip on the rope. You fall. Too fast, too hard, it’s violent, and you shatter into stars, millions of little lights exploding across the sky. “Fuck. There it is,” he grits, picking up his own pace to follow you, fall into the night with you, every shred of your control finally crumbling down.

You’re not present when he pulls out, when he supports your weight during the short walk to the couch, when he gently leans you back into the pillows, you don’t flinch when he runs a warm cloth between your legs, you barely register his low cadence, the steady hum of his words. “I’m so proud of you, you did so good, I’ve got you.”

“I love you.”

You’re still in the sky, a million stars in his arms, stardust clinging to every piece of him.

It’s real. All of it. It’s real.

And you’re not alone.

His heartbeat is steady under your ear. An easy tempo to match yours, and you follow the rise and fall of his chest, syncing your breaths. He cups your cheek, tips your head back, eyes searching, cataloguing. Whatever he sees, it meets inspection, and he smiles. One of the ones that crinkles his eyes.

“There she is. There’s my girl.” You can’t see past the tears that blur your vision, can’t hear anything over his words, can’t feel anything but his body, inside and out. The truth is overwhelming, like you’ve run straight into the thing you’ve been trying to escape all along. This flame he’s been feeding inside you, the one that’s been growing against your will.

“I love you.” It bursts free, cracks you open, and you feel his stutter, his surprise before he pulls you into his chest, cups the back of your head and presses his lips to your temple, your crown, every spare inch he can find.

“Christ, Daisy.” His mouth grazes yours delicately before turning hungry, and he kisses you until your lips sting and swell. “You’re mine.” He holds your face in his hands, holds you steady and still as he stares down at you. “You’re mine, you’ve always been mine, and you’ll never be alone again. I love you, Daisy. I love you.” The realization is humbling. It’s been this way the whole time. Through every fight. Every time you bolted or tried to throw him off, he’s stayed firm, because it’s real. It’s love. And it burns so brightly inside you, you’re not sure it can ever be snuffed out.

“This is it. For both of us. It’s real.”

“This is it baby. It’s real.” You fold your fingers with his, two rings shining in the low light. Two promises, two truths. The rest of it, the details, the logistics, they don't matter. All that matters is this man, who's made you and Riley his family, who's vowed to take care of you over and over again. The man who saved your niece so you could spend the rest of your life loving her. The man who's been here even when you've hurt him, the surgeon, the husband, the paradox. The one who catches you, crumbles you-

loves you.

“Til death do us part.” You breathe, finally understanding. Finally seeing. He smiles again, presses your palm against his heart, and nods.

Your voice cracks as the dust kicks up at her back, and he settles his hand between your shoulder blades, thumb working circles just under the edge of your scapula.

“Let her go.” She’s shrieking with laughter, cowboy boots tipping toe to toe through the crowd, another little girl hot on her heels, both of them bee-lining to a… cow.

American rodeo is bloody weird.

You lean into him. Sigh. Turn your face into his chest as he folds you into his side. There’s no protest, hesitation, no second thoughts, you go easy.

It’s like a dream. One he knows he’s going to wake up from because it can’t possibly be this easy, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Riley would’ve grown up here.” You give someone a polite smile as they pass, silver lines of sympathy in their eyes. You’re known here, the two of you, and being in it with you has painted the picture for him. This would have been Tess. Tess and Riley. Walking the grounds together, visiting friends, loading and unloading horses in trailers, oiling saddles and braiding manes. “She should grow up here.” Regret twists your tongue and the last word is thick. “She would have, if I had been better.”

“Daisy…”

“I just… I’m not her. It didn’t feel right, trying to insert myself in a place where I don’t belong, and I can’t imagine her doing any of this, getting hurt, you know?” People move in every direction, fans, vendors, competitors, cowboys, cowgirls, kids, families. You maneuver around all of it with grace, pulling him in your wake. For someone who doesn’t belong here, you fit pretty well. He can see you here, you and Riley, a whole chapter of your life never to be written now. “Not like I had the time anyway. Or the money.” You come to a stop on the outside of a ring, big metal fencing looped around where a woman sits comfortably on an idle horse.

“You’ve done your best.” The horse moves, but the rider doesn’t. She’s still, somewhat slouched, but if he looks closer, he can see the muscles in her thighs flexing, dots and dashes pulsing like morse code, each one eliciting a movement beneath her.

He bites his tongue at the mention of money. Battle for another day. He’s not keen on invoking other arguments, not right now. It was a struggle to be here, a win he managed by cheating.

“Let me come with you,” he murmurs against the corner of your mouth as if he could force the words inside, change your mind. “Let me be there for you, so you can be there for Riley.”

“I don’t know…” the words die on a gasp as he pushes a finger inside you, your velvet walls snug. Too snug.

“Christ you’re tight baby. Gonna have to stretch you out f’me.”

“O-oh.” Your hips rock, looking for the heel of his hand, but he flexes his wrist, pulls it away, deprives you.

“Let me come with you.” He kisses you again, cups the back of your head with his hand to keep you close. “Let me come to the rodeo, and I’ll make you come.” You whine, shifting around to find a rhythm around where his finger is stationary, not giving you an inch.

“You’re not- it’s not fair.”

No one said he had to fight fair.

“She didn’t get to grow up here like Tess maybe would have wanted her too, but that doesn’t mean she’s not happy.” You shake your head in disagreement but he stops you, hands on your shoulders. “She is happy, Daisy. You’ve done great baby. Would it have been different for her? Yeah. But that doesn’t mean what you’ve done isn’t just as good.”

“She is happy,” you whisper to your feet, and he skims the skin at the collar of your skirt.

“And healthy, and safe. She’s doin’ just fine without this.” You nod.

“Maybe you’re right.” He doesn’t bother telling you he’s right about most things when it comes to you, even the ones you vehemently disagree on. Instead, he settles for a kiss to your forehead and a sigh.

“C’mon. Let’s go see what this cow’s all about.”

Your driveway is long, and dirt. Bumpy. It’s a wonder anyone can sleep through the mile and half long length, let alone two people, but here you are. You and Riley, eyes closed, your head tipped back, Riley half leaned over in her booster seat, dead to world. You don’t even wake when he pulls your door open, lashes only beginning to flutter as he rubs your thigh, pats you lightly on your hip. “We’re home sweetheart.”

“Already?” You blink groggily, undoing your seatbelt to step out, unsteady and tilted to one side. You don’t go far, because he's there, his hands never left you.

Will never.

“Easy.”

“Shit.” You glance at Riley and wince. “Shit.”

“I’ll get her.” You rub your temples, drained. It was a long day, and you’re exhausted, as always. It’s your default setting. It drives him insane.

“No, that’s okay, I can-”

“I’ll get her.” He's firmer and the ripple effect of a swallow works it way upward until your expression turns to acceptance, almost resignation. You huff.

“Fine.” She stirs when he unbuckles the belt and he tips her forward, sliding arms beneath her knees to ease her carefully from the backseat.

“We home?” You rub her back.

“We’re home ladybug.” Soft puffs of air tickle his neck as he brings her inside, following you to her room where he lays her on her bed.

“I’ll wait downstairs.” He tells you as you slide her boots off. You hum something under your breath that sounds like an okay, but it’s a low melody, your delicate, stressful, beautiful dance, the one you struggle with so much. You’ve only let him have small clips of this, only let him in so much, and he needs more. So much more.

“Simon,” the floorboards creak at his pause, his heart skipping at the tender, sweet glow in your eyes. “Thank you.”

“No, oh god, no. Please.”

Beth crumples, careening towards the floor with a wail, a tiny baby Joseph in the carrier next to her, blinking up at his mother. Simon drops to his knees beside them both, pulls Beth into his arms as she sobs, shakes like she's breaking apart. There are words exchanged, something he mutters over his shoulder at Tommy’s doctor, ordering them to leave.

“He was on his way home,” Beth moans, “he was just- he was on his way home.” He doesn’t have the stomach to think about it, his brother getting in the car after work to go home, nearly there before being slammed into by a truck, crushed by the force of it, body broken Killed. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on it, the pain, the fear Tommy must have felt. The devastation knowing he’d never see his wife again. He wouldn’t get to see his son grow up. He can’t get distracted. Not when what Tommy’s left behind needs him so badly now.

The door creaks. He twists to tell whoever it is to make themselves scarce, but it’s John, and his expression is grim. Haunted. “What it is?”

“Need you to come with me.” Dread swirls in his blood, and rises on autopilot, following his friend dutifully down the hallway before stopping in front of a room. He frowns, following as John steps inside without a word. Broad shoulders block his view for a moment, but when they move, his heart stops.

It's you. Prone in a hospital bed, unmoving. Eyes closed, hands flat at your sides, frozen in time.

Gone.

“What is this?” He can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t even talk, spitting out the three words like they’re rocks, too heavy to be enunciated. “John.” This doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up, it’s improbable, impossible, and his head is spinning. His friend’s breath is heavy, laden with sadness.

“I’m sorry Simon.” Loud beeps ricochet between his ears as the floor tilts. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. His heart is frozen in his chest and it’s killing him, filling his lungs, turning them to ice. The beeping gets louder, the shrill ringing bouncing off the inside of his skull-

“Bleedin’ christ.” The watch on his bedside table nearly cracks under the pressure of his fist closing around it. “Fuck.”

It was a nightmare.

Real life horrors mixed with dreams, that’s all.

Just a nightmare.

You’re at the nurses station.

Ankles crossed in a chair, smiling-

with a baby in your arms.

It stops him dead in his tracks, leaves him shell shocked, idyllic dreams rising like smoke in his mind.

For a second, that's not a stranger's baby nestled against your chest.

It's his.

You holding his baby, kissing his baby, his baby giggling in your arms. You, pregnant with his baby, round belly under your scrubs, tits heavy with milk. Undeniable proof that you’re his.

“Hey Doctor Riley.” Key clears her throat with an amused look. She knows. He knows she knows, knows she's always seen right through him.

“Whose baby is that?” His voice is gruff, sharper than he intended, and your warm smile turns quizzical.

“Her mom is surgery and there’s no one else, like no partner or family to be with her. It’s a little busy in labor-land so they asked if she could come up here for a bit.” He strokes the chubby curve of her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, wedding ring flashing in the fluorescent light.

“Big girl.” He rarely sees babies like this. Strong, healthy with good muscle tone and strong lungs. Alive. So vibrantly alive.

“Yeah she’s a chunker. Nine pounds.” You hum, rocking her when she squirms until the little furrow of her brow smooths away. The unsettled dread from this morning’s nightmare is still heavy in his stomach, hardly quelled even though he’s standing in front of you.

“You alright?” You frown at his question.

“Yes?” It’s not good enough, and his fingers travel from the baby’s cheek to your ring finger. He should be satisfied, walk away and go about his business, but he can’t move, even when he tries to force it. He wants to drag you up into his arms, hold you, feel you, reassure himself. “Is everything okay?”

“I…” I needed to see you. I needed to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re healthy, that you’re here. I couldn’t sleep. I dreamt you were dead. Isa rounds the corner, stopping short and lighting up at the sight of the baby.

“Oh my goodness look at that baby! Let me see her.” Any chance he had to pull more out of you vanishes, and he gives you a slow nod before shaking his shoulders, taking off for his office with another word.

“Simon?” It’s late. Almost seven, end of a busy day that passed in a blink of an eye and you’re a sight for sore ones, standing in the door way of his office, back pack hanging off your shoulder.

“Hey.” Your smile is shy, even as the door closes and you make your way across the room, baby steps turned to big ones as you lean against the side of his desk. Bolder. Braver, each day.

“Are you alright? Earlier you seemed… I don’t know. And the day got so busy I didn’t get a chance to talk to you.” You don't usually offer this to him, the softness, the sweet. You bury it, hide it. It kicks something loose in him, but he keeps his expression neutral. Firm. How you need it.

“I had a rough morning, but everything’s okay.” Your posture relaxes a fraction.

“Okay. Good.” The silence is heavy. Has been, ever since the desk. You've stopped snapping and spitting and clawing at this gap he's trying to close, less likely to throw him off, sending him crashing into the dirt. You still bare your teeth, he’s not stupid enough to call it all a win yet, but small victories like this still mean something. You like to surprise him though. “I was wondering if you’d take me home?” He holds himself in check, smothers his surprise. Barely.

“Yeah?” You rock on your heels, arms crossed, unsure but trying. Trying for him.

“Mhm. I just figured… you know, we haven’t yet this week. Probably should.” That's all he needs. The laptop shuts and he grabs his coat.

The bottle was warm in your hand, fingers curled loosely around it as you padded toward the living room.

You rounded the corner quietly, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. Just as you reached the threshold, you paused, the sight stopping you cold.

Simon was stretched out across the couch, one arm behind his head, the other loosely at his side. His mask was pulled up to just beneath his eyes, revealing the relaxed curve of his mouth, smiling slightly as he watched the little person bouncing happily on his chest.

Your daughter.

She was straddling his ribs, clapping her hands against the front of his shirt, babbling a song only she understood, utterly delighted by the thump-thump sound of her palms hitting his solid chest.

“Clap, clap!” she cheered, giggling when he let out a small, exaggerated grunt.

“You think I’m a drum, do you?” he asked, the words soft with affection. “You’ve got a strong arm on you, missy.”

She clapped again, harder this time and he made a mock -oof sound that had her shrieking with laughter.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t move either, just watched, heart doing that aching thing it always did when you saw them like this. Your quiet soldier and your fierce little girl, orbiting each other like they were made to.

And then, suddenly, she stopped mid-clap and giggle. Her eyes caught something, a slant of light across his cheek or the slight shift of muscle when he smiled. She leaned in slowly, small chubby fingers reaching to brush the scar that curved along his jaw.

“Ouchie?” she asked, the joy in her voice melting into gentle concern. It came out small, almost hesitant like she didn’t want to be right but needed to ask.

Simon blinked and stilled beneath her for a second.

Then came a breath, he just reached up and covered her hand with his much larger one. Not flinching or pulling away. He just nodded, voice low and real in the way he always was when he thought no one else was listening.

“Yeah, sweetheart. That’s an ‘ouchie’.”

She frowned, brushing her thumb over the line like she could wipe it away. “Dada…”

“Old ones, though,” he said softly, eyes on hers. “Not fresh. Got ‘em a long time ago, long before you.”

“Bad...guys?”

A soft smile pulled at his mouth. “Yeah. Some of ‘em.”

Simon didn’t always wear his balaclava at home, although sometimes he did for a kind of comfort he found in it. You never brought it up and it never shocked your daughter, nor did his scars whenever they were visible but she had never pointed them out like that.

She leaned forward, pressing her tiny hand flat against his jaw like she could maybe erase them with her palm if she tried harder. He winced a little, not in pain but in something else, something deeper. Guilt, maybe or grief. They were definitely reminders of it all.

“Doesn’t hurt anymore, poppet. Promise.” He paused, “Damn ugly, though.”

“Still ouchie,” she whispered.

He sighed, brushing her curls out of her eyes. “You’re not wrong.” And then under his breath, almost like an afterthought, he cursed. “Shit, you’re clever.”

Her head tilted, eyes lighting up as she repeated the word, testing it. “S–shit?”

He groaned. “Fuck– I mean…oh, bollocks. Don’t tell mummy.”

From the hallway, you couldn't help the quiet laugh that slipped from your lips. At that she giggled again, already forgetting the scolding as she flopped forward, cheek pressed to his chest like the whole world made sense when she was there. He adjusted her gently, rubbing slow and steady circles along her back. Within seconds, her little breaths turned even and slow, hands curled into the fabric of his shirt. Only then did he glance up and see you.

You finally stepped in quietly and set the bottle on the edge of the coffee table. His eyes flicked up and caught yours, hand reaching for yours on instinct, fingers brushing over your knuckles before resting there.

You crouched beside the couch, brushing a few curls from your daughter’s face, letting your hand linger on her back too.

“She get a good look?” you whispered.

“Mhm…asked questions. Didn’t run for the hills, so I guess I passed.”

“She okay?” you continued, earning a small nod from him. You paused. “Are you okay?”

He nodded again. Big hands, calloused and careful, soothing circles down her tiny spine, not for her sake but for his. “Surprised me, that’s all.”

You leaned in, kissed her curls and then his jaw, just below the scar she’d touched.

“She’s brilliant,” he breathed, glancing down at her. “Too smart for me already.”

Simon looked down at the tiny girl curled up on his chest, a bit of drool beginning to pool on his black shirt, her hair all mussed already. Then he looked back at you, eyes softer than you’d seen in days.

You smiled at him, voice quiet when you spoke. “She’s got good instincts. Gets them from you.”

He shook his head. “Maybe, but she gets the softness from you.”

Being Clark's roommate was great. You happened to work at a diner near the Daily Planet, so when you found out that someone nearby with a good job was in need of a roommate, you signed up quickly, eager to leave your previous living situation.

First meeting, he was a little clunky and awkward, but he never made things feel weird. You learned quickly that he had a habit of making himself smaller for doorways or beds or couches. Part of you definitely found that a little attractive, but you'd never speak on that.

Easing into the first three months of living together, you'd wake up an hour after he left, and he'd always leave coffee on the hotplate for you along with a small measurement of your favorite creamer and a little dish of sugar for you to scoop from. He'd always leave extra breakfast on the stove top—an extra egg or two, even if you ate them in a different style, an extra three pieces of sausage or bacon, and toast or a waffle. That's how you learned he liked to take care of people he cared for. And that's when you realized he actually cared instead of just being roommates with no bond.

In return, you'd often get home earlier than him, so you'd make dinner and leave out a sweet treat for him. He always left a small thank you note in the mornings that you two wouldn't see each other before work.

Being his roommate was great! Until you started to worry about his late nights.

Where was he going all the time? He'd disappear for an entire day. No calls, no texts, no notes. It wasn't required, of course, but he was usually open about staying late for work at the Daily Planet. As his roommate and friend, it worried you. Especially with all the danger in Metropolis as of recent.

All kinds of extraterrestrial beings seemed to pop up every other day. The Justice Gang and Superman would always fix things, so you had faith in them for your safety, but part of you couldn't help but fear for Clark. So many nights he wouldn't come home. You stayed up a few nights—just waiting for him. You even called him a few times. No answer, just his voice-mail.

You never pestered. You didn't feel it was your place. You didn't want to overstep into his personal business. But the one morning you actually woke up early with him, you caught a glimpse of bruises. All over his back. As you were passing the bathroom, he was pulling a shirt over his head after a shower. The door was open since he had his pants on, but your timing was a blessing and a curse. You didn't mean to, but you gasped at the sight, and Clark's unnatural hearing caught the subtle sound. He tugged the shirt down and turned to you, glasses askew, curls still dripping wet from his shower.

"You're awake," he cleared his throat, reaching for a small towel to dab at his messy hair.

"I.. yeah. I have a doctors appointment for the ache in my back." You muttered, still taken aback by the sight.

"Oh. Yeah, I remember. Are you alright? There's some Tylenol and ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet if it flares up again." He offered, trying to ignore the fact he knew you'd seen the bruises. The bruises he'd gotten during one of his recent late nights.

"Clark, what happened?" You asked. "Your back. It's covered in bruises." You reached out, but he gently took your hand and shook his head.

"It's nothing. Just a fall down the stairs the other day." He lied, offering that sweet smile of his. The smile that usually took away all your fears and worries.

You exhaled heavily through your nose, but you nodded.

"It's just some bruises. Nothing I can't handle. I'm a grown man, yknow." He joked, patting the back of your palm in a friendly way that almost hurt your soul.

"You should be more careful." You pulled your hand back and stepped away. Your gaze lingered for a moment as he nodded and turned away. His dark curls still lay messy, his glasses now fixed, chin slightly stubbled since he's not shaved recently. You didn't usually see him in such a state. You liked it. Something about it felt nice.

You walked off. Your alarm went off in the other room, so you knew it was almost time to leave for your appointment. You'd have to pester Clark another time.

The next thing that scared you was the large gash on his palm. You—unintentionally—found him in his room, unwrapping the bandage from his hand. Earlier, when asked about the bandage, he said he hurt his hand at work somehow. Now, you didn't believe it. Not with the giant gash that looked like he'd completely had a knife run over the width of his palm.

"Jesus, Clark!" You scurried over, not bothering to apologize for intruding. He lifted his head, eyes wide. "You said this happened at work, but that's not a thing that should happen at the Daily fucking Planet." Your brows furrowed as you hesitated, hands struggling to decide if you should help or not.

"Okay, well, maybe it wasn't at work. But it's still not a big deal. Just a little misunderstanding on the way home late the other night. Nothing bad." He brushed it off. Again. Like he did with those terrible bruises.

You took his wrist and grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on his nightstand, and didn't hesitate to pour it over the still open cut. It wasn't bleeding, but it was still an open wound that could easily breed bacteria when he's got the bandage on for too long.

He stammered, using his other hand to try and stop you, but he hissed at the feeling of the liquid filling the cut and bubbling up.

"Oookay, that feels less than ideal." He forced out a laugh, but his lips were twitched into a deep scowl.

"Just hold still. You're lucky you don't need stitches. How does this even happen, Clark? Did someone try to stab you?" You asked, using a clean rag to dab at his palm.

"Well—" He hesitated with a groan, his other fist balled up as he tilted his head back and forth—the thing he did when he was brewing up a new lie. "Yes. But it was just on the way home, some dude tried to mug me."

"And you didn't go to the police or even tell me that you got hurt?!" You scolded, unintentionally pressing the rag against the cut.

"Ah! Ow! Okay, I'm sorry!" He grabbed at your wrist, easily taking your hand away from the rag despite how hard you pressed. "I didn't want to worry you, and it was late! I got away, didn't I?"

"You're like a magnet for injuries, you big doof." You frowned. "I see you more than you think, Clark. You come home later, and I hear you groaning. That's not just 'exhausted from work' kind of tired groaning. That's the kind of groaning that only happens when you're getting your ass handed to you frequently. Or frequently enough to leave aches often."

"I am not a doof." He huffed, focusing more on your little name calling than the lecture you were giving.

"Oh, please, you're the biggest doof I've ever met." You scoffed half jokingly as you wrapped the clean cut in a new gauze wrap, careful not to hurt him this time.

A moment of silence tugged between you two, and he sighed.

"I'm sorry for worrying you." He looked up at you finally. Well, not really up. He lifted his head, and from his seat on the edge of his bed, he was level with you at your full height. God, he was a tall, big man.

When you lifted your gaze to meet his, still holding his hand gently, you were met with the look of an abandoned puppy begging for mercy and love. You wanted to tease and tell him how silly he looked, such a big man with such a baby look. It was ironic, really.

"Just... be careful. I'm not gonna ask you why you're always home late and why you never text most nights, but.. I do ask that you come home safely. You're like... the only thing that keeps me sane outside of my work friends." You murmured with a shrug as you pulled your hand from his, reaching to take the first aid stuff back to the bathroom between your two rooms.

"Thank you." He said, watching you closely as you walked out of the room and left his door cracked, just how he preferred for the hallway light to peek into his room so he didn't need his own night light. Yeah, Clark Kent wasn't a fan of the pitch black dark unless the moon shone bright enough to provide him some sense of safety.

For almost two weeks, you'd barely seen Clark. Once for dinner, once for a lunch break when you brought him his lunch on the way to your work because he forgot his, and once when you two crossed paths in the morning right before he left.

Clark wasn't avoiding you, no, but he was definitely.. acting weird. You figured maybe it was work stress getting to him. Maybe he was anxious about all the stuff with Superman and the Justice Gang in the nearby area. That's what you were anxious about. There have been a lot of attacks in your area, especially late at night. Thankfully, none of them were to the level of truly causing danger to citizens. The Justice Gang and Superman were good at their jobs of protecting the people.

The last few nights, the attacks got loud, rousing you from bed. In just your sleep shirt and a pair of panties, you roamed out to the living room and found yourself watching the city from the large glass door that led onto your balcony. You'd watch, sometimes catching better views of the fights. It was weird to see such inhuman things. Giant floating blobs that had tentacles, an oddly tiny yet deadly cat-like creature with some kind of horns and fangs, and other weird shit that felt like fever dreams every time you saw them.

Tonight, it was a giant glowing eyeball. It was so gross, but you couldn't sleep, so you watched. Flashes of green lit up your apartment from Green Lantern's moves. The eyeball seemed to be fluttering with its luminosity. Each hit made it dimmer, and when the final hit was delivered, a green puss exploded from it.

"Oh, that's disgusting." You gagged faintly, turning away and pulling the curtains to cover the big balcony doors. You turned, jolting when you found Clark, stumbling into the apartment. He looked exhausted. Slouched, barely on his feet, and trying not to collapse as he hung up his bag and removed his shoes.

"Clark?" Your eyes widened as you approached him, and he looked up. He was covered in dirt and debris. Your brows furrowed. "Did you get caught in the crossfire? You're not hurt again, are you?" You asked, stepping closer to let him lean on you as he stumbled toward the couch. He laid down, head falling to the side with an incoherent mumble. His glasses shifted, ready to fall off his face.

Part of you wanted to call someone for help, but when you reached to take his glasses away, he was startled as if you'd come at him with a knife to take his life. He pulled away and quickly saved his glasses, keeping them high on the bridge of his nose as he blinked to try and get rid of the blur in his vision.

"Just.. need sleep.. sun.." he uttered, his head falling back again. Sun? What kind of need was that? You understood that maybe it was helpful to have a day of relaxing in the sun, but when he looked this bad, you didn't understand why he thought of the sun instead of a hospital.

"Jesus, Clark," you sighed, kneeling at his side as you lifted his head and placed a pillow under his head for support so he didn't hurt his neck. "You're really gonna be the death of me one day." You whispered, and you watched as his lips twitched faintly with the effort of a smile.

You stayed with him all night to make sure he was okay. You couldn't carry him elsewhere, and like an idiot, you trusted that he was just tired after possibly getting caught in some of the fighting. He didn't seem to have any outstanding injuries, so you didn't want to panic until you had to.

Another late night. This time, you were coming home late. Too late. You needed some extra money, and when your coworker needed you to cover her closing shift, you took the opportunity like it was a once in a lifetime thing. The diner you worked at closed around 2:00 a.m., so you got home around 2:30 in the damn morning. You didn't expect Clark to be home, so when you were greeted by a silent, empty apartment, you weren't shocked. It wasn't pleasant. You didn't like being home alone, despite how often you told yourself that you understood Clark and his personal life.

But coming home and feeling like you lived alone? You hated it. Not because you hated being alone, no. You liked alone time. But you hated it because you lived with such a sweet, lively man. You lived with the kind of guy that'd stop on his way to work just to save a kitten from a tree. You live with the man who leaves you breakfast and a note every morning and makes sure you have a list of all your necessary errands just in case you forgot.

You lived with fucking Clark Kent for Christ's sake! Who wouldn't hate coming home to an empty home?

You made your way to the bathroom to unwind for the night. You didn't want to sleep without taking your hair down and at least brushing your teeth real quick. After that, you went to change. All limp bodied and exhausted, you changed into a large t-shirt and panties. Ready for bed. Ready to sleep in since tomorrow was a day off.

BANG! THUD!

Well, now you were awake. Assuming it was an intruder, you grabbed the bat at your bedroom door along with your pocket knife, and you snuck into the hallway.

Before you could even reach Clark's room, a tall figure comes stumbling down the hall. You shrieked, flicking your knife to open at the same time as lifting your bat. But then you see the cape in the shadow. And your eyes adjust.

It's fucking Superman.

He's injured. He's hurt. Holding his side and barely standing. With the faith you had in the man from another world, you dropped the bat and closed the knife, letting it drop as you went to his side.

"Not what I was expecting tonight." You whispered, hooking his arm over your shoulders and letting him lean onto you. "Oh, Christ—big guy." You choked out as you guided him into Clark's room since it was the nearest room.

Upon hearing your voice, the man's body felt heavier as if he was weighed down by more. He fell onto the bed, clutching his side and struggling to keep steady breaths.

He looked up at you, and before you could walk off to retrieve first aid, he stopped you with a grasp on your wrist.

And a choked breath of your name.

Why the hell would Superman know your name? You froze, looking back to him.

"I need to get the first aid kit so I can—"

"Sun." He breathed faintly, head falling back as he sighed and closed his eyes. "I just need... sleep.. and the sun.." he let his hand fall as he lost consciousness.

"What? What the hell? Are you—" You panicked, reaching out to gently press two fingers to his pulse point. You exhaled sharply with relief as you felt a steady pulse. No fluttering or struggle to stay strong. You just hoped he didn't need a hospital because you couldn't carry this giant man, who also faced a lot of troubles and would likely be shamed in a public space if someone else found him like this.

Just like you did a few nights ago for Clark, you remained by his side. You fell asleep at the foot of his bed, practically falling off with each shift. He really took up the whole bed.

Waking up to the blinding sunrise, you fell off of Clark's bed, reminded of the fever dream night you had.

You sat up on the floor and was baffled to find Superman. So it wasn't a fever dream. His back was turned as he seemed to be inspecting his suit. You shuffled over to his side of the bed, quiet as a mouse.

He lifted his head. Glasses on. He froze when he realized his error. Instinctively, he clumsily tore the glassed away. But as the realization dawned on your face, he knew it was too late.

Silence. Stunned silence. Clark Kent was your roommate. And your roommate was Superman.

"I'm living with Superman." You barely breathed out, as if you had the air punched from your lungs.

"I-im sorry. I need you to understand—"

"I'm living with fucking Superman." You repeated.

He paused, blinking at you, confused.

"Y-yes, you just said that..?" He mumbled.

"It makes sense! All your silly secrets and your weird behavior and the injuries and—" You stopped, staring at him. "The sun. You—oh my god! I-i heard somewhere that Superman needs the sun to heal steadily. That's why you ask for sleep and the sun when you're hurt! When your hand was cut and you let it breathe at the park? When—oh, God, when you came home all sleepy and limp, and you told me you were okay, you just needed the sun—oh my god!" You nearly shrieked at the end, hands coming up to tangle in your hair at the sides of your head.

"Oh, jeez—" his tone dripped with guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I just—you couldn't know. I couldn't tell you. It'd put you in danger. If you knew, you'd become a target."

"And?! How am I not already a target when you come home every night after a fight?! All you do is put those stupid glasses on and—" You stopped again. You stared at him. "The glasses! The God damn glasses! They—the stupid things change your face! They make you unrecognizable!" You laughed—a strained sound, like you felt insane.

"They're.. they're hypno glasses.." he added quietly, reaching for them and putting them on.

"I live with a fucking alien." You huffed out.

Clark paused. "I-is that bad?" He stepped back, almost like he didn't know if he wanted you to answer.

Your eyes widened at his body language. "No! No! I just—it's not something common! You're.. You're Superman!" You gestured to him.

"I know that. I couldn't tell you. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out, and if you had to, I didn't want it to be like this." He hung his head low as he inhaled and exhaled, shoulders slumping in a way that wasn't purposely making himself smaller.

You sat down on Clark's bed, head in your hands as your elbows rested on your knees.

"That's why you're always gone." You muttered.

"Yeah.. guess so.." he murmured to match you, stepping closer to come and sit with you again.

Silence stretched on. You weren't upset. Not at all. You understood the need for a secret identity. You just never thought you'd live with Superman.

"Can you fly me around?" You asked suddenly, looking up at him with a childish grin.

Clark stared. "Possibly..." he said, suspicions growing.

He can fly you around.

"Hooohohoh my god!" You shrieked, clutching onto him like a koala. "Holy shit!" You looked over his shoulder, eyes wide as your stomach churned with the horrid mix of excitement and fear.

He couldn't help but laugh, anxious as ever. He held you close with one arm, doing the typical superhero flight pose with the one unused arm. Finally, he slowed down as you two reached a desert. He'd flown you so far so fast, you weren't even sure where you were. He came to a slow stop, and gently pried your head away from the crook of his shoulder to get you to look around without being so tense that you might give yourself a muscle cramp.

"How high are we?" You asked, looking down with another fearful churn in your stomach.

"Few thousand feet. Do you feel okay?" He asked, his other hand idly rubbing at your back to soothe you like he could feel your nerves from a mile away—which he could. Because your nails were dug into his suit, and you refused to lift your head higher than two inches from his shoulder as if it would protect you from a fall. Not that he minded. He knew this was a hard thing to trust him with, even though it was your idea. The idea you'd begged him to do for a week before he gave in with the one promise that you trusted him and didn't squirm.

"Totally. Feels great up here. Not at all hard to breathe." You forced out, laughing nervously before you experimentally lifted your head higher to look over at him as he held you against his front with a firm grasp over your waist. He looked at you, still idly comforting you with circular rubbing over your back.

"Let's go lower. I forget that you guys are less easy to adapt to high elevations.." His tone dripped with apology, and his eyes said the same thing. You nodded, curling back into his shoulder.

"Lower, please." You agreed.

"Yes, ma'am." He started slow, like a car building speed as he flew directly down from where you two were floating beforehand. Once he came to another stop, he was a few feet off of a high cliff.

"Are you staying still?" You asked, peeking over his shoulder again. He chuckled lightly.

"Yes, I'm staying still. You can look now." He reassured, lifting you up a little higher so your legs wrapped more comfortably over his hips.

You lifted your head and looked around. You didn't know where you were, and you didn't care. Clark held you tight and secure, ensuring your safety, but part of him wanted to play a bit of a joke. He waited. While you admired the view, he subtly lowered just above four or five inches from the ground before he let go of you for literally two seconds. You screamed, but your legs clinging around his waist kept you from falling. He laughed as you restabalized yourself, delivering a hard punch that didn't really hurt as much as you wished it did.

"Okay, okay, sorry. I would never actually drop you. Look at how high we are." He said, a mix of amusement and guilt on his face. You looked down, expecting the exact opposite of what you found. A few inches from solid ground of a cliff. You grumbled, looking up at him.

"I knew you weren't all sweet and sugary like you come off as." You jabbed at his chest, accusing him jokingly.

His heart fluttered slightly at your words. "Sweet and sugary?" He quipped.

You stared at him, realizing your error. "I-i mean, yeah, you're kinda the only guy that really comes off as nice and legitimately trustworthy." You shrugged a little, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed.

Clark fought back a grin, feeling an overwhelming sense of joy at your words. "Right. Yeah. I guess it wouldn't be hard to come off that way considering the way other guys are nowadays." He shrugged, matching your casual look as he slowly floated up a little higher.

"We going home already?" You asked.

"We don't have to."

"You want dinner?"

"Where to?"

"What about the new Mexican restaurant down by the diner I work at?"

"Sure. Let's stop by the apartment first. Can't really go out like this." He gestured toward his own suit, head tilting back and forth as he held an arm over your back and tugged you close again.

He started this flight a little faster since you'd gotten used to it now. He kept you tight to his body, and part of him wanted to memorize every curve and plush spot that pressed against him. He wasn't trying to think that way, he swears—it just happens when he feels your breasts pressed into his chest with your plush thighs pressing tight around his hips. He can also feel your warm breath on his neck, and he tries to ignore the way it makes his skin prickle with warmth.

Stopping by the apartment only took about a half hour. Clark needed a shower, so while he rinsed off and got ready, you waited on the couch, dressed nice enough for a restaurant, but still not fancy for anything more than a small, local outing.

Clark emerged from his room finally, curls still damp and but neatly laid just lightly over his forehead as he fixed his glasses and adjusted the nice dress shirt he always wore. The man really only had one good shirt for going out that he actually liked wearing—similar to the two or three pairs of good pants. Two good pairs of slacks that fit perfectly and one well-formed pair of jeans. It was tough for a guy with his height and build.

You lifted your head as you saw him emerge and head into the kitchen, likely looking for his wallet since he looked confused with his bottom lip jutted into that small thoughtful pout he always had when he was focused.

"Clark," you cleared your throat. No answer. "Clark." You said a little more firm. Still no reply, looking around with a grumble. "Clark!" You swatted at the wall to get his attention, and he jolted upright like a puppy, looking at you. His glasses fell crooked, and goddammit, he looked so cute. You almost forgot to tell him his wallet was right here on the coffee table—too distracted by his gorgeous blue eyes staring wide behind his glasses as he used a little nose scrunch to fix his glasses.

"Sorry. What's up?" He asked, rubbing at the back of his neck like it'd soothe the embarrassment of jolting like that.

You cleared your throat, standing up and pointing to his wallet. "It's right here, Clark. Your.. your wallet. Not that you need to bring it." You shrugged, avoiding his gaze as he stepped into the living room, his shoulder brushing yours unintentionally.

"Sorry." He uttered once again, a hand reaching out as if trying to soothe a pain that he didn't cause when your shoulders bumped. He automatically tried to hold whatever he'd hit when walking.

Bump into a doorway? His hand would gently hold the door frame as he hissed. Bump into a chair? He'd gently push it back in and frown. Bump into another person? His hands would reflexively try to catch them because he'd knocked down so many people on his way to work through the busy mornings of Metropolis.

You thought it was the cutest thing ever. But you never let him reach you. His hands always reached, but never quite made contact. You weren't sure why, but you didn't think anything was wrong with that.

"Uh, are you ready?" He asked finally, double checking for his wallet, phone, and keys. You did the same, giving a thumbs up.

"Got it. Let's go. I wanna be back in time to finish the book I'm reading." You hummed, watching as Clark opened the door and gestured for you to walk ahead. He closed the door behind him, locking the deadbolt and regular lock before he walked down the hall with you. He nodded at your words, and before he could speak, you spoke again,

"So.. Superman." You muttered, glancing up at him. He glanced around. No cameras, nobody coming.

"Yeah. What about him?" He asked, making sure you caught onto how he spoke of Superman like he was a random guy that Clark didn't know well.

"You interview him. Tons. Well, enough to get a little suspicion going around.. but.. how long? Like.." you paused, shrugging as he clicked the button on the elevator to bring it up.

"He said he's had the powers of Superman his whole life, but only truly became the hero he's known as when he moved away from home. Which I can't tell you where he's from. That's confidential." Clark said, clearing his throat.

"Yeah. Cool. Superman needs his.. privacy. I get it." You nodded. Silence.

More silence.

You two stepped into the elevator as it opened up. It closed, Clark pressing the button for the bottom floor.

"What's with the red trunks?" You blurted out. Clark groaned.

"The suit looks stupid without them, I swear it makes sense!" He insisted, but you giggled, covering your mouth.

"Really? The blue suit and red cape look better with red underwear on top?" You snickered.

"Yes. It does. Believe me—he's shown me. They really do not look good separately."

"Oh, I'm sure Superman looks great in boxers." Yoh blurted out. You clearly forgot who that was for a second. Clark's cheeks flushed, and his silence made you look up. He looked away, a large hand coming to cover his face.

"I wouldn't really.." he trailed off.

"Oh! Right. Sorry. Probably shouldn't say that—" You paused, clearing your throat. "A‐about your friend. That's probably weird." You added quickly, still wanting to ensure Clark's privacy.

The elevator opened up, and he quickly stepped out, glancing back to make sure you followed.

"Hey, Clark?" You asked, idly picking at the meat from the tacos on your plate, eating the bigger chunks while the plate cooled down.

"Mm?" He hummed, mouth already full of a spoonful of pozole, chewing on the chunk of chicken he picked up.

"Does anyone else know?"

He swallowed the bite of food, clearing his throat. "Only Lois. From work." He shrugged.

"Okay. Cool." You nodded, leaning over your plate to take a proper bite of your taco, which you piled some rice into for extra flavor in the bite.

"Just asking or is there a reason?" He asked, tilting his head as he picked up a spoonful of broth and sipped it into his mouth. You shook your head, waving a hand dismissively.

"Just curious." You mumbled, halfway through chewing—a hand covering your mouth to seem a little less impolite. Clark chuckled at the sight.

"Ma and pa used to always get upset at each other for that. Pa would talk with his mouthful, and ma absolutely despised the sound of it. She made sure we knew to swallow before we spoke, even if it took five minutes to chew through a thick bite of slightly overcooked steak." He mused, visibly a little softer as he spoke about something he rarely opened up about. Not that he never spoke about his parents, just not as often about memories like that.

You smiled a slight smile, nodding as you swallowed. "Yeah, my parents tried to beat it into me through verbal threats, but... well, sometimes a girl has something to say and she wants to say it. My grandma always told me to just cover my mouth, and it's less impolite." You explained.

"You never really talk about your family." He observed, head tilting slightly as he took a bite of chicken from his bowl.

"Never really need to." You shrugged. "I mean, there's nothing.. crazy about us. I'm not close with some of them, but I haven't really talked to any of them besides my parents since I moved out when I was nineteen."

"Wow. Nineteen?" He choked lightly, a hand covering his mouth as he looked at you.

"Yeah," you laughed a little. "I wanted to be independent, so I got a job in junior year, saved up for the rest of the time in school, and moved out pretty fast." You leaned in to take another bite.

"Gosh, I wonder how that was on your parents. Ma was torn apart when I moved out around my eighteenth birthday. She didn't stop me—though she really wanted to—but she was absolutely heartbroken. Told me she was 'losing her little boy'." He laughed, leaning back in his seat.

You laughed with him, shaking your head as you swallowed your bite. "Little? Please, you've never been little a day in your life from the photos I've seen you keep in your room." You scoffed playfully.

"Nope. As a baby, I was big for my age. As a kid, I was big for my age. As a teen? Whoof, middle school was a doozy with how big I was. High school, too. Of course, I was kinda bullied. Big, buff kid who accidentally broke door handles and sink handles just from nudging them." He explained, using a napkin to lightly wipe around his mouth as he watched you eat.

"Ehh, people will bully for anything. But I bet you had all kinds of girls in line to get at you." You joked, nudging his foot under the table.

The simple touch of your foot against his ankle sent a blush to his cheeks, but he hoped you'd think it was just your words that caused it. He laughed nervously, sitting up straight.

"No, not.. not really. I had a girlfriend, but.. moving away kinda put that to a stop." He looked off to the side before turning his attention back to his food.

"Oh. A girlfriend?" You blinked. "That so..?" you muttered, glancing down at your plate as you took a bite of rice.

"Yeah. Yknow how it is. The typical high school couple except we were the nerds, so it wasn't us making out against the lockers or leaving condom wrappers in the bathrooms during school dances." He snickered at his own quips.

You cringed. "That's so gross. I do not miss high school." You shook your head, taking a drink of water as you looked at him.

"Nobody does. Unless they peaked in high school and can't let go of the damn school." He stuck his tongue out in mock disgust at the mention of those who clung onto their high school personality rather than developing into a functioning adult.

"Can't say you're wrong." You hummed.

As you two continued conversation, your foot would occasionally brush over his ankle, and he'd subtly tense each time. He had an oddly prominent blush over his cheeks the entire time.

Eventually, as he waited for you to finish your plate or decide to take it home, he let his ankle tangle around yours. You looked at him, but didn't stop your story. It seemed you two were even—catching each other off guard with gestures that shouldn't be shared between friends, let alone roommates.

You and Clark didn't mention the little brushes under the table. Didn't mention the way he tangled legs with you. Didn't mention how he opened up about his family.

Days passed, life returning to normal for a while as there were no attacks, no extra work for you two, no extra errands. It felt good. Waking up to Clark's breakfast being set off to the side for you, his sweet note always on the side. He'd come home to dinner made, and he'd check on you at night, whether you were awake or not.

Things that he started to realize weren't so normal between roommates.

Jimmy told him that.

"Dude, she's not just your roommate if you're doting on her life a husband would to his wife." He scoffed with a laugh, finding it amusing how oblivious Clark was to his own feelings.

"What? N-no! I don't 'dote' on her, Jimmy, I just.. we take care of each other! She makes dinner, I make breakfast. She does groceries, I do laundry. I do dishes, she does the floors. That's all normal!" Clark insisted.

"Yeah, that's normal." Jimmy leaned forward in his chair, making Clark lean back. "But those little notes? Checking on her at night? Going out every two weeks for dinner or lunch? That's not normal roommate behavior, man. Trust me, I'd know." Jimmy grinned, a knowing look in his eyes.

"You're not the man I'd go to for relationship advice. No offense." Clark muttered, fixing his glasses as he glanced away.

Jimmy huffed, brows furrowed as he flung his hands out to his sides. "What?! I'm totally the man! Clark, you know I am!" He further insisted, and Clark could hear Lois laughing in the background.

While Jimmy tried to convince Clark he was the right man, Clark focused on trying to finish the article he was working on editing. He didn't notice you coming in with the lunch he'd forgotten in the fridge along with a small container of cookies that Clark had recently brought from his trip back to visit his parents. You still had no clue where he lived, but that didn't matter when his ma made such amazing cookies.

When he felt your presence at his side, he lifted his head and was quickly overcome with a toothy grin.

"Hey," he greeted, voice softer than what he'd use at work.

"You left lunch again. And I figured you might want a couple of cookies since you said you'd be working late tonight." You said, setting down the small bowl and the paper bag he'd packed a sandwich and apple inside the night before.

"Oh. I did forget." He mumbled. He glanced at the bowl and reached for it, shamelessly excited about the cookies. "Thank you." He looked up at you—well, kind of up. Sitting in his chair even with his subconscious slouch, he wasn't much shorter than your eye level.

"No problem." You hummed.

He glanced down at your outfit, and back up to your face. "Off to work?" He asked.

You nodded, mood slightly deflating at the reminder. "Yeah. I'm covering Marie's shift again tonight, so I won't be home, but there's leftovers." You said, voice a small huff.

Clark chuckled lightly, but he had a sympathetic look in his eyes. "I'll make sure the apartment doesn't get too cold tonight then. I know your room has trouble with heating." He mused.

"You don't have to."

"But I can and I want to." He said. Your smile melted a little, becoming softer and more mushy like he'd just told you he loved you without actually saying it.

"Don't wait up."

"I'll wait."

"I said don't."

"But I will." He grinned, and as you straightened up with that reluctant smile of yours, he handed you a cookie. Jimmy's mouth gaped at the sight.

"You evil thing! You never share your mom's cookies with us!" He pouted.

Clark looked at Jimmy. "Because you don't bring me lunch and make me dinner." He huffed.

"You're so whipped, man." Jimmy scoffed, rolling away toward Lois' desk.

You snickered. "I'll see you at home." You mumbled to Clark as he waved goodbye while you walked away.

Later that night, you walked into the apartment to a sight you hadn't seen—Clark was waiting on the couch with the TV playing an old rerun of a show you'd mentioned in passing. He lifted his head, and you felt horrible. He looked so tired.

"I told you not to wait up." You murmured, but you knew he heard you. He always heard you.

"I told you I'd wait." He countered, a small smile spreading over his lips. You could tell he'd only showered recently, curls still wet and clinging to his forehead.

"And I told you not to before you said you would." You countered.

"Eh, a little sleep loss never killed me." He hummed, shrugging.

"You're as stubborn as damned toddler." You scolded, but there was an unstoppable smile on your face. Clark had one that matched.

"So.. what's playing?" You asked, kicking your shoes off and already beginning to remove your jewelry so you could prepare for a shower before bed.

"That old show you mentioned last week. It seems like they're doing a nightly rerun marathon for the next week. I figured you might wanna watch before bed?" He asked, looking up at you as he patted the spot next to him on the couch—which he took up most of the couch, leaving just enough room for you to join him.

You hesitated, glancing at the calendar and the time before you caved in and came to sit on the couch with a huff, followed by a long exhale as your body relaxed into the familiar cushions that you had fallen asleep on so many times, only to wake up in your bedroom the next morning because of Clark.

"Long night?"

A small beat of silence, and another sigh through your nose. "Mhmm." You barely nodded, already melting into full relaxation as you let your legs bump his.

Clark nodded, looking back to the TV as the colors flashed in the dark living room. He glanced at your legs, and without thinking, he took your legs and laid them over his lap, his big hands automatically resting over your shins. You looked at him, ready to object, but he took initiative and lightly pressed his thumbs along your calves, applying just enough pressure for it to feel good.

You melted, head falling back and eyes closing. He glanced up at your head, a soft chuckle filling the silence between scenes.

"Don't laugh." You groaned.

"Not laughing. Not at all."

But he did snicker a little when you groaned again as his hands worked up and down your sore calves and ankles. He knew how tired you got, how sore you got during double shifts.

"Jimmy said I dote on you." He suddenly blurted out, and you lifted your head to look at him.

"You do, Clark. When I was sick, you slept on the floor of my room just to make sure I had company when I threw up so I didn't have a panic attack." You laughed lightly, sitting up a little with your elbows behind you for support.

"You get scared of throwing up." He frowned, eyes wide like a puppy. God, he was so cute.

"You're not wrong there... but a regular roommate.." You paused, realization dawning on you. Regular roommates wouldn't do the hingd you two do. You knew it was a little abnormal to care so much about some dude who you moved in with, but you hadn't thought much about how kind Clark was. And you thought you were just returning the favor for the sweet, considerate man who made sure you had a meal to start your day with a cute little note to have a lovely day with that silly smiley face or star.

Neither of you spoke, and his hands stilled on your legs.

"I didn't think it was weird." He murmured.

"It... doesn't have to be. If you don't want it to be." You shifted, hands idly picking at the aged and stressed fabric of your jeans.

"Do you not want it to be weird?" He asked quietly, offering a shy, sidelong glance.

You returned the shy glance, and he fought back a grin as you nodded lightly. "I'd prefer it be normal." You shrugged as if trying to play it casually.

"So. What's that mean exactly?" He asked, a small nervous exhale leaving his lips.

"Uh.. what do you want it to mean?" You asked.

"What do you want it to mean?"

More unbearable silence.

And more.

And shy glances. His hands remained on your legs. Your legs shifted as you sat up more to look at him. Even though you were on the same couch, at the same waist level, his torso was taller, and he loomed over you without even trying or leaning forward.

"Yknow, I don't often say things. I.. prefer showing." You finally spoke, and he swallowed slightly, unsure of your implications.

"I suppose I have always been a bit of a visual learner.." he tilted his head slightly.

"Just... tell me to stop if you don't want the same thing."

When you shifted to lean in closer to his side, you wanted to kiss him so badly. You wanted to grab his cheeks and smash your lips to his and make him forget his own name while you could only remember his name.

But you hesitated, faces only an inch or two apart. Your cheeks prickled with uncomfortable heat, and his mouth seemed to water. He felt like a dog.

Clark was losing his mind.

He remained still for a moment, and when he saw you start to shift away, he had to make a move and take the risk. He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. You almost didn't react. Your body tensed, eyes wide.

As his hand came up to gently press his large palm to your cheek, you relaxed into the kiss and leaned in to return the affection—palm coming to splay over his thigh as you lifted yourself to situate your knees under your body. Since you accepted the kiss, Clark made the next move of tugging you into his lap so you straddled one of his thighs.

"Clark," You exhaled against his lips, and he pulled away to give you a second to breathe. He forgot you couldn't go as long without needing to properly inhale.

"Sorry," he huffed, his hand still idly cupping your cheek with his thumb soothing over your cheekbone.

"Sorry for what?"

"I just—I assumed you needed to breathe.." He muttered.

"Well, yeah," you laughed a little. "But I was just saying your name. Just... yknow, experimenting..." You shrugged lightly, and he shivered at your words. He did like it when you said his name, but he'd hoped you hadn't felt him shift his hips to try and adjust himself in his sweats.

"Right. Yeah. That.. makes total sense." He nodded, eyes flickering back down to your lips. You stared at him for a moment, waiting. Watching. Hoping.

And he must have felt it because he was right on time as he leaned in to press another kiss. This one with stronger—less afraid and more eager. He let his hands fall down, holding your hips before he felt your hands come to slink under his t-shirt. You let your hands roam, and he did the same—although his touches were less strong to start with. His grip on your hips tightened as he felt your leg lightly press against the bulge in his pants. You could feel his size, and you had to pull away to look at him with wide eyes.

He stared back.

He blinked.

You blinked back.

"Please tell me you know how to not hurt a woman." You blurted out.

A bashful blush spread over his cheeks as he laughed at the sudden blurted words of yours. He let his head fall forward to your collarbone to hide his blush.

"I won't hurt you. I promise." He reassured, a hand coming to gently glide up and down your back.

"Jesus, man, I had assumed you weren't gonna be small, but damn."

He groaned, embarrassment growing in his chest. "Your words are oddly bold for someone who couldn't kiss me two seconds ago." He muttered against your collarbone.

"Shut up." You huffed, your own cheeks flushing.

"You first."

"Make me."

"FIne."

His head lifted as he suddenly hoisted you off his lap and into his arms while he stood up. You yelped, holding onto him as he padded down the hallway to find his way to his bedroom. He didn't even flick the light on as he entered, just laying you on the bed and climbing on top of you as he let the moonlight bathe the room in a cool toned glow. You looked up at him, and despite his bold move, he still looked nervous.

He leaned in to kiss you again, tongue swiping softly over your lower lip to ask for an entrance. You gave it to him immediately. He moaned into your mouth as he let his tongue meet with yours in a gross, slobbery dance.

Clark wasn't one for rushing unless he had a deadline, and even then, he hoped to prioritize accuracy and final product.

And you could tell that translated to his affection and love. He took it slow, despite how sloppy and needy it felt. He shifted between your legs and let his hands come to lift your thighs, wrapping them around his hips as he let his hips press into yours with a heavy exhale, his body weight melting against yours.

"Claark," you whined, head falling back lightly as he let you breathe while he kissed down your neck, fingers softly massaging the flesh of your thighs and hips.

"Wha's up?" He murmured, the annunciation in his words becoming less and less as he kissed along your neck and collarbone.

"Don't take forever." You murmured, hips pressing up into his. He groaned, pushing back against you.

"Mm.. feels good." He ground his hips against yours, grumbling lightly at the slight restraint and restrictions of feeling. He loved how it felt for foreplay, but it drove him insane how he couldn't feel your skin on his.

Your head lifted as he began to undo the buttons of your work shirt. You watched him for a moment, and when he got it undone, he used one arm to lift you slightly so he could push the fabric off of your shoulders and toss it to the side before he resumed his kisses downward.

He reached the waistband of your low rise jeans, and he paused for a moment as your breath hitched.

"You okay?" He asked, hands gently soothing over your hips.

"Yeah, just.. never really had anyone go down there like this." You admitted.

His eyes widened and he sat up between your legs. "Are you a virgin?"

You gasped. "No! No! Oh, God, no, I'm not—I meant no one has ever eaten me out! I-i assumed that's what you'd do since your head was going so low!" Your cheeks flushed, and his matched at how blunt your wording was.

"Well—yeah, I was... do you not want me to?" He asked, but you shook your head. "You want me to? Or not?" He prodded further, looking for a verbal agreement.

"I want you to." You shifted your hips impatiently.

"Okay. Just tell me if it's good or not, okay? I can take it if you don't like it." He gave a soft smile as he leaned forward to kiss you again. This time, he distracted you with a kiss while he undid your pants and gently pushed them down. Now you were left in just your panties and bra, and he just about busted in his pants when he pulled back to just look at you for a minute.

To him, you were the softest, most sweet and gorgeous thing he'd ever found on earth. And the look in his eyes told you that exact thing.

"You're so beautiful." He sighed out, leaning back down to mouth down your torso until he reached your underwear again. When you thought he'd remove them, he didn't. He kissed over the mound and made you wait as he decided he wanted to suck hickeys into the soft, pliant flesh of your thighs. Your hand came down to hold onto his hair, and he hummed against your thigh as he sucked a dark hickey into the skin.

You closed your eyes and fully relaxed into the comforter of his bed as he worked on marking you as his and his only. His dark curls wrapped light around your fingers. You felt him press his lips to where your entrance would be beneath your panties, which had already created a damp spot that his saliva only worsened as he ran his tongue along the mound from your entrance to your clit. You shuddered, but didn't stop him.

"Mm.." you hummed, hips lightly bucking against his mouth as he let his tongue circle your clit through the fabric of your panties. "Clark," you whined, lips parting for a soft gasp.

"'S okay," he murmured, leaving one more kiss over your clit before he found himself tugging your panties to the side so he could see you more. You looked down at him, swallowing harshly as he inched a hand up your thigh.

Two fingers gently pressed between your folds, and you suddenly realized how thick his fingers were. You whined lightly, but he shushed you with a kiss to your hip.

"I'm not gonna rush. Wanna take my time with you." He shook his head before he dove back in and ran a tongue along your folds. He groaned, and you shivered at the feeling. He held your folds apart with two fingers and let his tongue circle your hole. You moaned softly, and as he felt your body relax, he let his tongue slip past the tight hole, pressing back and forth. You gasped, body tensing at the foreign intrusion. He looked up at you, glasses slightly fogged up.

His nose nudged your clit, and your thighs closed around his head as he fucked his tongue back and forth, curling and twisting to find what you liked. When he found that the penetration of his tongue didn't seem to give you as much as you wanted, your hips bucking impatiently, he lifted his mouth and let his tongue focus on your clit while he slipped two fingers inside of you.

That got a reaction out of you.

A soft cry of pleasure filled the dim room as he suckled at your clit and curled his fingers to find that spongy spot inside of you. He used his other hand to keep your panties pulled to the side, but as he focused more on your pleasure, he didn't even hear the rip of fabric right next to his ear.

You gasped, looking down at him. "Cla—aaark!" You tried to scold, but it morphed into a loud moan as he pushed a third finger alongside the first two. "Oh, fuck!" Your hips jolted against his face, and he moaned as if he was the one being pleasured. He looked up at you through his fogged up glasses, and as your hand tugged at his hair, his brows furrowed faintly.

To see his eyes properly, you reached down with a shaky hand to remove his glasses. He let out a gruff noise, but didn't stop you. He watched you from where his face was buried against your pussy, and from the look on his face and in his eyes, you'd think he was the one getting fucked like this.

But no. He just really liked pleasing you.

"Holy shit," you gasped lightly, back arching as a choked whimper left your lips. "Clark," you looked down at him. "Fuck, please don't—don't stop!" you ground your hips harder against his mouth and he doubled his efforts. He kept his eyes on you as his fingers drilled into you with ease. Your core squeezed and pulsed around him, and before you could warn him, the knot in your belly snapped like a rope with too much weight.

"Oh, my—Clark!" You cried out, your pussy gushing around his fingers as he worked you through the orgasm, letting you squirm and buck as if you weren't sure whether or not you wanted more.

Slowly, as the shocks and waves came to a stop, he eased his fingers out and lifted his head. You panted, eyes hazy and half-lidded as you watched him settle between your legs. His hands quickly came to push his sweats and boxers down to his knees before he leaned over you and found your lips with his once more.

"Y're so good f'me." He murmured, the kiss lazy and uncoordinated as you barely returned it due to how dazed you still were. "Y'ready?" He asked, slowly guiding his tip to glide back and forth along your folds, making sure to nudge your oversensitive clit.

You whimpered, but nodded lazily. "Please," you huffed, bringing your hands to search for his. He cooed softly at you, murmuring about how gorgeous you were as he kept his lips on yours. He brought his free hand to link his fingers with yours as his other hand held his cock to press against your still soaked pussy.

"'m sorry if it hurts," he warned, but he began to sink in slowly as he could. Your eyes rolled back and your nails dug into his hand.

"Cl—aaark," you whimpered, voice breaking slightly. He shushed you, carefully continuing until he reached your limit. There was still an inch that you couldn't take.

"That's all I can go." He said, finally pulling away so he could look at where your bodies met. You looked too, and shuddered at how big he was.

"You'll go slow, right?" You looked up at him, brows furrowed with worry.

"Oh, sweetheart," he shushed you softly. "I'd never hurt you. I'll go slow. I promise it'll feel amazing once it's past the first couple of seconds."

"Pinky promise?" You muttered. He laughed softly, nodding.

"Pinky promise, gorgeous," he lifted his hand and looped his pinky around yours before he kissed it. "I've got you." He promised.

You nodded. His pinky stayed looped with yours as he slowly pulled his hips back and then forward. You whimpered, eyes squeezing shut. He hesitated, but continued with slow, deep thrusts. The whimpers died down and were replaced by gasps and moans in a matter of seconds, and he lost it. Once he was sure you wouldn't be hurt by his size, he sped up slowly.

"'S so big," You bit your lip and looked down, watching as his cock disappeared inside of you and showed through a small tummy bulge.

His hand left yours to press on the bulge, and you cried out at the way it only made him feel so much bigger. He choked on his own sounds as he angled his hips a little lower to swipe along that sweet spongy spot inside of you. A squeal filled the room as he sped up for the last time, finding a good rhythm to settle on with the perfect angle that made your eyes roll back and your back arch.

"Oh, gosh, sweetheart," he panted, his own moans mingling with yours. "Takin' me so well, gorgeous. So perfect—like you were made just for me." His own eyes rolled back as he felt you clamp down on him when he praised and complimented.

"Fuck, 's so good," you panted.

"You like it, sweetheart? Like hearin' me talk about how good you are for me? How you're so darn perfect?" He teased, thrusts becoming a little harder as you squeezed him like he'd leave if you didn't.

"Y-Yeah—fuck—yes, clark!" You nodded eagerly.

"Gosh, you're so cute. Moanin' my name like that. You sound like an angel." His voice morphed deliciously into a whimper as he felt himself getting closer and closer.

"'M gonna cum—ah!—gonna cum!" you cried out, and he kept one hand low so he could let his thumb massage your clit while he let his other hand come to hold yours. Moments later, another orgasm crashed through you like a bulldozer hitting a building. A squeal of pleasure echoed and your core gushed around his cock.

"Oh! Oh, yeah," he panted, hips bucking faster inside of you. "Feels so darn good. Better than anything I could'a dreamt." He whined. His balls drew tight to his body, and he looked at you. "Wh-where do you want it? Where should I cum?" He stammered, hips losing rhythm as he squeezed your hand.

"I-Inside—do it inside." You told him, and the moment he got permission, he spilled inside of you. His cock twitched and pulsed inside of you as thick ropes of cum coated your walls to the point where it was already leaking out due to how he filled you with just his girth.

"Y're so perfect." He breathed, body giving one last shudder and a final spurt before he slowly pulled out. He knew it was lewd, but he couldn't resist looking at the mess he'd made. Your pussy gaped from his size, and his cum leaked out of you.

You looked up at him, both of you panting unevenly.

Panting was all that broke the silence.

Until his laugh rang in your ears.

"I guess I am a visual learner." He quipped, recalling his earlier joke.

You let out your own huff of a laugh. "A very visual learner."

"It came in handy." He grinned. There was a small pause before he shifted and got off the bed. "I'll be back." He said softly. You waited for him, still splayed comfortably on his bed.

When he came back, he had already cleaned himself up and now he approached with a warm, damp rag. He crawled onto the bed next to you and carefully wiped you down to clean up the mess he'd left between your thighs. Once you were comfortable and clean, he gave you one of his t-shirts to put on so he didn't have to leave the room again. You'd already told him not to worry about underwear for you since you thought you two were far past needing to be covered if laying together.

He tugged you into his embrace and curled up around you, letting you lay a leg over his hip. "We should probably talk more in the morning.."

"Yeah.." You muttered. He sighed into your hair and relaxed, closing his eyes. "Goodnight, Clark."

4th of July, 2023.

It was the 4th of July, a smattering of fireworks smearing the inky-purple sky a few miles down the road at the town’s celebrations in a barren field. Just over the canopies of the surrounding trees, you could make out a lit-out ferris wheel, the very same that you and Clark shared your first kiss at the top of exactly ten years ago. An innocent enough exchange, his hands folded nervously in his lap the entire time, a bit of teeth-knocking, and you were pretty sure that he briefly bit your lip in his boyish enthusiasm to finally be kissing you. Back then, it seemed like the biggest thing in the world, the most important thing that ever happened to you. Ten years later, on the very same holiday, it just made you grimace distastefully as you watched a few of the carriages on the jittering ride crest to the top. 

If there was a girl, sixteen, fragile-hearted, all swooning in that trembling seat, hands fluttering against the iron-bar as she waited for her best friend to swoop down and kiss her, you wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, screaming, Don’t do it, idiot! It’s not worth it! He’ll act like it didn’t happen the next day, and you’ll wish that you just jumped off the damn thing—

You took an indignant swig of the pale beer in your clenched fist and tried to stop thinking about pitching yourself from very tall heights. It probably wasn’t the most festive pastime, and the last thing you wanted to do was dampen the mood. That was probably why you were here, sitting outside on the wraparound porch of the Kent’s farmhouse on that quaint little bench that used to feel so big, but now your legs were curled awkwardly underneath you. Your cramped limbs were covered halfheartedly by the scratchy, crocheted blanket that Martha insisted you’d take with you after you muttered something about, ‘wanting to watch the fireworks,’ (everyone, thankfully, took that as you-language for needing a breather).

“Hey, you.” Everyone, it seemed, but Clark.

It’s not like you didn’t expect it. Friends and family alike were all bustling around in the kitsch bungalow, drinking beers, belly-laughing amicably, throwing companionable arms around shoulders, and genuinely enjoying the holiday. You weren’t in such good spirits. Clark must’ve thought you looked as sour-faced as you felt when he watched, unflinchingly, as you took the blanket from his mother with a soft thanks, Ma, and stalked outside to his porch. Realistically, it was only a matter of time before he ducked outside to find you.

And, surely, here he was. Lingering on the second step, smiling at you all bright and beautiful, impossibly soft in a plaid t-shirt that looked fathoms more comfortable than the expensive top you shimmied in for the occasion, shamefully regretting as soon as you stepped into the Kents’ home to see the rest of their guests in some variation of Betsy Ross’s flag.

“Hi,” you said breathily, snatching your gaze back to the far-off fireworks and that damned ferris wheel.

Clark hummed to himself, quickly realising the kind of mood you were in. You hated that he could always read you so effortlessly. You heard soft footfall against the patio, felt his warm hands on your ankles, lifting your legs up, and saw him, briefly, just out the corner of your eye, as he sunk down onto the bench next to you and let your calves smush against his thighs. Attentively, he fixed the askew blanket so they covered your socked feet, and swept his hand underneath it to toy absently with the daisy-charm anklet he got you when you were kids at the seaside.

“Not feeling the patriotism?” he mused wryly, thumb stroking over your anklebone like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A resentment worked in your throat and made it very hard to swallow. So, thickly, you responded, “Not much to feel patriotic about. This country’s shit.”

“I mean,” Clark laughed amiably, “you’re not wrong.”

You knew he was only half-lying. Clark saw the good in everything. That’s why he kept saving the world, and the people in it. He’d told you plenty of times before that the government’s sins weren’t his business, but the hearts and lives of the average citizen was.

“Sometimes I just want to leave,” you continued, feeling belligerent, almost wanting him to fight with you. “Pack all of my bags, get on a plane, and never come back.”

Clark smiled at you warmly. “Yeah? And where are you going, daisy?” 

Daisy, Clark called you. Hence the anklet. Hence the little finger-painting his parents’ still have up on their fridge of the wildflower (one of Clark’s finest, Jonathan would tease).

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here,” you replied irritably, picking a frayed thread off the blanket.

Clark didn’t seem too rattled by your hostility, and kept smoothing little caresses against the skin of your shin. “Okay. Say the word, and we’re gone. Heck, you don’t even need a plane.” 

He knew you hated when he took you flying with him. It was stomach-churning, and terrifying, and—well, in truth, it was fucking exhilarating, and beautiful, and honestly one of the most intimate things you would ever experience. But, those weren’t things you could just tell Clark. He made sure of that, time and time again.

Still, he called you Daisy, and none of his girlfriends could ever stomach your existence in his life for too long, and he kissed you on that ferris wheel, and his hands were on your ankle, and he was telling you, even if lightheartedly, that he’d whisk you away in his superhuman arms and fly you off to some land where you could breathe lighter. Clark didn’t realise that the reason why you struggled to breathe was him, but saying that would crush him, and make that horrible, wounded, tender look screw up his pretty features, and no matter how bitter you felt, you couldn’t do that to him.

“That’s nice, Clark,” was all you said, and swigged another mouthful of beer.

For the first time all evening, Clark frowned, and he did it in that awful, boyish way he did whenever his feelings were hurt but he was trying not to show it. That tiny crease between his eyebrows and soft poutiness of his mouth that wouldn’t really be noticed by anyone other than you—but, the whole effortless reading thing was a two-way-street. You knew Clark just as well as he knew you.

“Did I, erm…” His hands hesitated against your ankles, “are you…” Idiot. Beautiful, lovely, idiot. “Daisy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” he insisted, fingers tightening around you, warm, steady; you hated it. “Is it being back home? Do you miss the city? We can go home earlier than planned—I know we said that we’ll stay the week, but if you’re not—”

“God, Clark,” you interjected exasperatedly.

Clark flinched. His hands left you entirely. They fell into his lap like limp, dead birds, and he suddenly looked so forlorn, and unusually small.

It all delivered a pang of remorse to your stomach that might’ve been unbearable if it wasn’t for that stupid ferris wheel taunting you over the heads of all those trees.

“I’m fine,” you said tightly, “everything’s fine. I don’t need to go back to Metropolis. I don’t need you fussing over me, either. I really did just want to get a breather, s’all.”

Clark looked as though he was barely listening, staring listlessly and with the slightest tinge of rejection at where your legs were still draped awkwardly over his lap, but again, you knew him better. He was listening to every last scathing, contemptuous word. He was swallowing them whole and letting them sit at the pit of his stomach, to fester, and ache, and tally all of his deficiencies by vicious names.

“Right,” he said hoarsely, swallowing, “m’sorry, Daisy.”

You blinked at him. This was what you wanted, right? To make him as solemn as you? To get him to shut up, for once? So, why did it feel so deplorable? You blamed the sickening talent he had for manipulating your heart—those pretty, blue eyes of his, and that crestfallen expression; they were evil, really, and unkind. (Two words that didn’t describe Clark at all, you knew that, but you hated being back here—in the small-town that you honestly thought, at this point, you’d be returning to at holidays with a ring on your finger, Clark’s mouth on your cheekbone, but each time, you were met with pitying, confused looks from distant relatives and old schoolfriends, asking innocently if you and Clark were together).

“Don’t be sorry.” You flashed him the biggest, most shit-eating grin you could manage, and gently sunk the heel of your foot into his ribs. “Lighten up. I’m just tired, that’s all. Sorry if I upset you?” 

“You didn’t,” Clark lied softly, touching you again, quieter now.

Eyes narrowing, you tilted your head at him as he kept his own down and shy, gouging his features. “So,” you murmured, testing the waters, “that guy asked me on a second date.”

Clark hummed thoughtfully. “I thought you said he was boring.”

“He was,” you admitted hollowly. “But, he was cute, I guess. And, well, I’m not getting any younger,” you half-joked.

“So, you’re going to settle for a guy who finds taxes exciting?” Clark retorted. 

He was trying to be lighthearted and funny, but it kind of fell short because of the slight bite to his voice and the squinty frustration behind the eyes that didn’t quite meet yours.

“Hey, the market’s tough right now,” you teased.

“And the stock market, too, I’m guessing? Did he tell you about that, too? Tesla shares and his sharing account—”

“Clark,” you said sternly, slanting him a droll look.

Clark glanced down again, frowning. “Sorry, Daisy. Sue me for thinking you deserve a little better than some Wall Street guy.”

The sinews of your heart throbbed at the intensity of his vulnerable honesty. This was why you loved him. This was why you had to go on that second date with some ‘Wall Street goon.’ He was so tender, and lovable, and you adored him completely. He knew this. But, he wouldn’t let anything happen. That ferris wheel was a distant, aching memory, one that he swept under a rug of bashful charm, telling you the next day, Darn, I was such a bad kisser, right? Sorry, Daisy! Let’s go and get burgers… 

Obviously, there was nothing more you’d like to do than kiss him again. Than to unravel your legs from his lap and straddle it instead, bury your fingers in his unruly curls, steal the air from his lungs, tell him, I love you, you idiot, I fucking love you. But, he wouldn’t let you. For whatever reason, he’d put his hands on your thighs so kindly and softly, and tell you that it can’t happen. And he’d be so sweet about it, so sweet with you—because, he adored you right back, and he always would, you knew that, too. But, he wouldn’t really explain why it couldn’t happen, and your ego would be in ribbons and tatters in your shared lap as he cradled your face as if you were his dearest thing, murmur lovely words to you that would do nothing for the wounded pride butchered in your ribs. Then, he’d slip you so tentatively from his lap, and offer you a hand, saying something to you about returning to the party, complimenting the top you spent a silly amount of money on just for him, and spend the rest of the night at your side, acting as if nothing had happened. As if you didn’t love the very bones of him.

You couldn’t stomach it. You had tried before—in the dim light of your apartment back in Metopolis after a night out, slurring on too many rum and cokes, trying to make yourself as endearing and sexy as possible as you practically offered yourself on a shameful platter to him. He was so affectionate and patient with you that night, it made you love him even more, even as he delicately removed your hands from his face, and told you that you were too drunk. He still called you pretty as he lovingly removed your make-up. He still tucked you into the softness of your sheets and pecked the crown of your head. Hell, he even spent the night on your sofa, legs almost folded up to his chest, so he could take care of your miserable hangover in the morning.

You tried ten years ago, on that ferris wheel. 

You couldn’t keep trying. You couldn’t keep letting him mutilate your heart as if it mattered nothing to him.

“Maybe I fancy him,” you sighed then, swinging your legs off of his lap, settling your feet stubbornly in the grass beneath the bench. “Maybe I just want to get laid, so it doesn’t really matter if he’s boring or not.”

Clark stared at you, unhappy. “That’s not what you want.”

“Like you care about what I want,” you found yourself seething, so inadvertently furious and reckless.

That was the wrong thing to say. Clark’s face languaged itself into the most wretched thing you had ever seen, and you thought, for a terrible moment, that he might cry.

“Daisy, that’s…” Clark shook his head softly, “that’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Not—fuck you, Clark,” you snarled, getting up and snatching the blanket, leaving him cold and without you. 

He seemed to shiver against it—the wind, and your absence. Even with you standing, and Clark still sullen on the bench, he was almost as tall as you. He frowned at you, so distraught at whatever this was unraveling in the middle of you both, so confused and desperate to understand why it felt like he was losing you these days when, to him, nothing had really changed to make you so mean and cold.

“What did I do?” he asked dolefully, blinking up at you with wide, startled eyes that were still fawnlike despite their blueness. “I don’t—is this about Ben?” 

It was beyond you how Clark remembered the name of a guy you went on a date with when you had been wracking your mind over it for the last twenty minutes. It only stirred the wrath in your stomach even more.

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” you snapped.

Clark gestured helplessly with his empty hands. “Well, help me understand! That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? That’s who we are. Why are you being like this? All I said was that you deserve—”

“Maybe I will go back to the city early,” you muttered, turning your back to him, looking back at the colourful, exploding fireworks swelling in beautiful contusions of scintillating red and white and blue.

“Okay,” he mumbled, lost, standing too, “we can go in the morning. Ma and Pa will understand. We’ll tell them Perry needs us for—”

“I’ll go,” you interjected, “you can stay. There’s no need for you to cut your trip short.”

Clark looked like everything he held dear was falling apart at the seams and he couldn’t do anything but pathetically hold one end of the fraying thread. “If that’s what you want, then…” He shook his head solemnly, disconcerted. “Daisy, can you please just talk to me? I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning, and you can be alone for the week back in the city, but please, can we just—”

“Are you ever going to let me be your girlfriend, Clark?” 

It was such a ridiculous, petulant sentence to say—so raw, and childlike, and humiliating. But, you didn’t really know how else to phrase it. Because, Clark let you love him. He let you love him unconditionally, in fact. That wasn’t the issue. So, you couldn’t really stand there and plead that he let you into his heart, because you were scored all over it in cicatrices and tenderness, in a way that you knew nobody else would ever really be. You didn’t take that for granted. You appreciated that, maybe, that was all he could offer you. This purgatory state of greyish almost, not quite understanding where you stood on the delicate line between best friends and more. You might be able to stomach it better if he was more final and definite about it. If he told you, earnest and brutal, that no, you would never be Clark Kent’s girlfriend, maybe it might be easier for you to move on, and to digest the love you had for him a little better. Maybe, you could stop these bouts of meanness and cruelty that you never thought you’d ever inflict in him.

“Daisy, I…” Clark looked tormented. You might as well have sucker-punched him, with how agonised he seemed. “You know how I feel about you,” it’s the same script as last time, and the time before that, and it regurgitated like blood in his mouth, blood in your hands; incessant and ugly. “It’s always going to be you and me. Isn’t it?”

Isn’t it? 

“I don't know, Clark,” you replied honestly. A flinch later, and Clark was staring miserably at the floor, at the fluffy socks cladding your feet—the pair he offered you after you slipped off your pretty heels at the welcome mat earlier. “I thought it was going to be,” you continued, lifting your shoulders lamely, hands coming to cradle the goosebump-covered flesh of your arms, “but…I don’t understand what we’re doing here anymore.”

Clark was on his feet instantly, swaying a little at the suddenness of it, as if he wasn’t Superman, as if he wasn’t practically ichor and steel bones. “You’re my best friend. I thought that was enough.”

Guilt panged through your ribs. “Clark, it is. You are. It would be enough, if there weren't all of these…appendages, I don’t know? Like, it would be more than anything, it would be everything, if I knew there wasn’t anything else,” you beseeched. “But there is. I know there is. And so do you. So,” you added, bottom lip wobbling, “it should be me asking you if I’m enough, ‘cause I really don’t know what else is stopping us from—”

“We can’t keep doing this,” he whispered ruefully. “Every time, it’s like you’re breaking my heart, Daisy. I’ve told you, we can’t—”

“But, why?” Your voice raised now, lashing out with the crack of a ruthless whip, bringing the entire length of your friendship down on the rosary of his spine. It made Clark fold in on himself, impossibly small for someone of his stature. “Why, Clark? I think…I don’t know, I think it would be—” a tear rolled down your cheek, without permission, or dignity, but you made no move to wipe it away (you knew it killed Clark to see you cry, so you let it slip and carve a jagged line down your face). “I think we’d be okay.”

Clark was ravaged. His chest was throbbing, hands trembling, and an ugliness lay dormant on his tongue. 

“Daisy, please. Please, just—”

“Wouldn’t we be?”

“I can’t,” he murmured, throat bobbing sorely. “I can’t, Daisy, I’m sorry.”

You let your chin dip hollowly toward your sternum, holding yourself tightly. “Right,” you said faintly, “okay, Clark.”

As you went toward his house—a place ripe with childhood memories, shared, and precious, and intangible now—Clark felt himself unravel, exclaiming your name, your real name, not just Daisy. Not that borrowed fondness that felt so absent of belonging now. It scraped his throat raw at the unfamiliarity of it, leaving an aftertaste of bile and grief.

“Please,” he said desperately, “can we just—c’mon, Daisy, it’s us.”

You didn’t turn to face him. Honestly, you were too afraid of all self-preservation leaving you as soon as you saw that wrecked look on his pretty face. You must harden yourself to him. You’ve spent too long waiting and aching and cutting yourself up into darling little pieces for him.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

You swore to yourself, then—ten years after your first kiss—that you would cut off your own hand before you reached for Clark Kent again.

Now I know better, never let me... / Leave the house without a parachute...

A year earlier.

“—Ma, that was delicious,” you enthused, so bloated that you were sitting at the quaint dining table with the button of your jeans popped open. “Honestly, your best work.”

“Nawh, you’re a flatterer, Daisy,” Martha Kent said, flustered and ruddy-cheeked as she gently dabbed a tissue at her mouth. “It was just pie!” 

Clark, so broad and long-limbed at your side that his shoulder was brushing yours and you couldn’t quite tell where your legs began and his ended, was hasty to gently repudiate his mother’s modesty, “Ma, Daisy’s right. It was beautiful. Tell her Pa.”

“Huh?” Jonathan startled, having been focused on the crackling static of the box-television, playing some football game or other. He blinked, looking at his son, his crimson wife, and finally you, before nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Wonderful, darling. I mean, just—”

“Okay, that’s enough from all of you,” she reprimanded gently, moving to gather everyone’s cleaned plates. “Go off, the lot of ya, so I can wash up.”

“Oh,” you chimed in, smiling brightly, “we’ll wash up.” You touched Clark’s shoulder, “Won’t we?”

Clark blinked at you, softening at the hand on his shoulder, at the warmth in your eyes, and didn’t tear his eyes from you once as he quickly acquiesced, “Of course. Yeah. Ma, we’ll wash up.”

It didn’t take much convincing. Martha and Jonathan were soon shuffling into the parlour to nurse glasses of homemade lemonade, icicles tinkering against glasses, bellies hearty and full with the wonderful pie. You could distinctly hear them singing your praises at being so generous as Clark filled up the sink with soapy, hot water.

Not really thinking much about it, you plant your palms flush against the granite countertop of the kitchen island and lift yourself up onto it, not far away from where Clark was submerging the dishes into the sudsy water. It was as if your offer of a joined attempt at washing-up had completely evaded you, but you couldn’t help it. Clark looked so irresistibly domestic with his towering figure looming over the wash-basin, the window overhead peering out to the garden letting oozes of sunlight filter through the water-speckled glass. It was most likely the Kryptonian in him, but there really was something special about Clark doused in sunlight. Sometimes, you wondered if he would bleed it—ribbons of beautiful gold and trickling warmth. He was wearing a simple white tee, the material of it strained against the muscles of his back as he scrubbed away at the ceramic plate in his hands, not even grimacing against the scorching temperature of the water. 

“I’m starting to think you had ulterior motives offering to do the dishes,” he mused wryly, eyes flitting teasingly to you as he rinsed off some bubbles from the chinaware and settled it considerately onto the drying-rack. 

You feigned an offended gasp. “I would never? I take my duties as chief dishwasher ‘round here really seriously!”

“Yeah?” Clark taunted, a lopsided grin curling up the corner of his mouth. “Is that why you’re sat there, all pretty and not moving a finger?”

I wish you’d move a finger, you thought lamely, maybe three…?

“I’m watching the next generation of dishwashers bloom, all right? Have to make sure that I’m passing the torch onto someone worthy of—“

“I think you’re in the wrong profession,” muttered Clark drolly, “you’re a great journalist, but you’d kill it in theatre, Daisy.”

You swung out a leg to kick him in the kidney. “Bite me, Kent.”

“Sure, let me wash the dishes you said you’d do, then pick a place, and—“

“Oh, you’re letting me choose?”

“I’m a people pleaser, at heart.”

“Who bites people. Cannibal.”

“Cannibal implies we’re the same species,” corrected Clark. “And, technically, we’re not.”

You rolled your eyes at his facetiousness. “Can I just bite you?”

“If you ask to bite my arm again—“

“I think it would feel nice!”

Finally, he placed the last of the plates on the rack and started to drain the sink of the dirty water. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to dry his soapy hands in a nearby dishcloth before he turned around and settled his hands on your thighs. It’s moments like this—with touches like these, and similar airs of domesticity, and warmth—where you find yourself inadvertently cursing your best friend. Those thoughts only worsened when one of his thumbs stroked over where your jeans still hung loosely unbuttoned at the waist.

“I’m glad you came,” he mumbled affectionately. You were pretty sure he was looking at the slither of lace from your underwear peeking through the gap in your unbuttoned jeans, but found yourself without many words or protests as he hooked his fingers through the belt-loops, tugging you the slightest bit closer to the edge of the countertop as your knees touched the sides of him. “Ma and Pa have really missed you.”

You hummed sweetly, glancing unashamedly at his mouth. “Yeah, well, I missed them.”

The callused pad of his thumb stroked over one of your jutting hipbones, just where your tee had ridden up during dinner. “I missed you.”

“We literally see each other every day.”

“Yeah, but,” Clark smiled pensively, “it’s different here, when we’re back home. Don’t you think?”

Your throat went very dry. “You’ll have to explain that logic to me, Kent.”

“I don’t know…it’s just—it’s like we’re really us here. Not that we’re not us in Metropolis, but…” A troubled sigh escaped him, “It makes sense in my head, all right?”

“That’s okay,” you promised him, flattening a hand against his hummingbird chest. “You don’t—I think we’re pretty far past explaining ourselves, don’t you? We’re, you know, us. Here, and there. And I guess I know what you mean—about it being a little different, back here.”

His smile softened impossibly more, the most tender and loving thing you had ever seen, dimpled and precious, and God, you love this boy.

“You understand?”

“Yes, Clark. I understand.”

Later that night, just after you slipped out of the shower, almost imperceptibly quiet from your exhaustion as you dried yourself off, you overheard Clark in the middle of the closest thing to a heated debate he could ever have with his beloved parents. Martha was ranting like you hadn’t heard her since the Bush administration, almost splenetic as she referred to Clark by his full name, reprimanding him for something or other. Jonathan, occasionally, would chime in, weary and loving in a way only a father as softhearted as him could be.  

“—Ma, Pa, you don’t understand—“ you briefly caught Clark saying, sounding a little stretched thin and pained, “it’s us. Daisy, she doesn’t mind about none of that stuff. It’s always gonna be us—“

Stomach in knots, you tried not to listen anymore. You didn’t want to make a habit out of eavesdropping on conversations that clearly had no space for you, especially ones so intimate and distressing. But, the little bits you caught onto pressed against your skin and marrow like thousands of tiny, little knives. You tried to ignore the sting as you tiptoed the length of the hall from the bathroom to Clark’s bedroom, where you had spent the night countless of times before, but now it felt so challenging and foreign that slipping under his boyhood covers felt like trespassing. The voices stayed the same volume, oozing through the walls as if they had forgotten you were there altogether. Until, finally, one side of the discussion acquiesced, and the farmhouse went uneasily still.

As soon as the floorboards outside of Clark’s room started to creak underfoot, you rolled onto your side on his twin-size mattress and feigned sleep. It took one glance at you, him lingering briefly in the doorway, for Clark to know that you weren’t asleep. 

“Did you hear any of that?” he asked calmly, making his way into the room. 

Keeping your head tucked into his pillow, you heard him rummaging through old comforters and blankets to fashion himself a makeshift bed on the floor. It felt reminiscent of childhood sleepovers, rather than a pair of twenty-somethings who had spent the last afternoon in the ankle-deep grass of the farm, sunbathing and laughing and tangling your legs together as if being symbiotic was the only way to breathe. He should be trying to make room for himself next to you on his tiny mattress, an intertwined network of desperate limbs as he cradled your head to the warmth of his chest. His mouth should be peppering a litany of kisses to your face, but instead, he was flopping into his sorry excuse of a temporary bed, body lying parallel to yours.

“Bits,” you replied finally. 

Clark just made a contemplative sound, before saying, “Today was nice.”

When you pressed your eyes closed, you felt a tickling of tears welling in the waterline. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, “it was.”

“You’re my favourite girl, Daisy. Always will be.”

You knew that. It didn’t make any of this easier to swallow. 

It didn’t make you any less hungry. 

A single tear soaked through the terracotta of his pillow-case. “Night, Clark.”

Silence swelled in the room like a purpling bruise, then, shuffling, a soft murmur of your name, and you felt a hand on you. His hand, stroking the back of your head. You squeezed your eyes shut even tighter, evicting another tear. His other hand moved, next, thumb collecting the tear and smearing it into your hairline.

“Please don’t cry,” Clark asked of you softly, a wrenching plea.

“M’not,” you denied childishly.

He scoffed, not unkindly, and brought his thumb closer to the corner of your eye. “Look at me. Please?”

“Asleep.”

“Please?” 

How could you deny such a tender request? Your eyes fluttered, the lampshade on his nightstand eclipsed by his face, mere inches from yours. Clark smiled at you, all dimples and pearly teeth and years of love. His hands held you still, so gingerly and doting.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

“Clark,” you protested.

“Do you wanna sleep down here? With me?” Knelt and penitent, he looked almost holy like this in front of you. Clark then smiled at you all boyish and lame, saying, “I’d say we could share the bed, but…” 

But it was barely big enough for him alone, never mind the two of you. 

You should’ve said no. Should’ve protected the splitting in your chest. But, you had never really made a practice of saying, no, to Clark Kent, and you weren’t about to start now—not with his hands on you so dotingly, his eyes crinkled at the edges in sentimental affection, in the middle of his boyhood room. 

“Okay.”

Together, you removed the duvet and pillows from his bed, fashioning something charming and a little laughable on the floor out of this fragile peace he was desperately trying to maintain. Only when you were folded like a letter within the envelope of comforters did Clark flick off his lamp and cuddle up behind you, lolling his chin against your shoulder as if it was second nature to him.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing to forgive you for,” you sighed, eyes open against the darkness of night, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Say you forgive me anyway. Indulge me.”

You love him. You really, really love him.

“I forgive you, Clark.”

“Thanks, Daisy.”

I thought you were gonna catch me, / I never stopped falling for you.

20th November, 2023.

The movie was fine. Ben picked it—he always did. A palatable, predictable rom-com with pretty actors and pretty homes, the kind of thing that suspended just the right amount of belief to have you shuffling out of the cinema with a self-pitying ache in the basement of your belly. He dropped you off outside of Clark’s place afterward, pressing a chaste to your lips as he absently reminded you about brunch with his sister and her husband next weekend. 

“You’re late,” Clark teased from the living room as you let yourself in. He had that soft lilt to his voice that sounded terrifyingly more like welcome home, than, hi, my totally platonic best friend, how was your date with your boyfriend? He was sprawled on the couch in a threadbare pair of grey sweatpants, long legs kicked up onto the coffee table, a half-finished bag of popcorn next to his crossed ankles. 

“Sorry, Dad,” you taunted, shrugging off your coat and toeing off your shoes, “did I miss curfew?”

“I told that young man to have you home by eleven,” Clark played along wryly. 

An impossibly large grin carving into your sore cheeks, you padded over to him, curled into the usual spot on the plush sofa, knees crazing his thigh. To the common eye, it was the same as it had always been. Except it wasn’t—not to you, and not to Clark. His arm wasn’t slung easily along the back of the couch anymore, fingers tracing aimless patterns on the skin of your shoulder. His pinkie didn’t reach tangibly for yours on the cushions. And you, inwardly, hated how obvious the absence of touch felt.

“How was the movie?” he asked, eyes on the television, playing some aviation documentary or other.

“It was fine.” You played with a loose thread on the sleeve of your cardigan. “Ben enjoyed it.”

Clark hummed noncommittally and briefly spared you a polite smile, as if to say, oh, I’m glad.

It made your chest throb dully. “You would’ve hated it, though.”

“Good thing I wasn’t there, then,” he said absentmindedly.

It was a lot of this recently—feigned indifference, halfhearted comments, muted smiles that didn’t quite reach eyes; your well-mannered, deferential best friend. He was so respectful, it hurt. Admittedly, you were taking his chivalry rather to heart. For the last few months of dating Ben, you had been silently willing Clark to do something—he wasn’t the primal, territorial kind of guy, you knew that, but…didn’t it matter? Didn’t you matter? Weren’t the two of you more than this—diplomatic dinners where Clark pretended that he gave a damn about capital and assets and the property market for the sake of you? God, all you wanted was for him to tell you to leave him. It would take the slightest bit of jealousy from him, and you’d dump Ben in a heartbeat. Sure, that probably made you a wretched woman, but this was Clark.

You stared at him, desperate for him to fracture, to stop playing Switzerland about the guy you were spending your weekends with. But Clark only reached for the popcorn, offering you the bag with a gentlemanly smile.

“Do you like him?” you asked sharply, the words leaving you before you could stop them.

Clark’s hand went still halfway to his mouth, throat working as he chewed a single kernel. “Does it matter if I do?”

A pulse of agony ribboned through you. “Of course it matters.” 

Now, he granted you the privilege of his gaze—blue eyes too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let your resolve crack the slightest bit. “Then, no. I don’t like Ben.” A pregnant pause, Clark wetting his lips, gentling his voice, and he continued, “But you do, right?” 

“He’s…” Not you, “nice.”

“Nice,” Clark echoed, grinning, and returned his attention to the screen. His knuckles whitened around the bag of popcorn, so, small victories.

Selfishly, you wondered what kind of extremes you would have to go to in order to get the caveman, possessive reaction you truly wanted from him. Like, did you have to go into gruesome detail about your incredibly boring sex life with this guy?

“He asked me to come home with him for Thanksgiving.”

Jackpot.

Clark’s lungs emptied in a sharp, hitching exhale. His gaze snapped to you, too fast, too raw—he may as well have wrenched open his ribcage and exposed all the knots of himself to you. Thank fuck. 

“You always come home with me for the holidays?” he said quietly. 

This whole time, you never really considered that coaxing some kind of reaction from him would hurt you too, but that wounded, confused look on his face, like a rejected, kicked puppy, was a sucker-punch. Because, he was right—he often was. Every year, since the two of you moved away for college, you’d gone back with him to Smallvile—the Kent farm, Martha’s pumpkin pie and Jonathan’s well-meaning teasing, the two of you curled under that scratchy blanket by the fire, crackling with logs Clark had spent the better half of the afternoon swinging at with an axe as you swooned. You belonged there, with him, back home. Not in some stranger’s dining room in upstate Metropolis, making small talk with Ben’s fair-weather parents and boring-as-him sister. 

“I know.”

A muscle twitched in Clark’s taut jaw as he set the popcorn down, hands dangling pathetically between his knees as he took his legs off of the coffee table. “So, you said no. Right?” 

Nothing left your mouth. Nothing even formed on your tongue. 

“Daisy.” The endearment left him roughly. “Tell me you’re not going.” 

You shivered, wanting nothing more than to tell him no, I’m not. God, you wanted to so badly, with every yearning morsel of your being. You wanted him to demand it of you, to give you permission to shatter this fragile, unspoken arrangement. But, he only stared at you, silent and aching, handing you some kind of invisible knife carved of kryptonite.

“I don’t know,” you confessed.

“It won’t feel like Thanksgiving if you’re not there with me.”

Your self-preservation unravelled, and you moved without thinking. You touched his sternum, almost flinching at the pounding of his heart. “Then, say it, Clark,” you seethed, “tell me not to go. Tell me you want me there, with you.”

For an agonising moment, your best friend just stared at you, as if the entire, tangled history of the two of you was haemorrhaging in this harrowing space. Then, with the kind of excruciating gentleness and self-sacrificing bullshit that only Clark Kent could muster, he shook his head. 

“You know I can’t.”

The finality of it butchered the girl in you that you thought was buried years ago. Evidently, some part of it stuck around, nursing some kind of mad hope that maybe he’d be ready for you, one day. You stood, trembling, and staggered wordlessly towards the entrance hallway of his apartment.

“Daisy,” Clark called, panicked, standing too, “Daisy, wait—” 

You turned, undoing, strangled, and so very tired of this cycle of punishment. “You expect me to wait around with no real sign that you’re ever going to be ready. Do you realise how cruel that is?” 

He said your name again, your real name, and you were starting to resent the sound of it—this pattern you had fallen into, of him only breathing it when he looked like this; torn and apologetic, but never willing to do something about it.

“Lana Lang got married last month,” you told him steadily, trying not to cry. “Pete Ross and his wife just had their second baby. And I’m—I don’t know. Hoping you’ll ask me nicely to break up with my boyfriend? My life’s going on without me because I’m waiting for something that’s probably never going to happen.” You stared at him witheringly, at the devastation in his eyes but evident rigidity in his bones, his lack of movement or protest. The absence of any kind of reassurance. “Am I wrong?” 

Clark didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“Right,” you muttered sourly, snatching your jacket from its designated hook on his crooked coat-rack. “I’ll see you at work, Clark.”

It’s time you sever that hand completely.

You told me you waited for me, you said that you won... / Asked me on a plane from Rio, do I ever think of us?

12th of September, 2024.

Clark’s apartment was hollowed and harrowed all at once, silent except from the faint hum of his bare refrigerator and his own shallow breathing. He sat on the edge of his couch, the Superman suit draped over the arm of it like shredded snakeskin, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers as he nursed an ice-pack to the ugly swelling over his left eye. His ribs ached with each ragged breath, the bruises already flowering with petals of violet and blue across his chest and sides. He could still taste blood, metallic and sour and familiar, at the corner of his split lip. 

It wasn’t the worst of nights—he’d been pulling his punches, recently, letting blows hit closer to comfort than he would’ve a year ago. Still, the empty space next to him, around him, was enough to make the wounds ache that bit more profoundly as he pressed the ice harder to the contusion, just to relish in the sting.

He hadn’t seen you in days. Weeks, really. Not properly, not like before. You were still best friends—exchanging texts and funny videos, calling in the middle of adult responsibilities, and catching up at the coffee machine at the Daily Planet, as your lives weren’t grotesquely and obscenely woven together. Boundaries existed now that didn’t before, cruel ones that weren’t ever really negotiated, but they were necessary—they both knew it. It was nights like these where Clark found himself missing you the most, a hunger settling bitterly between his third and fractured rib. When he was bandaging his own pains, when laughter didn’t reach the parts of him you could, when he caught himself glancing at the door like he was willing you to walk in—you’d tell him you saw the fight on the news, that it terrified you, that you needed to know that he was okay.

Just that morning, Clark woke up from the cruellest of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching you, everywhere, and kissing you, and his sheets were drenched in sweat when the sunshine split through the curtains to give him a mean dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower when the ache got too painful, but last month, Clark ran out of the emergency supply of your shower gel that you kept here, and the lingering smell of you left his bathroom weeks ago. He washed off the shame and the desire, and went to work, and avoided your eyes even more stubbornly than usual. 

Then, his phone vibrated aggressively on the coffee table, flaring his ribs with a dangerous glimmer of hope.

Daisy.

His pulse rabbited against his scratched throat. He thumbed in the numbers of your birthday, unlocking his phone, and winced at the vicious pull in his abdomen as he leaned forward.

DAISY: Hey are you up

Clark blinked. Did she not see the news, or the tram torn from the tracks by the grubby hands of some extraterrestrial, or Clark being launched into a skyscraper as if he weighed little more than a paperweight? 

CLARK: Of course I’m up

CLARK: Sorry that sounded rude I didn’t mean it to be

CLARK: Yes I’m awake are you okay?

He hated himself. He fantasised briefly about self-flaggelation and almost felt glad for the agony in his body.

DAISY: Lol don’t worry Clark Knt could never be rude

DAISY: Erm so……he proposed!!!

Screw self-flaggelation. Give him a gun. 

Clark suddenly thought maybe the super-bots got it wrong, and he really did have a concussion, that maybe his brain was short-circuiting under the weight of exhaustion, internal bleeding, and the enormity of his yearning. 

So, he reread it—just to be sure. And he reread it again. Thrice. The words, horrifyingly, didn’t change. He proposed. You were engaged. His thumbs wavered, typing, deleting, typing again. What was there to say? 

CLARK: Wow

Kill him.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again—and it was at least some comfort to know that the two of you still had some things in common, after all of this. Clark denied himself the privilege of breathing as he waited for your next message, his ribs screaming against the strain.

DAISY: I haven’t said yes yet

The ice-pack slid uselessly to the rug, where it stayed, resembling some flayed animal. Clark’s hands quivered now around the phone that looked so pathetically small between his fingers. Whatever this pain was, it was brutish. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Lex Luthor, doglike and sniffing at the hem of the Superman cape like something rabid and wronged. Not even Ben. 

CLARK: Okay

A breath.

CLARK: What did you say?

He couldn’t help but think he deserved it, though. Hadn’t she warned him this would happen?

DAISY: I told him I needed to think

DAISY: You’re the first person I told

Because, that’s Clark. Your best friend, the first person, a medley of shared memories and experiences and a childhood that belongs to the both of you, and not even this could separate it. A surgeon could take all the silver instruments in the world, and it still wouldn’t sever the two of you—there wasn’t a pair of scissors sharp enough to cut that invisible string, and Clark clung to that. He was the first person you told. It gutted him, it felt like an executioner coming for him, it felt like the gallows—but he was the first person. 

Not your parents, not his, not Lois. Clark. 

Clark wanted—golly, what did he want? He wanted everything. Clark was nothing but want and bruises and heroism. He would cut open a vein in his arm and bleed out you, if he could. The pulmonary artery of his yearning pulsed viciously against his worst fears and agonies, and he wanted, darn it. 

His thumb trembled again against the edge of everything he had ever known. 

Don’t marry him. Don’t say yes. I’m the first person. Don’t marry him, I’m begging you.

CLARK: I’m glad

CLARK: Glad you told me I mean

CLARK: And glad he proposed 

He’ll die alone and wanting.

DAISY: Glad?

CLARK: It’s what you wanted wasn’t it?

CLARK: To get married 

To get married to him. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. How many dreams had slipped through his fingers of you in white, a wedding back at the farm, wildflowers in your hair, and fireflies scintillating the night-sky as pressed his mouth onto yours when it was all said and done, and you were his wife? 

Wife. Wife. You were going to be Ben’s wife.

DAISY: You think I should say yes?

CLARK: I think you should have everything you’ve ever wanted

Well, not everything.

DAISY: Will you be there?

CLARK: Are you asking me to be your maid of honour?

DAISY: Clark

CLARK: I’ll always be there Daisy

You seemed to be typing for a long time, then. He could picture you, in the warmth of the fairylights in your bedroom, or the flickering of vanilla candles, typing out belligerence, needling snarls, cursing out his name, until you finally reached on something far more scathing and perfunctory.

DAISY: That’s not what I mean and you know it

DAISY: But okay

DAISY: I’ll talk to him in the morning

Clark hated himself. 

CLARK: I’m so happy for you Daisy.

You didn’t reply for the rest of the night.

And you were at my wedding, I was broken, you were drunk... / You could've told me not to do it, I would've run, I would've run.

20th of May, 2025

“—Here, son…C’mon…” 

Agony lanced right through him as Clark felt his father lift his legs onto the bed, Lois’s hand gingerly coaxing him to lie flat as Martha grasped frantically at his fingers. It felt like a thousand little, white-hot knives were pricking at his flesh, trying to reach bone. He was distinctly aware of his childhood room around him—the photograph of you crowned by a wreath of daisy-chains in the field angled just right on his nightstand, so close to his mother’s fussing elbow that it worried him, even through the stabbing pain, coursing through his poisoned, black-dyed veins.

“Hi, Ma,” he groaned, bellyaching in a childlike hurt as Martha cradled the nape of his neck lovingly. “Ma,” Clark croaked wretchedly, “they sent me here to rule over everyone…They sent me here to kill people…”

A single tear slipped out the corner of his ear, stinging and corrosive against his infected skin.

“Clark,” his mom protested, “that’s not…that ain’t…”

He shivered feverishly, feeling as though every drop of blood had been drained from him, as though his entire body was hollowed and raw. Black dots started to blur his vision, the morose faces of his beloved parents eventually melting into amorphous masses.

“Daisy,” panted Clark restlessly, craning his neck from side to side blindly, as if he might find her in this sea of black. “Daisy, Ma. I need—” 

“Oh, Clark,” Martha wept. 

It was a wretched and unthinkable thing for a mother to see her son like this.

Lois, stood in the doorway, fumbled uselessly with something to say or do to make any of this better. It was then when her eyes caught that brass photo-frame, that familiar face of you—her co-worker, but years younger, and fathoms brighter than the last time she saw you, ranting splenetically about wedding expenses and the uselessness of the guy you were seeing. You looked softer, there, lighter. A halo of daisies on your forehead as sunlight enveloped you in some kind of ethereal, golden warmth—or, that could’ve been the boy behind the camera. Lois always did think you looked happier when you were with Clark.

“I’m gonna…” Lois blinked, gesturing lousily, “I need to just—I’m going to make a call.” 

And she scarpered out of the room, prying her phone out of her jeans’ pocket. It was you she called. Because, who else?

You picked up on the third dial, voice rasped and exhausted. “Hey, Lois. Is this about Clark handing himself over, because I saw. And, honestly, I can’t even speak about it without spitting—”

“He’s asking for you,” she interjected quickly, talking over your rant. You went quiet, stunned. Lois blundered on, “Clark, he’s—he’s seriously hurt, and…and he asked for you. Well, he asked for Daisy, but I’ve worked with you both long enough to know what that means. He’s asking for you.”

Still, you said nothing. Lois’s teeth worried at the torn flesh of her bottom lip. She could hear, through the crackling, bad signal of the Kent farm, a disgruntled murmuring on the other end of the line. Lois could only presume that this was your fiancé, and that Ben, who she knew little about at all, wasn’t very happy about being rudely awoken by your ringtone. 

“Hello?” Lois uttered your name, desperate. “I’m really sorry to wake you up,” she said, unapologetically, “I know it’s late, and I know things aren’t the best between you and Clark right now—”

“Is he home?” you asked.

Lois’s breath hitched. “He’s in Smallville. We’re in Smallville.”

You made a musing hum, as if that’s what you had already meant by ‘home,’ and it startled Lois all over again to think about the tangible, terrible landscape of memory that you and Clark shared.

“I get that you’re going to have to book a flight, and that’s so much hassle,” she stressed, “but, I thought you’d want to know, so you could—”

“No, no,” you rushed out, and Lois could hear rustling, and the sound of a stubborn zip, and more disparagement from Ben, “I’m glad you called, Lois. Really. Thank you. You’re a good friend. I’ll, erm—I’ll be on the first flight out. Yeah?” 

“O-Oh!” Lois stammered, surprised. “Oh, you’re—okay! Yeah! Erm, well, I don’t know if I’ll still be here. There’s actually some stuff that I need to—you know what? Never mind that. He’ll be here. Big guy’s not going anywhere right now,” she added, grimacing. “He’s pretty beat. But…he’ll be real glad to see you when he wakes up, Daisy.” 

A soft exhale of breath travelled through the line, followed by the gentle closing of your apartment door. “Yeah,” you didn’t sound very convinced at all, but still inexplicably soft, “thanks again, Lois. Seriously. I’m so grateful to have you—that…that Clark has you.” 

Lois blinked, alarmed. You didn’t think that she and Clark were together, did you? “Oh. Clark and I, we’re not—”

“See you!” 

And the line went dead.

____________________

You were so sure that you’d never recover from this kind of devotion.

The love you had for Clark—it wasn’t the kind of thing you could pray away with a wounded pride, or have Ben kiss away until it was rendered. It immolated you, blotted you out, made you a shell of yourself. Receiving that call from Lois had your heart lodged in your throat, a splattering of viscera smearing the ivory of your ribs with innards and terror.

Now, you were back here. Back home. The air smelt of ozone, livestock silage, and something distinctly Clark—that cedar, sandalwood warmth, tinged with a faint lingering of his blood. You were half-slumped on a humble, wooden chair at his bedside, not quite near enough to reach out to touch him. And Clark, well, he may as well have been dead with how still he was lying, chest barely rising and falling against the weight of Kara’s loyal, tail-wagging dog perched under his chin. Sunlight imbued his tartan curtains; it wouldn’t be long until he woke up, and saw you. Anxiety clawed at the dry length of your throat, and you were very swiftly regretting the decision to decline Martha’s offer of a hot cocoa upon entering the farmhouse an hour or so ago.

There hadn’t been any debate or hesitation after Lois told you that Clark was hurt and asking for you. It didn’t matter that the two of you weren’t the same nowadays, that there was a cavernous ache in between you that not even overfamiliarity could nurture. It definitely didn’t matter that Ben wanted to go wine-tasting this afternoon—you couldn’t think of anything worse than swilling decanted wine around your mouth as your proxy sommelier of a fiancé oohed and aahed pretentiously over the different types of grape. This was Clark. And even the ring glittering on your finger, obscene and way too gaudy for your taste, didn’t beat that. You were starting to think nothing ever really would.

“Daisy…” 

It was whisper-soft, a parable on his tongue, and you genuinely were starting to worry that the reason why Clark was always so reluctant to let anything happen with you was because he had fashioned some kind of infallibility out of you, some religion.

The brittle legs of your chair scraped softly against his floorboards, a half-instinctive movement toward him that you would later blame on muscle memory, until you stopped yourself. Fell short. The space was better. 

“I’m here,” you said carefully.

Clark stirred, the sheets rustling leaf-like underneath him. Even so weak, he was gorgeous. Shamefully, you’d even argue he was more so. It killed your heart to seem so fragile, but his dishevelled curls, almost onyx, were haloing his pretty, devastated face in a way that reminded you of how closer to God he was than man. His eyes, periwinkle and frantic to find sunlight—or you (if there was much difference)—were swollen and glassy, fluttering as they found you. The worried crinkles softened out, all of him seemed to soften, in fact; melting into the mattress, easing as if his bones were turned to liquid. His lips trembled around the sweetest of smiles.

“You…” he groaned, struggling to move, to talk, to even breathe, “you came.”

A frog in your throat, all you mustered for him was a nod, staring at the wall, trying to ignore the photograph of you preserved on his nightstand. In your periphery, his hand was twitching feebly against the comforter, fingers curling like he was trying to reach for you, half-expecting your hand to be there already, waiting. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your hands stayed protectively in your lap.

Clark’s voice cracked, raw and bending under the weight of twenty years of this: “I thought you wouldn’t.”

That hurt.

“Don’t,” you said firmly, still tender, but not leaving room for him any longer. Your engagement ring pressed painfully into your skin, biting like tiny, diamond teeth. His hand tried to move again, to reach the impossible. “Clark, stop. Save your strength.”

He laughed—or attempted one, at least, thought it left him like a sob being pried from the depths of him. “Strength.” He closed his pretty eyes against the shame of it. “I’ve got none left, Daisy. Not without you. I mean—have you caught the news recently?” 

“And that’s my fault, is it?” you asked, almost scoffing. “I didn’t believe a word of it, Clark, if that’s what you’re talking about. Well. It could be true, about your birth parents. But not about you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I lost. I failed.”

You tried to harden your resolve against the brokenness of his voice and the single tear on his cheekbone. You sunk your canines into your tongue against the weaker parts of you that begged to hold his hand or kiss his temple. To be kind when you must be resilient. It wasn’t your softness he needed now, anyway. Not in this state. He needed some brutish, old-fashioned honesty.

“You didn’t fail anybody, Clark,” you said steadily.

Clark’s bottom lip trembled. “I failed you.”

“How—” Your heart ached, “Clark, what do you—”

“I let you go.” It was if someone stole the words from him; snatched, so unforgivingly, so brutally. They fell between the two of you like viscera or entrails—some other gore. “I stood there, and I let you slip away, and I told myself it was right, it was fair, that I was protecting you—but, golly, Daisy—” Clark’s body shook with the enormity of his honesty, “every day, I think I’m dying without you.” 

The room held a breath, a twin pair of grape-lungs, purpling against the strain. Just the hum of grasshoppers outside of his window, and the faint pant of the slumbering dog on his sternum. It would’ve been peaceful, under any other circumstances. Now, it taunted you.

“Clark, don’t—” 

“Don’t what?” His eyes finally opened again. They were hazy with fever and want, but fixed on you so intensely with a devotion that he would surely never recover from, either. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me to be honest with you.” 

Your eye twitched furiously. “It’s ten years too late, Clark!” 

“I know,” he admitted, guilt-wracked. “I know, and m’sorry, Daisy, but I can’t—you don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand?” you sneered in disbelief.

“Please,” Clark whimpered. “Don’t be angry with me.”

He had taken plenty of blows so far this week—he even stomached Kryptonite poisoning. Somehow, the malice in your eyes hurt the worst.

 “Fuck you, Clark,” you said then. Clark flinched pitifully. He hated swearing—it was a childlike, Midwestern thing of his. Charming, usually. It only angered you more. “You don’t get to say this now. You’ve got no right. I’m engaged. You told me to marry him. Remember? I gave you so many chances to…to do something, Clark! To say anything!”  

“Please. Stop. Daisy, just—”

“I’m getting married,” you said again scathingly. “It’s not fair to tell me this. You’re supposed to be my best friend. To want what’s best for me. And now you want me to marry him, knowing that you—” A sob strangled you, treacherously, and a filthy tear rolled hot down your cheek. You scrubbed it away as if it wronged you with the knots of your knuckles, the gold of your ring scratching the blotchy skin. “You’re selfish.”

Clark crumpled. “I know. I know I am. But, I do want what’s best for you, Daisy—”

“Stop.” 

“And you are my best friend. In the whole world. That’s why—”

“Stop it.”

“You deserve better than him. You deserve better than me, too. Golly, I know it. But, you can’t—”

“God, Clark—”

“Don’t marry him.” 

There it was.

You stared at him, ravaged. He stared back, undone.

“That’s…” your fists clenched in your lap, “...Clark, you’ve hurt me a lot over the years. Without ever meaning to. But, this—”

“Don’t marry him,” he said again, begging. “Don’t marry him, Daisy.”

Hastily, you got to your feet before the weakness in your knees could betray you, too. His eyes followed you helplessly, aching, and he tried to move, but Krypton’s paws pressed tighter into his chest, his body failing him.

“Daisy,” Clark pleaded hoarsely, “where are you…” His gaze tracked your heated movements towards his door, the frantic grasping of your bag, panicking, “don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

“I hope you get everything you want, Clark. And I hope I never hear a word of it.”

I thought you were gonna catch me... / I never stopped falling for you.

4th of July, 2025.

If handing out wedding invitations for a wedding you never imagined was excruciating, the apologetic letters explaining to relatives and high school friends that the ceremony wouldn’t be happening was a torture method. 

Honestly, it was preordained—a self-fulfilling prophecy that you and Clark had got yourselves marked by that day on the ferris wheel when you were sixteen, to tangle you up in this cycle of punishment and humiliation. You would always be hung up on him, he would always be alone, and that’s the price you had to pay for the people you had wronged on the destructive, toxic path you had tread in your inability to let go and his martyr complex. Maybe, you thought bitterly, you deserved this.

He may have been boring, and pretentious, and he probably didn’t even love you as he should’ve, but you genuinely hoped that Ben would find a woman who could enjoy the cantankerous things he also enjoyed.

You were in the middle of penning the sixteenth letter that evening—ink blotching some pathetic excuse about we just didn’t want the same things for an old friend of your mother’s, who would probably laugh dementedly over the whole ordeal—when you heard the faint tapping of knuckles against your living room window. And, of course, it couldn’t be anyone but Clark. His feet didn’t touch the floor, hovering just above the iron-grate of the fire escape, as if he was half-expecting to be turned away. In this fragile assumption, he had tucked his chin shallowly towards his chin, as if it pained him to face the inevitability of your rejection.

He was still wearing his work uniform, you realised, as your eyes raked over the godlike boy outside the glass. The night sky was smeared lilac behind him, and for the first time in a long time, not a single scratch marred him. Your body yearned for him in a way that your mind screamed for you to ignore.

You stayed knelt as you opened the latch, staying at some altar of longing and shame as he lingered just outside of the familiarity of your home that he hadn’t felt in so long—the flickering of candles, the needle-scratch of your record player over a Marvin Gaye vinyl, the leather sofa he helped you shoulder up the stairs the day you moved in. Clark waited, breathing it all in, but kept his eyes on you the whole time—you, on your knees; you, blinking up at him fawnlike and expectant; you, his. Still. Even now.

His feet settled on the windowsill as soft as snowdrift. “Hi, Daisy.”

“What do you want?” you asked gravelly.

“That’s…” Clark exhaled breathily, a boyish laugh warming through his chest, “that’s a loaded question.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, then glanced sparingly at the apology letters on your coffee table, and back to your best friend. “Well,” you said dryly, “I’ve got the time.” 

Grimacing, Clark looked at you in love and agony, and crouched to ease himself inside your life again. You thought he might remain standing, that he might appreciate the imbalance you inadvertently granted him through the feebleness of your knees, but you should’ve known better. Should’ve known Clark better, that if you were knelt in front of him like this—so unravelled and distraught and more his than you had been in years—then, he was going to match you. He sank to one knee first, and the sight made the sinews of your heart tug, and then the second. He still towered you, but it was never intimidating. His hands even stayed patiently in his lap, because this was Clark, and he loved you, and he respected you, and you’d always known.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, and, gosh, I’m an idiot for letting it. I’m a coward. I was too weak to tell you, too weak to let you go, and I don’t feel very super or manly at all.”

You blinked at him, processing the words you had been waiting for since you were a girl. You thought, after all this time, they might underwhelm you. It didn’t. It pressed against you like everything. Your spine ached like a rosary and, maybe, you made a religion out of each other, after all. 

“And?” you pressed, wetting your lips.

Clark’s hands twitched, waiting on his knees. He looked pretty, like this, you decided unabashedly.

“And,” he said, almost smiling, “and, I love you, Daisy. You’re my favourite girl. Always my—” he went quiet then, staring at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that made your lungs throb, “can I kiss you? Please,” he added sweetly.

“Can you…?” You felt yourself short-circuit. Did he really just ask that?

Clark smiled nervously. “Can I kiss you, Daisy? We can talk after. I just, well, I’m so glad to see that ring gone. And you’re so pretty. And I love you. I love you, I love you, I—”

You threw yourself at him. 

A part of you thought, blasphemously, that you always would. 

You threw yourself at Clark, and he caught you, and you genuinely reckoned that you would never stop falling for this boy—but, at least he would always catch you.

Your sternums touched, your hands grasped at the curls on the nape of his neck, and Clark kissed you as if he wanted it to bruise. It didn’t particularly hit you until now how much it must’ve killed him to see that ugly monstrosity of a ring on your finger—especially when he’d known exactly the kind of ring you wanted ever since you were fifteen and browsing the pawn shops in downtown Smallville. Not until now, at least, with Clark’s mouth hot and heavy against yours like he was trying so desperately to kiss any memory of any other man out of you.

You were sure his teeth grazed your bottom lip in the middle of it all, and it was a surprisingly nice sting that you hadn’t expected from him. Granted, the last time you kissed, it was both of your firsts—too much saliva, and teeth, and tongue—but now, there was just the right amount of everything, and you wanted to sew yourself to him like this. You wanted to kiss him forever, even against the merciless ache in your lungs. His hands, finally, had the bravery to move, and you prayed he’d never be a coward again, and always touch you like this—like you belonged to each other, like your limbs were one. His palms grasped at the meat of your hips, slipping under the flimsy cotton of your oversized sleep-shirt to touch bare skin, and he moaned shamelessly into your mouth—as if this was what he needed, this was what he was looking for: your skin.

“Clark,” you breathed, trembling. His mouth took the opportunity of yours being busy murmuring his name to trace an unmapped path along your jawbone, hands smoothing against the small of your back now. “Clark…”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His teeth grazed a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shivered against him, gently pulling at the curls on his neck. You felt his lips smile against your bared throat, and you didn’t expect this from Clark—not one bit. “What is it, Daisy? Hmm…?” he pressed an open-mouthed, heated kiss to the crook of your shoulder, suckling an imperceptible lovebite to the strained tendons there, “Talk to me.” 

“I…I can’t focus when you’re…Clark…” One of his hands was at the fish-eye hooks of your bra, teasing, “Shit, you’re—”

“Language,” Clark reprimanded sweetly, letting go of the bra-strap as if he was punishing you for swearing. You pressed your knees closer together as something throbbed between your folded legs. 

You sighed shakily as his mouth returned to the corner of yours, pecking you so intimately that you almost cursed again. “Clark, I thought you said we would talk.”

“You can talk,” he retorted, kissing your lips again, short and sweet, “I’m listening, Daisy. I always listen to you. Don’t I?” He asked it so innocently, it was disarming—and so crude against the contrast of his fingers toying with the waistband of your gauzy sleep-shorts. Clark laughed then, not unkindly, looking at you all dimpled and wonderful through mirror-bright eyes. When his thumb stroked over your hipbone, something whimper-like rolled off your tongue, and his grin punctured an even deeper dimple into his ruddy cheek. “You know, sweetheart, I think it’s you who isn’t listening to me.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” you protested weakly, pulling his hair in halfhearted protest.

“I could never be mean to you,” denied Clark, both palms flush against your back again. 

And, before you could process it, he was lowering you onto the rug beneath you as his knees gently nudged yours apart to make room for yourself between your thighs. And, of course, you accommodated—lost in yourself, and your thoughts, hands tumbling from his neck to his strong arms, to his elbows, to his wrists that your fingers couldn’t even wrap half of themselves around. Clark leaned down over you, eyes so adoring as he admired you like this—committing the sight to memory, you on your back, knees kissing at his waist, throat bared to him, chest heaving salaciously. Then, juxtaposing the downright wanton thoughts intermingling in both of your minds, he chiselled away the narrow space between you to kiss you so tenderly that you almost felt bad for the wetness between your legs.

“I love you, Daisy.”

Your heart ached with it, hands clumsily fumbling until they were on his biceps again. You felt the muscles flex under your touch. His pupils were blown so wide, it made you feel feverish. It was as if twin black moons were staring back at you, fraying at the edges with the blue sutures of his irises.

“I love you too, Clark,” you murmured, nudging your nose lovingly against his. “Always loved you,” you said, saccharine. “Always gonna, if you let me.”

His fingers splayed out on your bare thighs, shorts hiked up impossibly. The sensation of his skin on yours was incomparable.

“Let you? Let you, baby?” Clark, baffled, had to kiss you again. So, he did. Over, and over, and—shit, was his hand on the waistband of your shorts again? “I’m never letting you go again. Never,” he swore against your mouth.

“Promise me?” you begged, feeling pathetic, and girlish, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t have this and never have him again. It would be a cruelty that you couldn’t stomach.

Clark was wrecked. He kept one hand just on the hem of your useless shorts and brought the other to your flustered face, cradling your jaw, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone, before placing it reverently to your bottom lip. It took every little bit of your self-control not to let it slip into your mouth.

“I promise you, Daisy. I promise. Love you, baby,” he said, voice husky, rasped, meaningful to the marrow as his thumb ghosted over your lip. “I love you so much.”

The invisible string in your chest tightened ruthlessly, in the prettiest of ways. You nuzzled into his palm, mourning the weight of his thumb, but compensating it with a featherlight kiss to the inside of his hand.

“I love you.”

Clark only responded with a sound that could be described as half-sob, half-prayer. Whatever it was, you loved it, and you grabbed his face with both of your greedy hands, bringing him down into another kiss—just as hard, and desperate, and filthy as before. The hand he kept on your shorts finally tugged, tentative but determined, and the cotton slipped just enough for the cool air trickling through the still ajar window to lick at your bare skin.

You shuddered, pressing your forehead devoutly to his, clinging to his shoulders. It suddenly dawned on you how much clothes he was wearing, and how little you were. The blazer of his Daily Planet attire felt wrinkled and distressed under your frantic hands, whilst you were in a cheap pair of pyjamas.

“Clark…” 

“Sweetheart,” he soothed lovingly, an ache to his voice that crept through the softness, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. I swear. But, golly—Daisy, please don’t tell me to.” Clark’s curls brushed your cheek, unruly and dark and smelling strongly of green apples, as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. He breathed you in—you felt nothing short of sacred. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you, and you’re mine—you are mine, right—?”

You felt dizzy. “I’m yours, Clark.”

“—and I need to show you, baby,” he carried on, as if he never doubted it, as if this was always supposed to happen.

And how could you deny a boy so earnest and yours? 

“Show me then, Clark.” 

Clark stiffened, as if he hadn’t expected it, in spite of all his kisses and touches, and his maddest of hopes, and filthiest of dreams. He pulled back to look at you, blown eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. You beautiful, idiot boy.” You smiled at him, and hoped it was more dazzling than desperate, but you’d take anything. “Please, Clark. I want you to.”

He groaned brokenly, and then he was moving—kissing you as he went; your jaw, the flushed bit of your skin exposed by the askew nature of your tee, lifting the hem of it to kiss at your stomach, and you had never felt holier. His hands parted your thighs reverently, and when he glanced up at you from between them—eyes dark, cheeks rosy, mouth spit-slick and parted in some kind of stunned adoration—you thought that he might actually slaughter you. 

“Daisy,” Clark whispered, mouthing just above the waistband of your shots, his big hands bear-like and needy at your thighs. “You’re so pretty. The prettiest girl. My favourite girl, hm?”

You didn’t know if he was expecting a response to that, but you couldn’t manage one. He didn’t wait for one, either, not as he hooked his fingers into your shorts and slipped them off you as if they, or you, or both, were precious. You shivered at the contrast of sensations—the breezy draught from the window, the hot breath from Clark’s wanting mouth—against the gossamer lace of your panties. Suddenly self-conscious, you tried to close your legs, almost wrecking Clark.

“Hey…hey,” he said softly, hoarsely, his fingertips pressing into your thighs as he kept them open. “What’s that for, hm? C’mon, Daisy,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss at the ratty bow at the top of your underwear, almost making you spasm at the tenderness, “don’t hide from me.”

His hot mouth lingered over the lace covering your heat for a heartbeat, and then moved lower, pressing a worshipful kiss to your inner thigh as if it were scripture. He kept your legs steady and open, memorising everything your skin had to offer—the faint lines of your stretch-marks, the dimpling of cellulite, the living warmth. You loved him. He was mouthing at your thigh, wet and wanting, and you needed him more than anything.

You’d give up air, you thought ferally.

“Clark,” you pleaded, fingers tangling in his curls again.

“Mine,” Clark muttered, sucking a mark against your thigh, “all mine. Us, Daisy. Yeah? You’re mine.” It kind of left him like slurring nonsense. You would’ve thought he was drunk if you didn’t know that it was an impossibility for him. 

The desire in your stomach was grotesque, and you couldn’t control the abrupt, needy bucking of your hips, desperate for more. Clark didn’t seem to mind this, though. If anything, it spurred him on more. He briefly pecked the mark already blooming on your thigh and then let his eyes drag up to yours, pious and worked-up.

“Can I taste you?”

And fuck. Who were you to deny that? 

“Yes,” you begged, “please, Clark.” 

He’d do anything for you, always had, always would—so he granted your plea. First, with the most ridiculously tender kiss to the lace just above your pulsing clit. You practically mewled, almost kicking your legs out, wrenching at the roots of his hair. All he did was kiss it, and it was almost imperceptible in its faintness, but God, he felt everywhere. Next, he licked his tongue flat and salacious against the damp patch on your underwear, and you were sobbing his name. 

The material dampened further, from you, from him—the most sinful of benedictions, and you were falling in love with him all over again. 

“Clark, please,” you gasped wretchedly. “Don’t stop, please, don’t—”

His tongue traced the heat of you through soaked lace, pressing, licking, tasting, coaxing each arch of your spine and shaky slip of his name with a masterfulness that was making your head spin. The idea of him doing this to any other girl before you made your stomach knot, even through all the desire and ache. It made you feel greedy and ridiculous, but then he was hooking his fingers into the waistband of the panties, and you forgot about everything else but Clark.

“M’pretty girl,” he told you as he gently, ceremoniously, started to peel off your ruined underwear. He treated every next bit of exposed skin as a new blessing. Your hips thrashed again, but Clark caught you firmly, kissing right below your navel before sitting back onto his haunches. “M’Daisy.” 

All lovelorn and careful ministrations, he tugged the fabric down over your knees and let it dangle from one of your ankles. Incidentally, the very same limb your anklet was glittering on. Clark must’ve noticed this, too, because he was slowly lifting your leg and draping it over your shoulder, craning his neck to the side to kiss adoringly at the jewellery. He seemed to peck every last one of the daisy charms as if they were scintillating, silver extensions of you.

“I love you,” he said again. 

God, you’d never get sick of hearing that.

“Love you, too,” you punched out breathlessly, arms useless at your sides, “even if you’re totally blue-balling me right now.”

A laugh startled through him, fingers toying with that precious anklet. It haunted you that he was still in a two-piece suit and you were in nothing but a t-shirt.

“Blue-balling you?” Clark echoed, almost smug. “Well, I can’t do that to my girl, can I? What kind of cruel, horrible man would that make me…?”

“A really…” you swayed, trying to hit up, resting your weight back on your elbows, and watching through heavy-lidded, lascivious eyes as Clark hooked your other leg over his spare shoulder, and narrowed in ever closer to where you needed him, “...really evil one…”

“Evil, huh?” His breath tickled your heat, making your legs shift jerkily over his shoulders. “I saved this city not too long ago, ma’am, didn’t you hear?” Two of his fingers were now tracing the wetness just around your clit, and you bit hard on your lip to keep in a string of obscenities, afraid of him edging you for bad language, or something equally Clark. “I’m somewhat of a hotshot ‘round here, actually.”

You were panting now, losing your mind. “God, even like this, you never shut up.” It was still said fondly. 

“Never,” he admitted breathlessly, kissing your hip. “Not with you, Daisy.”

He removed his fingers then, and maintained the most intimate moment of eye-contact you think you would ever experience as he slipped them in his mouth. Your jaw swung open almost comically, blinking so fast it was as if you were trying to convince that this was actually happening, that Clark Kent was actually tasting you on his fingers. You even tried squeezing your eyes shut for as long as five seconds, and then cursed yourself for wasting even a breath of this—because, sure as day, he was still there, humming around the digits, throaty and appreciative, as if yellow sunlight was on his tongue.

Unbelievably turned on, you bucked up into him again, whimpering his name. You thought you might genuinely start bursting into hysterics if he didn’t do something, fast.

“You taste so good, sweetheart,” Clark praised sweetly, mouth dewy. “Look so pretty. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” 

And then, his mouth was on you. Properly. And you let out the most pornographic, indecent moan that anyone—even yourself—had ever wrangled from you. Your elbows slumped, slipping against the rug, and you splayed back out on the floor, head thrown back.

Clark’s hands stayed on your thighs as his mouth devoured you like he was a starving man. It was feral, and primal, and obscenely dirty. Each stroke of his tongue, each teasing flick of your clit, made you sob, arching into him wantonly. His eyes looked torn on what to settle on—his handiwork between your thighs, the aching, fluttering of your entrance, or your eyes. You were pretty sure he was moaning into your heat, but you could barely hear anything over your own. 

“Oh, God, Clark—please, please…” You didn’t even know what you were begging for, fingers in his hair again. How did you ever think you would marry anyone but him? “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please—baby…” 

Clark groaned in agony at that, sucking harder at your clit. The vibration of it made you swear, and you swore his teeth grazed at your pearl the slightest bit in reproach. No other punishment, though. He was too lost in you.

“So pretty,” he murmured against you, still kissing, sucking, lapping, “taste so good. My favourite girl…”

“Clark, Clark, Clark.” It was a chant, now. You grinded closer to his face, feeling the slight crookedness of his nose bump against your clit as he moved down to lap his tongue even lower. “Baby, you’re—” The words got trapped in you when he, without any warning at all, sunk his index and middle finger into you, curling with some kind of extraordinary second-nature right at your sweet-spot. And, seriously, how were you ever with anyone before him? How foolish were you to not wait, when it was Clark all along? 

You careened upwards, panting, sobbing his name.

“You’re—oh…”

“That’s it, Daisy,” coaxed Clark lovingly, his mouth still on you, his fingers stimulating so effortlessly at a part of you that felt so deep, and so intense, and so good, it now belonged to him. It most likely made biologically no sense whatsoever, but the sensation felt so sublimely him that you would forever associate this kind of pleasure with Clark. He kept praising you and complimenting you and telling you how much he loved you—overwhelming you so much with sweet words and blinding ecstasy that you hadn’t even realised that he was rutting his clothed bulge against the rug underneath the two of you. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” 

Clark’s fingers massaged at that swelling pleasure inside of you, nursing it reverently, but his mouth kept tasting you, kissing your clit, sucking it to get a sob out of you, rewarding the needy sounds with ensuing, tender licks. It was too much. It was too good. It was too Clark. He was everywhere. The hand that wasn’t working to fit a third finger into you was now pressing his forearm into your middle, and you could only assume, through all your mindlessness, that he was getting slightly upset with all your thrashing and riled-up jerks.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Clark even sounded otherworldly. All ragged and passionate, your best friend, nestled between your thighs like he belonged there. He met your eyes again, so dark with lust, you almost forget they were ever blue at all. His mouth left your heat for the briefest of moments, slick with your arousal and his own saliva. “You’re almost there, aren’t you, sweetheart? Hm?”

“Clark,” you wept unintelligently. 

“Awh, yeah. You are. It’s okay, Daisy,” he praised, putting his mouth on you again, curling his fingers—that third one easing in with little difficulty at all. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you. Always got you, angel.” 

And just like that, you’re falling for Clark Kent all over again, and he was catching you. Working you through the orgasm with the gentlest of kisses and the sweetest of nothings. A blinding, unrelenting worship of his fingers and lips, and you swear you hear him groan against you again, panting as if he just finished himself. But, he didn’t let you go. Not once. How could he? 

Your body trembled with the aftershocks of it all, and Clark’s lips lingered, kissing every quivering inch of goosebumped skin he could rich. His fingers left you so carefully as he nuzzled into the hollow of your hip.

“My Daisy,” he said again, guttural.

Wrecked, you clung to him, hands grasping for anything you could get purchase on. You didn’t have the strength for it, but Clark seemed to tell what you wanted—because, after all these years, he could still read you so effortlessly. He crawled up the length of your spent body, palms roaming as he went, pressing against your ribs, sliding up your sides under the sweat-drenched cotton of your sleep-shirt, holding you like you were the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

It was like, to him, cradling sunlight, as he pressed his head to your chest, and your hand kept him there, threading in his lovely curls. You might not have been able to pull him up to you, but you definitely managed the adoring kiss you swept against his forehead. And, thank God, you did—because that expression he gave you afterwards, that lovesick, impossibly delicate look of his, made everything worth it. The strewn letters on the coffee table, and the ring you returned to Ben last month, and all the heartache. 

Clark, lolling his chin against the swell of your chest, kiss-swollen mouth glistening with you, the blue returning to his eyes, but not a morsel of adoration leaving. He was worth it.

“Please stay,” you asked of him fragilely.

“M’not going anywhere, Daisy,” he promised you. Delicately, Clark rolled the two of you so were on your sides, tangled up in each other. He was muttering something about the both of you needing a shower, but the feeling of his index finger tracing your spine was too distracting to care about responsible things like washing yourselves or getting him out of his ruined work clothes. “I love you,” he said again, assuming correctly that you were too out of it to listen to anything else.

You hummed contently, letting your body melt into his. “I love you, too. Always loved you."

It had been three days since your daughter floated above Mr. Terrific’s lab floor like a delighted balloon. Three days since you’d accidentally bent light around your fingertips like you were auditioning for a sci-fi movie…and three days since the idea of “normal” had quietly packed its bags and moved out of your life.

And in those three days… nothing.

Not a block levitated, not a rug corner fluttered, not a single aura shimmered and also no flying babies.

You were beginning to think the universe was playing a very cruel game of peekaboo.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and overripe bananas as you stood barefoot by the counter, arms crossed and a dishtowel slung over your shoulder. Your daughter was in her high chair, a tiny empress in a kingdom of crushed Cheerios and mashed sweet potato, her wide eyes tracking you as you paced.

“You know, it’s actually kind of rude,” you started, gesturing vaguely with a spoon like you were addressing a town hall. “One minute, we’re bending the laws of physics, the next…poof. Nothing, not even a sparkle and it’s not for a lack of trying.”

Your daughter babbled something around a fistful of cereal dust, nodding solemnly like she understood every word.

“That’s what I’m saying,” you agreed instantly, leaning against the counter. “Your dad, he’s built for it. He thrives when the world expects him to…he hovers in the sky and punches asteroids…or whatever he does with those huge arms of his. Don’t get me wrong, I rather your feet stay on the ground and don’t think I'm gonna let Uncle T make you that supersuit, because I’m not. So, I’m fine if you want to keep your powers on pause for a bit–”

You lowered your voice conspiratorially, tapping the tray in front of her. “But me? I wouldn’t mind if mine came back. Just a little, I mean…how nice would it be if I could fold laundry with my brain or sweep up your cracker explosion without lifting a finger? I could be a supermom.”

You let out a small laugh that wilted quickly. Your shoulders dropped. “…But no. I had to get scared and now I’m just… broken.”

Your daughter squealed, banging both hands against the tray like she was casting her vote.

“Exactly!” you laughed, then sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Still… It's scary, isn’t it? I don’t want you to think you’re dangerous because of what you can do, because you’re not. You’re perfect and I’m sure your daddy would agree. But sometimes, sweetheart, people look at power and forget about the person who holds it. They start with words like ‘risk’ and ‘mutation’ and next thing you know, they’re trying to legislate who you even are.”

You swallowed, voice softening. “And if you grow up having to carry that weight… Gosh, I just wish I could shield you from it forever but I can’t and that terrifies me more than anything else.”

The kitchen went quiet except for the faint thwack, thwack of your daughter smacking her spoon against the high chair tray, as if applauding your monologue.

You chuckled weakly, turning away to fuss with the coffee pot even though it was empty. “Thanks for the pep talk, kiddo… and people say you can’t birth your best friends.”

And that’s when you heard the floor creak.

Before you could even think, your chest tightened, adrenaline sparking hot under your skin and suddenly the air shimmered. It wasn’t just a reflex; it was instinct. A translucent field bloomed outward from where you stood, wrapping you and your daughter in a cocoon of warped light.

The world tilted before you heard a thump and then a crunch as something… no, someone collided with the wall hard enough to dent the drywall.

You gasped, turning wide-eyed toward the sound just as the shimmering field dissolved around you.

“Clark?!”

Sure enough, your husband was standing against the far wall, shoulders hunched like he’d just taken a linebacker tackle. Behind him, a comical crater in the plaster framed his silhouette perfectly and dust trickled down onto his jacket.

Clark blinked once, then adjusted his glasses like that would somehow restore his dignity. “...I, uh, was gonna knock.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, torn between horror and laughter. “Oh my God. Did I just–?”

Before you could finish, your daughter let out a delighted giggle, smacking her palms together in a clumsy little clap, clearly thrilled by the sight of her dad-shaped dent in the wall.

“Throw me across the kitchen? Yeah and my own kid’s applauding, which is just great.” he said, his voice wry but calm, stepping forward and brushing more drywall off his shoulders. “But I guess we know your reflexes are working.”

You turned toward the high chair, trying to gather yourself, only to find your daughter grinning at you through a mask of mashed sweet potato. Her cheeks were sticky and hands even worse, like she’d been finger-painting with lunch.

You let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand down your face before looking back at Clark. “We were just… how much of that did you hear?”

Clark straightened, scratching the back of his head. He had been five blocks away when he heard your daughter’s loud giggle and started listening in. “Enough to know you’re not broken, neither of you.”

Your stomach flipped, equal parts embarrassment and relief. “…So all of it.”

“Pretty much.” His expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting. “And you don’t need powers to be the supermom you already are.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, feeling some of the tension drain from your chest. “So corny.”

“You liked it,” he said with a grin. “Your heart jumped.”

“It also did when I did that,” you pointed toward the dent in the wall.

Clark glanced back at the mark, running his thumb over the cracked paint. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it later, just add it to the list.” His lips twitched, almost smiling. “Right between ‘replace the toaster’ and ‘buy more baby wipes.’”

Despite yourself, you snorted. He turned back to you then, his expression gentling as he crossed the room. He reached out, carefully, as if not to spook your powers again. 

“I’m sorry I scared you, sweetheart, it won’t happen again.” His hand brushed your arm, reassuring you.

You nodded, still catching your breath then caught the way his mouth curved, just slightly, into a mischievous grin.

Clark set a gentle hand on your hip. Then, he hooked his finger into a belt loop and gave a careful tug, drawing you closer. “Although…” He tilted his head, lowering his voice, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hypothetically, if we were to have another baby… would this get worse?”

Your brows shot up. “Clark–”

“‘Cause I-I think I like worse,” he added quickly, a sheepish laugh bubbling out of him, ears turning faintly pink.

Before you could answer, your daughter wrinkled her tiny face, lower lip trembling. Then came the wail, loud and piercing with full toddler disapproval.

You both froze, staring at her, before you turned slowly back to Clark, deadpan. “I don’t think she likes the sound of that…sorry.”

You held up a hand and gave him a light, playful push on the chest.

Clark winced dramatically, pretending to stagger from your “force,” then bent down and scooped her up from the high chair to soothe her. “Okay, okay. Message received. No petitions for siblings before the princess’ bedtime.”

You shook your head, still half-laughing, half-shaking with leftover adrenaline, as you watched Clark cradle your very unimpressed super-toddler. He gently pressed one hand over her ear and tucked the other against his chest, mouthing, “Renegotiate tonight?”

Your daughter fussed, smothering his white shirt with her sticky little face coated in sweet mashed potatoes. You laughed, leaning against the counter. “Take that shirt off and I’ll think about reconsidering.”

His eyes flicked to yours, catching a faint shine just behind your lashes, a glimmer that grew lighter and lighter right before a button on his shirt popped free, pinging softly against the tile. Clark raised an eyebrow with a teasing glint in his eye and let a slow smirk tug at his lips. 

“Nice trick. Does that mean I can help you practice later?”

Your daughter's cries pierced the room again, high-pitched and urgent, breaking the teasing tension like a sudden clap of thunder. Clark shifted instantly, rocking her gently in his arms while muttering, “Oh come on, it’s okay. Daddy’s just joking.” His tone was calm but carried that unmistakable edge of someone trying not to panic themselves.

You laughed, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls and used the moment to escape.

Clark’s head turned, following your movement with an amused, half-exasperated expression. “You know what it is?” he called after you, his voice carrying into the hallway. “She can feel your heart skip a beat…or a few. It makes her nervous.”

You froze for a second, the combination of exhaustion and humor catching you off guard and then let out a sharp laugh that made your shoulders shake. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you shot back, leaning against the doorway to peek at him.

Clark smirked, his eyes sparkling despite the baby still fussing in his arms. “You know what does help?” he asked, stepping closer to the threshold, bouncing her gently. “Couple’s cardio.”