Nova V

It’s a concept he barely understands, because Eridians simply do not dream, so he focuses instead on the physiological signs that scream out to him, clear as day. “Heartrate elevated. Breathing rapid. Not fine. Rocky will go get Grace.”

You want to scream, please don’t do that, because he will know exactly what is going on, but you can’t, because Rocky is gone as quickly as he had appeared. Frustration bubbles in your chest. You had been close, so close, and now the feeling is already slipping through your fingers like sand.

Grace rushes in. “So, Rocky made it sound like you were dying. Are you dying?”

“No. I’m fine.” Your face is pressed into your pillow, because there’s no way you can look at him right now. “I’m fine,” you repeat. “Go back to—whatever it is you were doing.”

He does not. “He was pretty panicked. What’s going on?”

Sometimes, you muse, it seems like everything would have been a lot easier if you hadn’t survived the coma. “Like I just told him, it was a dream. A weird dream. Please go.”

“Like—a nightmare? I get them too, you know. It’s alright, a totally natural thing, given the circumstances.” Instead of leaving, he walks closer to you, and you can hear his feet pad against the floor. “It’s just your subconscious sorting through things you’ve experienced, if that makes you feel any better. I’m pretty sure I read an article, before we left—so maybe it’s outdated at this point, I don’t know—but it said that dreams are one of the ways that we consolidate memories.”

It was definitely not a memory, because you’re pretty sure the dream had taken place on the ship, but you do not tell him this. “Great. Thanks. I am properly comforted. You can leave now.”

He takes another step forward. Why is he so bad at following instructions? “You don’t need to be embarrassed.” He’s so close to you, now, and you’re fairly certain that he’s squatting next to you, about to lay a comforting hand on your shoulder. And then there’s nothing, and it takes you half of a second to realize that he must finally be taking you in, the way that you’re laying on your stomach, hips slightly lifted over the twisted blanket wedged between your legs. “Oh. I see.”

Rocky runs back into the room. “Grace make diagnosis. Tell Rocky. Now.”

There is a terrifying moment, where you think that he’s about to actually tell Rocky what’s happening, because Grace likes to do this thing where he explains human biology in excruciating detail in the name of cross-species communication. “It’s alright, Rock. Like she said, it was a dream. They can—dreams can really affect the person having them, because the human brain believes that they’re real. So they can produce physiological effects. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh. Okay. Strange. Rocky does not like. But understand.”

This is, apparently, enough for him, because he skitters back to his workshop. The room is silent, and you are trying to become one with the flooring beneath you. “I—what I said still stands,” Grace says, lowly. “Don’t feel embarrassed.”

You would like to tell him that it’s too late for that, at this point, because the past five minutes have just happened and can’t be taken back. Instead, you settle for sticking up your arm and giving him a thumbs up, which definitely does not make any of this more awkward than it already is.

Finally, he leaves, and you cannot find it within yourself to keep going.

--

A few days have passed. Neither of them have said anything. You’re starting to let yourself hope that you’re in the clear.

“So,” Grace speaks into the quiet, because Rocky has finally decided to go asleep, and it is immediately apparent that you are not, in fact, in the clear, just by that single syllable. “About the other day.”

It would be an interesting experiment, you think, if you launched yourself out of the ship while moving at ninety-two percent the speed of light. You do not turn around from the panel you opened up in the wall so you could tinker with some of the wiring. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

He huffs a little. “Sure.”

“Don’t—don’t do that. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“If you want to, you know. Rest for a little bit. I understand.” You’re pretty sure he’s smiling, as if this is just a funny thing that’s happening, as if you hadn’t had an orgasm in almost five years. In all fairness, you weren’t awake for four of those, but—still.

You very purposefully continue staring at your hands, even though they have long since stopped doing anything meaningful, when you finally speak next. “I’m not doing—that—while Rocky is in there sleeping. That’s just. I can’t do that.”

“Fair enough. The cockpit has a door.”

“Why are we still talking about this,” you say flatly. But then you keep going anyway, because this is, frankly, ridiculous. “And I don’t—where would I even, like, position myself in there for that?”

He’s still smiling, and you can tell even though you still haven’t turned around, and why is he suddenly choosing to torment you like this? Is he truly just that bored? “I mean. You could just sit in the chair.”

You snort. “Yeah, because that sounds super comfortable. I don’t really like—god, why am I even telling you this,” you mutter, “I like to be. Horizontal.”

“I see.” There’s something to his voice that’s difficult for you to pin down exactly, but it gives you the impression that Grace has a million more questions and is, for once in his life, trying to slowly meter them out instead of letting them go all at once. “What’s wrong with verticality?”

Of course he is phrasing it this way, and of course you are still going to answer, despite the fact that you would like to melt through the floor. “It’s just, I don’t know, a little uncomfortable.”

“So…even when you’re, you know, on top? Of someone, that is. It doesn’t really work for you?”

“That’s different.” The fascinating thing about this conversation is that neither of you are looking at each other, still, as if that makes it easier to have it, like you were casually discussing a repair on the ship or one of the taumoeba farms. For all you know, maybe that is what this is like for him: just a totally normal exchange about human biology. “I don’t really have a better explanation, but it’s just different than when I’m. By myself.”

He makes a little thoughtful hum, and you are struck with the realization that he is genuinely turning this all over in his head, not simply messing with you. You are not sure if you feel flattered that he wants to help, even if it is a very strange thing to decide to assist you with, or if you feel like you’ve been squished into a glass slide and are currently being examined underneath a microscope. “No, that makes sense. So cockpit’s out. Screen room?”

“I don’t think I’d be cool with all the screens, either,” you reply, because this is, apparently, an actual brainstorming session now. “I’d feel like I was being watched.”

“And you don’t like that. Being watched.”

“Well, not like that. It would be like the panopticon thing, or whatever. Too impersonal.” You think if he had a pen and paper in his hands—maybe he does, you don’t know—he’d be taking notes. “So not there, either.”

“Okay. Process of elimination means there’s only one room left.” Which is the room that you are currently in. And the room where he is, too, in case you’d forgotten, which you certainly have not.

You swallow hard. “And. Where would you be. In this scenario.”

“I could go to the cockpit? Or watch Rocky.”

This is starting to cross the line again of being too weird, so you lift your hands back up to the wiring in order to try and distract yourself. “It’s really fine, I appreciate that you’re trying to help and all, but. I don’t. I think if I knew you were in the other room, and that you knew what was happening, and we were both trying to act like that fact didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be able to relax enough. It’s fine,” you repeat. “Seriously. I will be okay. I’m not going to, like, explode or something.”

He’s finally quiet, then, and you begin to let yourself hope that the conversation is actually done and dusted this time. Then: “I could stay in here, then.”

Your hands jerk in surprise, and then your fingers catch an unprotected wire. “Ow, fuck—”

“Oh my gosh, are you alright?” Grace rushes over, and for the first time since this conversation started, you turn to look at him. “Let me see.” He grabs your hand and peers at it closely, bringing his glasses up from where they must have been hanging, under his chin, the whole time.

“I’m alright, it’s not that bad, it just hurts like a bitch.”

He glances up at you, over the rims of glasses, and quirks an eyebrow but otherwise does not comment on your language. “I think Armando has some cream. I’ll be back.”

Grace walks down into the dormitory before you can tell him, again, that you’re fine, and after a few minutes he returns with a little tube of cream, a pouch of water, a bandage. He gestures for you to sit at the table in the lab, and you sigh before acquiescing. His hands are gentle on yours as he pours a little bit of water on your right middle finger. You suck in a breath through your teeth but stay still. He dabs it dry with his shirt—that doesn’t really seem sanitary, but whatever—and then carefully applies a bit of the cream before finally sticking the bandage on.

“There,” he says. He’s still holding your hand, his thumb pressing into the middle of your palm. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Sorry that I startled you and made you shock yourself.”

His thumb starts brushing little reassuring circles against your palm. It’s—it’s sending a different kind of electricity through you, arcing up your arm and down into the pit of your stomach. You shift in the chair. “It’s okay. I just—wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

Grace simply shrugs nonchalantly, although the tips of his ears are starting to redden. “It just seemed like the natural solution. To the problem.” Right. Because that’s really what he is, at the end of the day: a problem-solver, the kind that will obsess over the thing until it’s been resolved.

Two paths seem to branch out in front of you in that moment. Either you tell him to drop it, and then every time he looks at you for the rest of your life, you will wonder in the back of your mind if he’s still stuck on this, thinking about just how long you have gone without orgasming, or…

“We. I guess that. We could try.”

You had assumed that you would regret the words as soon as they left your mouth, but you find that you don’t, not when his eyes search yours and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Your body feels like it is dialed up to a hundred, and all of that energy is starting to collect between your thighs, and you’re surprised that you’re not trembling. “Yeah?”

“Sure. Just. Don’t make it weird.”

He laughs a little at that. “I will try my best.”

--

Grace has created a little blanket nest for you on the floor of the lab. He even unclipped one of the mattress pads from its platform to maximize your comfort. It’s very sweet, even though you kind of feel like you might throw up from anxiety.

He sits down in the chair that he’s dragged toward the edge of the room, facing the bottom end of the blankets. You stand there for a second. Right. Clothes are probably the first step here, you think, looking down at your jumpsuit. You look back up at him. “Um. Could you close your eyes?”

This makes him huff out a laugh, but he does it anyways. “This feels a little redundant,” he says as you slowly unzip your suit and shuck it off, leaving you in a tank top and your underwear, because pants always feel insanely uncomfortable underneath the jumpsuit. “Unless you want me to have my eyes closed the whole time.”

“No, it’s just—leave me alone, okay, I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” You lay down on the pad and take a few moments to adjust and try to get comfortable. For a split second, you consider drawing one of the blankets over your bottom half, but eventually decide against it. It’s—you’re not really sure why, but it just feels like it wouldn’t help. “Okay,” you whisper. He opens his eyes, or at least you think that he does, because you’re currently staring up at the ceiling of the lab. “Um. I don’t really know where to start.”

This is a point where you assume he’s going to poke fun at you, or something, but he doesn’t. “What do you normally do?”

You clear your throat and fidget a little on top of the blankets. “Well. Usually I have. A thing that I use.”

“A—A toy?”

The slight hesitation is the only hint you get that he’s, possibly, just as nervous about this as you are. “Yeah. I’m assuming we don’t have one of those on here.”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so. I mean…we could…if we used some of…” Is he—he’s thinking through how he might build a sex toy.

“Anyway. And sometimes I’m. Reading something. Or. Watching. Something.” You’re starting to think that you might not be able to do this, and that you should probably just call this whole thing off, because now you’re worried he’s going to suggest pulling up porn or something on one of the laptops.

He does not, but you still don’t expect what he does end up saying. “What was the dream about?”

You keep staring at the ceiling. “Um. It was just kind of a basic sex dream, I don’t know. Listen, maybe we should—”

“Close your eyes,” he interrupts you. “Think back on it.”

It is either very admirable or a little creepy that he is so intent on helping you with this. Regardless, you do as he says, letting your eyes drift shut and trying to recall the details of the dream that had landed you in this whole mess. “There was—I was laying down, and there was someone above me.”

Grace hums lowly. “What were they doing?”

“I remember…hands. His hands were sort of all over. And it was. Nice.” That heat you had felt when you had first awoken from the dream is starting to return, simmering just beneath your skin, as you recall the paths that had been traced fervently along your body.

“Start there, then.”

You nod wordlessly, still keeping your eyes closed, and your hands shake a little as you bring them up and hesitantly drag them along your sides, across your stomach, over your thighs. Grace’s chair creaks a little, but instead of the sound breaking you out of it, it makes you feel a little bolder, especially when you can hear him take in a long, deep breath as your fingers brush over your peaked nipples through the fabric of your shirt. “Now what?”

Another creak. You almost want to open your eyes and lean up on your elbows, to see what he’s doing that’s causing the sound, but that means stopping your hands in their movement. “Maybe—over your underwear?”

Jesus Christ, maybe you will explode. A little noise finds its way from the back of your throat and out of your lips. One of your hands leaves your chest and trails down, down, down, past the hem of your shirt, until it finally hovers just above the apex of your thighs. A few more circles with your other hand, and then you carefully, experimentally push down your fingers over your underwear. Your hips immediately roll to meet them, and another breathy sound leaves your mouth.

Grace clears his throat. “There are over ten thousand nerve fibers right there, just below your fingers. In case you didn’t know that.”

You smile and arch your back a little. Of course this would turn into an anatomy lesson. “I didn’t, but I—I’m getting the picture, right about now,” and the last word comes out with a whine as the movement of both of your hands start to fall in time together. Pleasure blooms and spreads through your body, and your eyes squeeze a little tighter, and you find that you don’t really need to think of the dream anymore, that what’s happening right now is doing it for you better than the memory of an imagined touch could.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and strained. “I think you could—if you wanted—you know. Skin-on-skin is probably more efficient.”

“Like this?” Your hand slips underneath the waistband of your underwear, and he lets out a choked mm-hm, and you cannot believe that you agreed to do this, and that he suggested it, and that you are already so wet just from touching yourself through the fabric of your clothes, from him watching you do it. You gather a little bit of your slickness on your index finger before slowly circling your clit. Screw the ten thousand, you’re pretty sure there’s a billion nerves right there, right at the tips of your fingers; you don’t bother holding back your moan, then, and your hips buck when you hear Grace’s sharp inhale.

You had assumed this probably wouldn’t take that long, but your hand is already starting to feel cramped underneath the fabric, so you slowly open your eyes and still your hand, drawing it out so you can drag your underwear down. You have to sit up a little to get them off all the way, and then you finally look at Grace to see him leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped tightly together, his glasses hanging on for dear life as they dangle beneath his face.

He meets your eyes, then, and the look he gives you—it’s like there is simply nothing he would rather be watching, in this moment, and your thighs squeeze involuntarily at the thought. This is weird, this should feel so weird, because you’re half-naked on the floor while he watches you, waiting for you to start touching yourself again, but all you can feel is the headiness in your mind that spreads to your limbs, the ache in your core, the tight desire in your chest.

So you lay back down, but you keep your eyes open, half-lidded. “My hand was getting uncomfortable,” you sigh. Your fingers begin moving again, and it is so much better without the fabric pressing you down, with the cool recycled air of the ship brushing against your wetness.

“I bet.” He shifts in the chair, again, before continuing. “It looks like—you favor one side of it. Your clit.”

You wonder if his face warmed at saying that, if he’s hard in his sweatpants right now, even as he analyzes what you’re doing as if he needed to write a report on it later. “Mm-hm,” you gasp. Your other hand drags back up to your breast again, circling the beaded peak there through your shirt. “I don’t—know why—just feels better. The other side is, it’s, too sensitive.”

“Maybe the nerves aren’t evenly distributed? Like, they’re more concentrated—oh, my God,” he chokes out, because your fingers have just made an absolutely obscene noise as they swipe down through your slickness again, and your head has tipped back into the blanket. “Sorry, I’m, anyway, it’s possible that—that more of your nerves are concentrated on the other side.”

You laugh, then, and the sound is tinged with a whine. Your fingers move a little faster, because you think you’re almost getting there, not to the crest of it, not yet, but to the steady buildup that comes right before it. But the bandage keeps scraping against the sensitive skin there, and then you’re thinking about whether it’s unsanitary for the burn, and the buildup is gone as quick as it had arrived. “Fuck,” you groan in frustration. “Sorry, it’s the—stupid bandage—”

There’s a moment of quiet, then, and you think maybe you’ll have to wait until another day, when you can take the bandage off, but then he’s getting up out of the chair and kneeling down beside you. “Can you keep it to the side—like this?” Grace gently grabs the burned finger, careful not to touch anything else, even though you are starting to think that maybe you really, really want him to, and lays it to the side, almost to the crease of your hip. “Is that okay?”

“Um, maybe? Let me…” You do a slow circle over your clit while keeping your middle finger out of the way. With Grace now right next to you, you can see him, even with your head laid back, can see the way he tracks the movement with narrowed focus. “It’s—I guess it’s fine?”

“You guess?” He glances up at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s almost at odds with the flush of his cheeks, the flare of his nostrils as he breathes deeply. “We don’t want fine. We want good. Great, even.”

What an overachiever. You smile and roll your eyes playfully. “It’s just, I normally use that finger to, sort of, like, hold stuff out of the way.”

He nods and looks back down at your hand. “The labia majora?” The overly-clinical-speak should really be taking you out of it. It does not. You nod. “Okay. That’s an easy fix.” His hand slides over your hip, then, and gently spreads you open, still not touching you where you have decided in the last thirty seconds that you definitely, not maybe, would like him to. The feeling of his hand there, the comforting pressure of it, makes you shudder. “Try it now.”

There’s a joke somewhere, floating in the back of your mind, about how he is literally troubleshooting your masturbation—what’s next, is he going to tell you to turn it off and back on again—but you say nothing, instead dipping your finger down to lube it up again before pressing it against your clit. It’s—the sensation has doubled, tripled with his hand right there, and your head lolls to the side as you exhale shakily. “That did the trick, I think.”

“Good. That’s—really good. You are.” You look at him curiously, even though it strains your eyes a little with your face pressed against the blanket, when he doesn’t finish the sentence. Grace is simply looking with rapt attention at the way your finger moves, and his lips part slightly. “Sorry,” he apologizes again. His fingers flex against you, and your cunt squeezes at the feeling. “I think. I am hitting a point where the words are not working.”

“Never thought I’d see the day,” you laugh breathily. It turns into a moan as you adjust the pressure you’re applying, and you can just barely see the way his eyelids flutter and how the hand that’s not in use clenches into a fist against his thigh.

There is a new problem, now: it all feels so incredible, of course, but now his hand is right there, and he’s watching you so closely, and you are swiftly realizing that this is probably not going to happen for you until he actually does something.

You have to take a deep breath to gather yourself enough for this. “Grace. I need. Um.”

“Yes, yes, what is it? What can I do?” Something clenches in your chest at his fervor, that he is so desperate to help you with this problem.

“I’m just. Okay. I feel like whatever boundary we were pretending was there doesn’t actually exist, and I think that I really, really need you to touch me. More than you already are,” you tack on, before he decides to be pedantic about it.

He nods feverishly. “Yep, that sounds great, perfect, even, what should I—what do you want me to do?”

Your hips shift. It is insanely unfair that he is making you say all of this out loud. “Could you—your fingers? Inside?”

His eyes fall shut at that, and he groans quietly, still nodding. You expect that he’s going to say something, either a string of words that don’t really make sense together grammatically, or some anatomical explanation of your vagina, or even a description of the optimal angle and technique for this; but he surprises you, again, because he simply opens his eyes and nods, one final time, before unclenching the hand on top of his leg and slowly brushing his fingers over your cunt.

You shiver, even though he still hasn’t really done anything yet. This statement is immediately retracted when one of his fingers slowly presses inside of you. “So tight,” he observes. “How long…? I mean, not that—it’s a pretty elastic thing, you know, but.”

“Longer than, than the coma, that’s for sure.” You resume pressing circles into your clit, gasping and whining, because even just the one finger slowly dragging against your walls provides a delirious kind of fullness. “And. And you?”

He huffs. “Pretty much the same.”

In that moment, you resolve that once you’ve orgasmed, you are going to do everything in your power to make him come, because the tiny little noises he’s been making so far are addictive, and you want, need to know what the real ones sound like. And you want to give this to him, because he has gone out of his way to do this for you, and oh, now there’s a second finger, and you lift your hips to meet their thrust.

The friction against your clit has started to become a little uncomfortable, so you try to slide your finger down to gather up some more of your wetness, but it bumps into Grace’s. “Sorry, my finger’s just. A little dry.”

There is not a world in which you are prepared for the thing that he does next, when he dips his head a little and lets some of his saliva drip from his lips onto your slit. Your finger gathers it up greedily, and it’s exactly what you needed, and you clench around his fingers as you resume your own movements.

“So, holy shit, what the fuck was that,” you gasp, not even bothering to watch the swearing like you normally do, because it’s one of his favorite ways to mess with you.

He merely grins, never stopping the careful rhythm of his hand. “What? Saliva’s a great lubricant. It’s a coagulant, too, fun fact.”

“That doesn’t really—explain—you doing it like that. Could have used my own.”

“Nah. This is faster,” and then he lets a little more drip down, and you are fairly certain that image is now branded into your mind forever and will most likely revisit you in your dreams.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sounds of his fingers, and your moans, and every so often a little sound of his own, and your earlier resolve is strengthened. You are so close, so much closer than earlier, and your other hand starts grasping your breast again, tweaking the bud of your nipple, in an effort to get that final push you need.

Grace’s eyes flick up—it almost seems like he has to physically tear himself away from watching both of your hands moving in between your thighs—and he speaks up again. “I have an idea.” His fingers shift a little as he says it, and the new angle is heavenly, forcing you to really have to concentrate on his words. “And I think that you will be amenable to it.”

Does he have, like, a thesaurus memorized, or something? ‘Amenable’? “I don’t really need the play-by-play,” you nearly whimper, “Just do it, and I will probab-ly—”

He leans forward to replace the hand on your breast with his mouth before you can finish your sentence, lapping at the bud of your nipple through your shirt, because apparently moving that out of the way would take too long.

“Hah, yeah, definitely—amenable to that—Grace,” and the sound of his name falling from your lips makes him groan, but his tongue still doesn’t stop, and neither do his fingers. “Oh, my God, I am so—do not change anything you’re doing, please.”

You think he might be about to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance, because finally, finally the release is there, cresting and breaking and rolling through you, and you clamp down around on his fingers, and your free hand flies out to clutch at his shoulder. His head lifts from your chest, and maybe if you were still cogent, you would protest at this, but then you realize that he’s watching you with wide, glassy eyes, taking in the way your body shakes and your mouth falls open with a cry. His glasses, you manage to note, have vanished somewhere in the middle of all of this.

As the high finally subsides, you twitch from the overstimulation of your finger, because it’s still moving, and after a few more gentle brushes against your clit you move your hand up to rest on your lower stomach, breathing heavily. Grace pulls his hand back then, too, and after a beat you watch as he sticks his fingers in his mouth.

“I didn’t know,” you gasp in between breaths, “that you were kind of a little freak.”

He wipes his hand on his pants after he’s done licking them off. “To be honest. Neither did I.”

A surprised laugh is ripped out of you, and after a few seconds he starts laughing with you. When the two of you quiet, you slowly sit up. “Alright. Your turn.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, that’s not—it’s really okay, you don’t need to do that.”

You look at him flatly. “Grace. You just gave me what was, probably, the best orgasm of my life. Just let me—I would really like to return the favor. Please.”

“Yeah. Okay. I mean. I would probably be pretty insane to say no.”

Oh. That’s kind of a weird way to say yes. “Um. If you, like, actually don’t want to, we don’t have to. I can just go…clean up, or something.”

“No, that’s not. I’m sorry, this is not at all coming out the way I would like it to,” he rushes out. “I’m going to be so honest. Embarassingly honest. I am so hard, and I don’t think any of my blood is going to my brain at the moment.”

Both of you dissolve into laughter again, even while you gently grasp his shoulders and maneuver him to lay down, as you find his glasses on the floor next to the blankets and slide them onto his face. A realization pops into your mind as you look at him, your hands resting on his chest while you kneel beside him. “So. I know your fingers were literally just inside me, and so this might be a little bit of a stupid question, but. Is it alright if I kiss you? We just kind of didn’t that whole time, and I wasn’t sure—”

“Please,” he breathes. “Yes, please do that.”

You can taste yourself on his mouth when you lean forward and press your lips to his, when you lick into him and he groans. Meanwhile, your hand slowly slides down—you’ll have to use your left, because you imagine the bandage would not feel great for him, not with what you would like to do—and pauses at the hem of his shirt. You slip your fingers underneath it, just for a moment, so you can feel the skin there, before your hand keeps moving in its descent. As you palm him through his sweatpants, you are delighted not only to confirm his earlier admission, but also to discover that, yes, the real sounds he’s making right now are so, so much better than the little ones he was letting out earlier.

“Hah,” he gasps into your mouth, “just—a warning—this is not going to take me that long.”

You pull back a little and laugh, still stroking the length of him through his pants. “I do not even have the words to tell you how much I do not care about that.”

Grace simply gives you a small thumbs-up, which is so delightfully him, and then he watches as you sit up more fully to pull his pants down, and then his underwear. It is—he really was not kidding, because he looks almost painfully hard, and the tip is already red and leaking onto him, and then you’re imagining what he’ll look like with his cum on his stomach, so you drag his shirt up a little before finally drawing your fingers over his cock.

You watch, a little dazed, as he twitches and his abdominal muscles contract, and you think you understand a bit more now why he was so adamant on watching you. You glance at his hands, which are fisted in the blankets, and then at his face. It’s completely flushed, and somehow his glasses are already skewed again, and he’s looking at you with his eyebrows drawn.

Another idea pops into your head. You’re still not wearing any pants. Or underwear. This is very convenient. You make a whole show of gathering your lingering wetness on your hand, and then you spit into it for good measure, and Grace looks like he is about to combust. You grin and carefully spread the mixture of your saliva and slickness onto him, from the base to the tip, and the whine he lets out is so good that you consider abandoning this plan to just ride him instead.

But, well—you’re definitely not prepared for that, you realize as you start sliding your hand up-and-down, because two fingers is definitely not enough now that you’ve seen and felt the size of him. You let yourself hope, for a brief second, that there will be a next time for that, and then you turn your focus entirely on the task at hand. Literally.

His hips jerk up into your hand. “Holy, crap,” he groans, “this is—you are so—I meant what I said, I am not going to last that long.”

Your other hand draws his shirt up a little more so you can slide it against his skin, across his stomach, up to his chest. “And I meant what I said,” you parrot back, “I really do not care.”

Your hand does this little twist, and he bucks up, so you keep doing it, testing different rhythms until you find the one that makes his eyes squeeze shut and one of his hands release the blanket so it can grasp your arm instead.

“That’s it, Grace,” you coo. “You’re doing so good for me.”

“What—was that,” he gasps, pressing his face to the side, skewing his glasses even further, “about me being a little freak?”

You simply smile and say nothing, happy to take in all his sounds and the way his chest heaves underneath your hand. You are, apparently, full of ideas at the moment—maybe orgasming is just that intellectually stimulating for you—because then you slide a curious finger over his nipple, and—

You desperately hope that you will never forget the way he keens, then, the way he chokes out that he’s close and then keeps babbling, right up until the words run out and his cum is spurting onto his abdomen.

“That,” you breath, watching the way he twitches, because your hand is still slowly moving around his cock, “was probably the hottest thing I have ever seen.”

It takes him a few moments to get to a place where he could begin to string words together in a way that makes sense, but before he can, just to fuck with him, you swipe your finger through his spend and bring it to your mouth. You’re pretty sure he stops breathing as he watches. “You—you’re killing me here. I’ve passed. I have simply passed away.”

You giggle around your finger. “Before you can even say ‘I told you so,’ I will admit that this was not as bad of an idea as I originally feared. And I would also like to request that this is not a one-time thing.”

Grace looks at you, utterly surprised, because it seems like only doing this once was not an idea that had even crossed his mind until you said it. “I feel like you’re forgetting the ten thousand nerves thing from earlier. It means back-to-back orgasms are not just possible, but, like, probably necessary. I think I read somewhere once that record is somewhere in the hundreds.”

“Okay. Maybe we start with two.”

He grins as you lean forward to kiss him again. “Two is good. But can I bargain for three? This is very important for the experiment.”

Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased. 

Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films. 

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism. 

Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.

Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”

Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke. 

“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you. 

You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet. 

You were still new.

Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.

Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead. 

“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.

You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”

Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve. 

Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.

He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”

“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.

When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you. 

You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.

You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural. 

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing. 

You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.

There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.

It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.

You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.

Maybe.

The office changed at night. 

Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet. 

You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.

He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges. 

Almost like a different person entirely. 

You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes. 

Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway. 

“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.

Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.

He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm. 

Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look. 

“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback. 

It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely. 

Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered. 

Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.

The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.

“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.

His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.

Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”

“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement. 

“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper. 

You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.

You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet. 

Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.

He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.

His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.

You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”

“I thought you liked being late.”

He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”

You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”

“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.

“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.

Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.

You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance. 

His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors. 

He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless. 

And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone. 

Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.

You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.

Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.

That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.

“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”

“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard. 

“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”

You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.

Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”

“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”

He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”

That caught you off guard.

Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”

The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.

You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard. 

Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”

He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out. 

You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.

You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.

It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.

And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength. 

Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist. 

The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.

“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”

You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”

Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview. 

And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??

You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.

For now.

You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.

Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.

In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C

You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.

The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.

But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”

Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.

Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.

Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.

Until now.

You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.

You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention. 

This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.

This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.

Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.

Something had changed, and you liked it.

Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.

Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.

Clark Kent? Superman?

You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.

You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.

A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.

Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.

You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.

Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.

Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.

By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.

“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.

You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.

For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different. 

Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.

Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.

Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”

You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”

Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”

You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.

Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”

“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”

You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”

Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point. 

Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.

Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You blinked, amused. “What?”

“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”

Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”

You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk. 

Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”

You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”

His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.

“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.

And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.

You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.

You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator. 

You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end. 

Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen. 

So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.

Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.

It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.

You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.

You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.

“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”

A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”

Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. 

You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?

Except no, they didn’t. 

You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.

You stared back at the screen.

Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.

You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.

What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—

That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.

Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”

And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.

You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.

You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.

Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.

Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark? 

You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.

Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.

Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.

He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.

There was no way they were the same person.

You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.

That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.

You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.

Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.

Unless that was the point.

You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.

You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.

You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.

You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.

And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.

The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.

Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.

The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.

Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself. 

Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city. 

You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.

What exactly were you doing?

You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark. 

Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.

You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.

But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.

And yet.

When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.

Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.

You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.

The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.

Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable. 

You flinched, braced for impact.

But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.

There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.

Nothing so much as grazed you. 

When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you. 

Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.

Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you. 

You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.

You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.

When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.

Superman was right in front of you.

“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.

Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.

You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system. 

You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.

Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.

But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen. 

The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.

It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.

And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.

Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly. 

But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark. 

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”

“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.

Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”

He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.

Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.

God.

You were losing it.

Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks. 

He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.

Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.

“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently. 

Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.

You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.

The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.

But you knew. You knew.

Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.

This was real.

Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.

The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.

Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.

And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.

You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins. 

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.

The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.

Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere. 

While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.

You glanced up.

Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into. 

It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.

Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark. 

There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose. 

Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.

You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.

Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.

It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.

You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message. 

You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.

Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask? 

The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.

Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to. 

Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.

You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.

Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual. 

There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard. 

The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.

You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.

It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.

This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.

He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.

“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.

You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.

You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.

“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”

You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”

You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it. 

You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence. 

How could the same man feel so different?

Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.

Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.

Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”

You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”

You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes. 

Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.

Your breath caught.

Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Still unmistakably Clark Kent. 

And Superman.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”

Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.

It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before. 

It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.

Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.

“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you. 

“They’re supposed to—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”

Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”

The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.

You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss. 

His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.

“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”

Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”

Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.

“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”

Clark’s expression faltered.

“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”

“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”

He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”

You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”

“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”

“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”

Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out. 

Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours. 

Clark Kent loved you.

“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”

You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.

“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?” 

You nodded before your words could betray you.

Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”

Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark. 

He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.

In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”

You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.

The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.

There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.

It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.

“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”

Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”

Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips. 

Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.

Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.

Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another. 

The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric. 

You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.

It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman. 

Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”

Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.

You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.

You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”

And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners. 

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.

The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.

In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.

“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.

Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.

It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.

You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.

And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.

Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.

Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.

“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.

Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.

“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.

You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.

Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.

The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.

Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.

You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.

Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.

“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.

“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.

Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.

It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”

Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.

Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”

Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.

You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.

As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.

“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.

Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.

Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.

Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator. 

Everything was back to normal.

Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.