Reading In This Hoe

HEADCANONS!!! (more to come)

Clark Kent's NSFW alphabet - ♠♡

Have you ever tried this one? - ♠ NEW!!

Off the record - ♠

A healing touch - ♠

Where love lands - ♡

Between love and hate (ft. Lex Luthor) - ♠

Bombshell: Attorney at law - ♡

Superfreak - ♠

Three inches from heaven - ♠♡

Good girls swallow - ♠♡

Clark Kent: $ex toy connoisseur - ♠♡

Arguments worth moaning over - ♠♡

Twice the man - ♠♡⚠

Deleted scenes from a movie night - ♠♡

Pt.1 A-Lister in the making - ♡

Pt.2 Starstruck - ♡

Not quite a trustfall - ♡

Tears (at friendsgiving) - ♠♡

A heart at flight risk - ♠♡

Distant lover - ♠☹♡

Your best American girl - ☹♡

Tell me lies - ♠♡

Distance makes the d grow harder - ♠♡

Method acting - ♠♡

Atonement - ☹♠♡

Before sunrise - ☹♠♡

He's just not that into you - ♡

Past lives - ☹♠♡

The star that leads to you - ♡

Rocking on your Kryptonite - ☹♠♡

SCOTT MILLER - Twisters

Lessons on sex - ♠♡

Matters of orgasm quota - ♠♡

DAVID MCDOUGALL - We own this city

Love to see you cum, hate to see you go - ♠☹♡

SERIES:

The Marvelous Mrs. Kent:

You’ve spent your entire life becoming exactly who other people wanted. Raised by wealthy parents who already had your future mapped out, you ran to Metropolis before they could finish deciding it for you. Now you’re twenty-five, unemployed and realizing every single person in your life somehow belonged to Clark Kent first. After one painful misunderstanding pushes you over the edge, your carefully maintained life begins collapsing in ways both tragic and absurd. But if losing your mind in public was truly rock bottom…why are people suddenly applauding?

A romantic dramedy about grief, identity and what happens when your breakdown becomes entertainment. Here's to starting over after the fantasy fails!

"Pilot"

"Material Girl"

"Out of order"

"Mrs. X at the Talon"

The secret life of Miss Honey: (status: COMPLETED)

As a devoted teacher, you never expected to stumble into temporary parenthood or to find Clark stepping naturally into the role beside you. Caring for your student brings you and Clark closer than ever, blurring the line between friendship and something achingly tender. Fostering her might be temporary… but the family you're forming feels anything but.

Chapter 1 - ♡

Chapter 2 - ♡⚠

Chapter 3 - ♡

Chapter 4 - ♡⚠

Chapter 5 - ♡

Chapter 6 - ♡⚠

Adventures in cape-wearing childcare:

M.I.R.A: Alert!! We’ve stumbled onto an infinite timeline, traveler. One without a clear beginning or fixed end. Expect minor continuity blurs as files are generated on request. Logs are arranged here in loose chronological order, with new entries surfacing as your signals arrive. Safe travels!

Eating for two! - ♡

The baby whisperer - ♡

Superdad in training - ♡

A batch* made in heaven - ♡

Speed - ♡

Swear jars and tiny titans - ♡

Supermom in training - ♡

Requiem for a dream - ☹♡

Bless you...and everything else - ♡

Shared frequency - ☹♡

The man before tomorrow:

The man before tomorrow follows Clark during his university years in Metropolis, where Smallville’s history bleeds into a city that never stops watching. With you, his academically gifted friend by his side, these standalone stories trace investigations, growing responsibility and the careful balance of learning to help without yet becoming the Man of Tomorrow.

Read separately or as a whole, each moment captures the hero he is before the legend takes flight.

1x01 Pilot - ♡

The overpass position: You first discovered this position late one night while idly browsing on your laptop in the apartment you share with Clark. After a particularly frustrating day chasing leads and watching him hold back during a minor crisis downtown, you wanted something that would let him take control in a new, intimate way while still allowing you to guide the finer details. The site described it as a deep position where the man sits on your ass and leans forward on his hands, giving him dominant leverage and power but with you able to set the rhythm by grabbing and directing his hips. It felt perfect for a man who’s terrified of using even an ounce too much strength yet secretly craves moments where he can loom over you and feel in command.

You bookmarked it, teasing him later with a wicked smile, “This one looks like it could make even Superman sweat…in the best way.” He blushed deeply but agreed to try it that weekend, both of you eager to explore new ways to be close without him constantly calculating every movement.

The failed attempt: It was a quiet Saturday evening in your cozy Metropolis apartment. The bedroom was dimly lit by a single lamp and the city lights filtering through the curtains. You lay on your back on the soft rug, legs bent at the knees and drawn up tightly toward your chest, thighs pressed close to your body just as the description suggested. Clark stood to the side for a moment, tall and broad-shouldered, his muscular frame casting a long shadow. He was already hard, his impressive size evident even before he got into position.

“Ready?” he asked softly, voice laced with careful concern. You nodded, reaching for him. He lowered himself slowly, sitting astride your hips and ass, his weight immediately noticeable despite how gently he tried to settle. Then he leaned forward, planting his large hands on the rug for support, the position folded you tightly underneath him, your bodies aligned for deep penetration.

You reached back with both hands, gripping his firm ass and pulling him toward you, trying to set the rhythm. Clark eased inside, slowly at first but even his gentlest thrust felt intense. The angle was sharp and his considerable endowment stretched and filled you completely in this compressed setup. On the third guided pull, he sank deeper than intended and your breath hitched sharply with a mix of overwhelming fullness and discomfort as the pressure hit too hard against your cervix.

“Clark…wait,” you gasped, hands tightening on him. His super-hearing picked up the spike in your heartbeat instantly and he froze, eyes widening, a faint red glow flickering dangerously at the edges of his vision before he clamped it down. 

“I’m sorry, gosh, are you okay?” He started to pull back but the sudden shift made you wince again. The height difference and his massive build made it hard for him to stay balanced without putting unintended pressure on your folded body.

He lifted off in a careful blur, immediately picking you up and pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies. “I couldn’t tell the difference between your pleasure and pain fast enough.” The attempt ended with tender vanilla sex instead while you reassured him it was okay and that you were too but the position went on the “too risky” list for a while.

Why the first Overpass attempt didn’t work: The first attempt failed primarily because of Clark’s immense physical advantages clashing with the position’s demands for precise micro-control. His towering height and broad, muscular build made the forward-leaning posture awkward, forcing him to hunch in a way that concentrated his considerable weight and thrust directly downward. Combined with his exceptionally large endowment, this created overwhelming depth and pressure in the tightly folded angle before either of you could adjust. 

Even with his superhuman restraint, he couldn’t finely gauge the exact force and depth in real time, his heightened senses picked up your heartbeat spiking but struggled to differentiate intense pleasure from discomfort amid his own arousal. The result was one thrust that went just a fraction too far and too firm, turning what should have been pleasurable intensity into sharp discomfort for you, while triggering his deep-seated fear of accidentally hurting his partner. 

Without preparatory modifications like extra elevation or a more gradual entry, the position exposed the limits of his constant need to hold back in such an intimate, compressed setup.

The successful attempt: A couple of weeks later, after plenty of talking and some lighter experimentation, you decided to try again with a few changes. Same spot but this time you prepared better with extra pillows under your lower back and hips for support and a slight elevation, plus a generous amount of lube. You started with foreplay that left both of you aching, your mouth on him, his fingers and tongue bringing you close to the edge, so you were relaxed and dripping wet. Clark was calmer and more confident after your reassurances that you wanted this.

You positioned yourself on the rug again, legs folded toward your chest but not pulled quite as extremely tight, giving a little more room. 

“Stay on your knees a bit longer at first,” you instructed. “Don’t sit fully until I say…and talk to me. I want to hear you.” 

Clark nodded, eyes dark with desire. He positioned himself over your legs first, teasing your entrance with his thick cock before slowly sinking in partway, letting you adjust to his size at this angle.

When you were ready, he shifted forward carefully, sitting more fully on your hips while leaning on his hands and this time the pillows helped tilt your hips perfectly. You reached back again, gripping his ass but you guided with words too, “Slow…rock with me, don’t thrust. Feel my hands.” He obeyed, keeping most of his weight on his arms and using tiny, controlled flexes of his super-strength to hover just enough to protect you while staying intimately connected.

The changes made all the difference, the modified elevation and shallower initial entry let his impressive length stroke deep without slamming and you set a steady rhythm with your hands and hips, pulling him in on your terms. Pleasure built gradually, the position creating intense, grinding pressure against your back wall and clit with every rock. Clark’s control was masterful now, he tuned his super-senses only to your moans and racing pulse, filtering out the world.

“Faster when you’re ready…please,” you breathed.

He picked up the pace exactly as you directed, the rocking motion turning into deeper, rhythmic strokes that had you trembling. The fullness was perfect, stretching you deliciously around his thickness without pain. You came first, clenching hard around him with a loud cry, nails digging into his skin and the sensation pushed Clark over the edge moments later. He groaned your name as he pulsed deep inside you, body shuddering but perfectly restrained.

Afterward, he carefully pulled out, a thick trickle of his cum immediately dripping down your thighs and onto the carpet. Before you could even react, Clark scooped you up effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his broad chest then covered you with kisses across your forehead, cheeks and neck. “Are you okay? Tell me how you’re feeling,” he murmured between each kiss, his blue eyes scanning your face with that familiar mix of love and protective concern, even as his own release continued to drip messily from you onto the carpet below.

You laughed breathlessly, the sound mixing with his low chuckle as another warm drop landed on the rug mid-kiss. “Clark, the carpet…” you managed between giggles. He grinned against your skin, not caring in the slightest and kept kissing you through the shared laughter. 

“Worth it,” he whispered, nuzzling your neck. 

The overpass became a special occasional treat, proof that with communication, small adjustments and a willingness to laugh at the messy, human moments, even a Superman could surrender control at home.

Chef position: You discovered the Chef position during one of those late-night rabbit holes on your laptop while Clark was out on a quick patrol. You had been thinking about ways to make your intimate life more spontaneous and fun, especially after weeks of him being extra cautious following a rough superhero incident. The description of a woman lying back on a table and a man standing between her thighs, leaning forward with hands braced, allowing deep face-to-face connection, felt perfect. It played to Clark’s natural strength and height while giving you control through closeness. 

When he returned home that night, you showed him the page with a playful smile, “You’re always saving the world…maybe tonight you can be my personal chef in the kitchen.” His ears naturally turned pink but the intrigued spark in his eyes told you he was in and you both agreed to try it soon.

The failed attempt: It was a warm Friday evening, the city hummed softly beyond the windows of your home as you cleared the solid oak dining table in the open kitchen area after a quiet dinner you two had cooked together. You had dimmed the overhead lights and lit a couple of candles on the counter for atmosphere. 

Your heart pounded with excitement as you hopped onto the table, scooting back and lying down on the cool wood. You bent your knees, spreading your legs wide just as the position called for, feeling exposed and eager under Clark’s heated gaze.

He stepped between your thighs, his tall, powerfully built frame towering over you. His broad shoulders and long legs made the stance look natural as he spread his feet shoulder-width apart for balance. Clark placed his large, strong hands flat on the table on either side of your waist, leaning his upper body forward slightly and the muscles in his arms and chest flexed visibly as he positioned himself. You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for a deep, lingering kiss. 

“Come on, Kent,” you whispered against his lips. “Let me feel you.”

He entered you slowly at first, the height of the table aligning you perfectly so he could sink in deep, his considerable size stretching and filling you in one smooth motion. For a few thrusts, it was incredible, from the face-to-face eye contact and the way his body hovered over yours, to the leverage letting him hit spots that made your toes curl but as arousal built and Clark’s movements grew more instinctive, the table began to creak under the pressure of his braced hands and subtle shifts in weight. 

Even though he was clearly holding back, his superhuman strength made it difficult to keep the exact gentle rhythm. One particularly deep thrust, guided by your arms pulling him closer, drove forward with more power than intended. The hard, unyielding surface offered no give and the angle amplified everything. You gasped sharply as a jolt of discomfort shot through you, the depth suddenly overwhelming as your lower back pressed painfully into the wood. At that exact moment, a loud crack echoed through the kitchen and the thick oak table splintered beneath his hands, one leg buckling as the surface gave way.

Clark froze instantly, his super-hearing catching the change in your heartbeat and the tiny hitch in your breath. His blue eyes widened with pure horror and in a blur of motion, he pulled out carefully and scooped you up into his arms, lifting you completely off the collapsing table before any further damage could happen.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asked urgently, voice thick with worry as he cradled you against his chest, one hand gently checking your back. His pre-cum, still warm from the brief but intense moment, dripped down your thighs and onto the kitchen floor as he held you. He carried you straight to the couch, sitting down with you in his lap while murmuring apologies and kissing you all over while his hands soothed over your skin. The ruined table was forgotten and the moment was gone, you ended up spending the rest of the night in tender, familiar lovemaking on the couch, with Clark stroking your back and whispering how sorry he was the whole time.

Why the first Chef position attempt didn’t work: The first attempt at the Chef position didn’t work because the rigid, unyielding surface of the wooden dining table combined with Clark’s standing leverage and overwhelming physical power created too much uncontrolled intensity too quickly. His height and long limbs made maintaining a perfectly balanced, gentle lean difficult without putting more weight than intended onto the table, while his exceptionally large endowment and the elevated angle produced exceptionally deep, jarring thrusts that the hard surface amplified rather than cushioned. Without additional padding or lubrication support, your body had no forgiveness against the firm wood, turning pleasurable depth into discomfort, especially as arousal made it harder for Clark to finely calibrate every micro-movement. This triggered his perpetual anxiety about hurting you with his Kryptonian strength in a position that offered him powerful standing momentum but limited subtle adjustments once fully committed.

The successful attempt: Several days later, after talking it through, doing some preparation and buying another dining table, you decided to retry it with several key changes to make it work at home. You layer a thick, soft blanket folded multiple times over the table, topped with a grippy yoga mat for comfort and stability. You also placed a pillow under your lower back and hips for extra support and tilt, all of this just until you got the trick of it. Before starting, you spent a long, luxurious time on foreplay, Clark’s mouth and fingers bringing you right to the edge twice on the couch, leaving you soaking wet and relaxed. You applied a generous amount of lube to both of you and Clark promised to start extra slow and let you set the pace completely.

You climbed onto the padded table again, lying back with your knees bent and spread wide, the extra elevation and cushioning already feeling much better. Clark stepped between your thighs, planting his feet firmly with knees slightly bent for lower center of gravity and better control. He braced his strong hands on your waist instead, leaning forward but keeping more weight in his legs this time. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close so your foreheads touched. 

“Just like this,” you murmured. “Feel me guide you.”

He eased inside you gradually, the combination of lube, your arousal and the pillow tilt allowing his thick, long cock to slide in smoothly and deeply without any shock. The padded surface absorbed his braced weight perfectly and the slight bend in his knees gave him the stability to make tiny but precise adjustments. You used your arms around his neck and your legs hooked behind his back to control the rhythm with slow, rocking motions at first that let you grind your clit against him with every forward movement. The face-to-face intimacy was breathtaking and just like during missionary, a favorite of yours, you could kiss him deeply, stare into his eyes and whisper exactly what you wanted. “A little deeper now…fuck…yes, like that.”

Clark’s voice grew husky as he followed your lead, his body moving with exquisite control. The position let him hit that perfect angle over and over, stroking every sensitive spot inside you while his pelvis rubbed deliciously against your clit. Pleasure built steadily, as you rocked together on the stable table. Your breaths mingled, his super-hearing tuned only to your moans and racing heartbeat. 

“You’re so beautiful when you feel good,” he groaned, the strain of holding back visible in his flexed arms but never breaking his rhythm.

You urged him faster as the coil tightened, your nails digging into his shoulders and eventually, your orgasm hit hard and long, your whole body clenching around his thick length as you cried out. Clark followed right after, burying himself deep with a low moan of your name, his frame shuddering as he came hard inside you. He stayed there, holding you close and kissing you softly through the aftershocks until you both floated down together.

Carefully, he lifted you off the table and carried you to the bedroom for more cuddling and gentle kisses. The successful Chef night left you both glowing and it unsurprisingly became a cherished way to turn your everyday kitchen into something deliciously intimate.

Full nelson position: You first stumbled upon the Full Nelson while deep-diving into the more intense, “hard-level” positions late one evening. Clark had spent the day in full Superman mode, averting a disaster downtown and you found yourself craving a way to harness that power more intimately. The description of the rear-entry carry with the full arm lock behind the neck spoke to you on a primal level, it was complete surrender to his strength, deep penetration and total envelopment, so it felt like the perfect bridge between his superhero restraint and the passionate man you loved. 

The next morning, over coffee in your sunlit kitchen, you showed him the position on your phone, your voice a little husky as you said, “I want you to hold me like that…to feel exactly how strong you are.” His pupils dilated, a flicker of heat and that familiar protective caution crossing his face. He reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “If it’s what you want, we’ll make it possible.” You both agreed to try it the following weekend, excitement and nerves buzzing between you.

The failed attempt: The apartment was quiet and warmly lit that Saturday night. You had spent the afternoon preparing by lighting several scented candles on the side tables while soft, sensual music played low in the background. The two of you had built the tension slowly, starting with a shared shower where Clark’s soapy hands explored every inch of you, then moving to the bed for long, languid foreplay. His mouth and fingers worked you over thoroughly, bringing you right to the edge twice until you were soaking wet, thighs trembling and begging for more.

When the moment came, Clark lay on his back in the center of the bed. You climbed on top, straddling him reverse-style at first, then lowering yourself onto his thick cock as he fisted the base to guide it in. Once you were fully seated and adjusted, you brought your knees up toward your chest and Clark sat up slightly behind you, sliding his powerful arms under yours and carefully interlocking his fingers behind your neck in the full nelson hold, pulling you back firmly against his chest. You felt completely surrounded and pinned by him, his broad chest against your back and thick thighs supporting you from below.

The first few thrusts were literally breathtaking. The angle was devastatingly perfect, his impressive size stretching you open while the hold kept you locked in place for every deep stroke. Pleasure surged through you quickly, the head of his cock rubbing insistently against your g-spot with relentless precision and your body responded fast, the wetness increased and that familiar heavy pressure built low in your belly. 

You realized with a rush of self-consciousness that you were barreling toward squirting. The thought hit hard and embarrassment and overthinking flooded in at being held helplessly in his unbreakable arms, knees pulled up, losing control so messily right there on the bed. What if it’s too much? What if he feels it and it throws him off? You tensed involuntarily, your breathing changing from moans to something tighter.

Clark’s super-hearing caught the change instantly and he felt your body stiffen in his hold. 

“Sweetheart?” he murmured, voice laced with concern. He released the nelson carefully, easing you forward and gently pulling out. He immediately scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. “Talk to me, what happened? Did I hurt you?” 

His hands gently checked you over as the moment shattered. You tried to explain the rush of self-consciousness about squirting but the vulnerability left you flustered and self-conscious. The night ended with tender cuddling in bed, Clark reassuring you endlessly that he loved every reaction your body had.

Why the first Full Nelson attempt didn’t work: The first Full Nelson attempt didn’t work primarily because the reverse on-top variation with the full arm lock created an angle that hit your G-spot with almost clinical precision, combined with Clark’s powerful build and substantial endowment making every movement feel overwhelmingly deep and targeted while you were pinned back against him. This triggered a strong wave of self-consciousness about squirting, something that still made you feel exposed and a little embarrassed, especially while completely immobilized in his strong hold with your knees pulled up. The dominant lock left almost no room for subtle adjustments or easy retreat once engaged, amplifying the vulnerability and causing you to tense up and overthink instead of surrendering. Clark, ever attuned through his super-senses, immediately sensed the change and released you.

The successful attempt: Two weeks later, after several honest conversations about your squirting insecurities, boundaries and what would help you feel safe enough to lose control, you tried the Full Nelson again, this time with careful preparation that made all the difference. You laid down a thick towel under the sheets and the foreplay was luxurious and unhurried, with a long steamy shower where Clark worshipped your body with his hands and mouth, then moving to the bed where he brought you to the edge three times with his tongue and fingers until you were dripping, relaxed and explicitly telling him you wanted to chase every sensation tonight without holding back.

Two weeks later, after several honest conversations about your squirting insecurities, boundaries and what would help you feel safe enough to lose control, you tried the Full Nelson again but this time with careful preparation that made all the difference. You laid down a thick towel under the sheets and the foreplay was luxurious and unhurried, with a long steamy shower where Clark worshipped your body with his hands and mouth, then moving to the bed where he brought you to the edge three times with his tongue and fingers until you were explicitly telling him you wanted to chase every sensation tonight without holding back.

Once in position, he entered you from underneath in one slow thrust, his impressive size stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt. 

“That’s it, baby…take all of me,” he praised softly against your ear, voice already rough with pleasure. “You feel so perfect around me.”

Every upward rock of his hips drove him deep and you moaned loudly, completely pinned and held by his strength, yet feeling utterly safe in his arms. Clark kept up a steady rhythm, communicating the whole time. 

“Good girl…just like that. Let me hear you,” he groaned, kissing the side of your neck. “You’re so wet for me…I can feel how close you are already.”

The pressure built faster than you expected and that familiar heavy, overwhelming sensation coiled low in your belly. This time you didn’t fight it, your moans grew louder, turning into desperate cries as the orgasm rushed toward you. Clark felt it too, your walls fluttering and clenching around him.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he encouraged, voice deep and loving. “Let go, baby. I want to feel you squirt all over my cock. You’re so beautiful when you lose control like this. I’ve got you…I’ve always got you.”

Your orgasm crashed through you with shocking intensity as rhythmic contractions squeezed his thick length as you squirted hard in warm, wet pulses that soaked his lap, the sheets and the towel beneath you. Your whole body shook in the full nelson hold, thighs trembling, as loud, broken moans tore from your throat through the long and messy release.

Clark groaned loudly, praising you nonstop. “That’s it, that’s my girl. Look at you squirting so beautifully for me…so perfect. ” His hips kept moving through it all, drawing out every last pulse until you were gasping and whimpering. 

The feeling of you coming so hard and messily finally pushed him over the edge and he thrust up deep one final time, locking his arms tighter around you as he came with a deep, shuddering moan, filling you completely with hot, thick pulses while whispering, “I love you…and I love every single part of this.”

He released the hold slowly and tenderly afterward, turning you in his arms and kissing you deeply. He pulled a blanket over both of you, holding you close through the glowing aftershocks, stroking your hair and continuing to murmur praises. “You were incredible…So brave for letting go like that. I love seeing you come undone for me.” 

Any lingering self-consciousness melted away completely in his loving embrace.

With a partner like Clark, trying new positions was always a delicate balance of trial and error but never in vain. Every awkward moment, every broken table or spilled mess on the carpet, only brought the two of you closer, teaching you how to communicate, laugh and trust each other more deeply. You knew you’d continue scrolling through more of those online catalogs late at night, bookmarking new ideas and working through the logistics together in the safety of your apartment…So is it too soon to get a Kamasutra calendar?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calum giggles. “You’re silly.”

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

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

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

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

He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.

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

“Superman.” 

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

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

“You’re Superman! You’re Superman!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise. 

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure—?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you next time, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mama! Mama! Mam—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re funny, baby.”

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

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

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

See you next time, sweetheart.

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

Yeah. You’re so fucked.

—

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

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

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

You don’t stay. 

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

Clark Kent is just your neighbour. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So…” Clark starts the conversation back up.

“So,” you echo.

“How’ve you been?” 

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

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

“You,” he cuts in, “not work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he says simply. 

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

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

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

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

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

— 

Clark holds onto his end of the promise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about Lois—?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. 

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

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

Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon

Says he misses you, mama xx

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

“Hey, Clark?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

“Does Calum ever ask about his dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

“You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark raises a brow. “Just tall?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What look?” 

“Like you want me.” 

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

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

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

You can’t finish that sentence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The idea alone terrifies you. 

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

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

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

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

“I just—”

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

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

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

“I know,” you say quietly. 

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

“Do you, though?”

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

Clark simply leans in closer. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I, sweetheart?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

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

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

“Please, Clark…” 

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

And the first taste is fucking heaven. 

— 

Clark’s not too sure why he brought wine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ex-boyfriend. Calum’s father. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dylan opens his mouth to protest. 

Wrong choice. 

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

“Get inside,” Clark tells you lowly.

“But—”

“Get inside.”

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

The moment it closes, you hear it. 

Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.

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

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

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

“Open the door.”

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

“What the hell was that, Clark?” 

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

“He was an ass.”

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

That’s when you notice it.

“You brought wine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been hard,” you say quietly. 

He just nods. “I know.”

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

I’m here, it says, it’s okay.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Liar.” You stick your tongue out playfully.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

“I guess you could say that.”

“Say what?” you raise a questioning brow.

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

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

“Does he visit often?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Of course, you’re nothing if not unlucky. 

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home. He’s taken you home.

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

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

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

That’s when it all clicks. 

“Clark.”

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

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

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

He doesn’t deny it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Important? Special?

You?

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

It hits you then, the weight of it. 

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

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

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

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

The real Clark.

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” is all he murmurs.

“No, you’re not.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.” 

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

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

“Because you can put us in danger—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saved your life today!” 

“You broke my trust today!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finally glance at him. A mistake.

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

And dear God, but that’s worse.

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

—

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

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

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

“Calum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And he’s Mr Clark!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Before Clark had ripped it away from you.

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

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

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

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

That’s when you hear it. 

Two heavy knocks on your door. 

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

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

Clark. 

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

He’s not wearing his glasses. 

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

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

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

Your favourite kind. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had been Clark. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s not your son.”

“I love him like one,” he counters.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mama?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance. 

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

He waits for a heartbeat.

Then two.

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

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

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

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

“That’s precision work,” Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. “See the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.”

“Or,” you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, “he knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.”

Lois’s sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didn’t even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.

The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.

“It’s the third collapse in two weeks,” Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “First the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someone’s orchestrating it. I just have to—” He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadn’t slept, probably.

“Do you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,” you tapped your chin, “cologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?”

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. He’d just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.

“Oh, come on, Clark,” you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. “Don’t tell me this is weird for you because he’s your bestie.”

His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. “What? No, I—” He stammered, then tried again. “It doesn’t weird me out. And we’re not best friends.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smug. “You definitely don’t look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.”

“That’s not—” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. “I just don’t think the, uh, newsroom is the place for…” He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.

You grinned. Clark made this too easy. “For what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?”

Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. “Careful, Clark. We’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.

Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. “If you ask me, the man could use a fan club. It’d do wonders for his image. You’re just ahead of the curve.”

“See?” you said, pointing at her in triumph. “Visionary thinking.”

Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about it—shy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for you—did a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.

You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like he’d save your life and then ask if you’d eaten lunch.

Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one you’d been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing your—

Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasn’t just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.

Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.

“Okay,” Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, “if we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we might—”

“Jimmy,” you cut in, “I support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?”

“Uh…” He blinked. “Enough?”

“Four,” Lois corrected without looking up.

You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadn’t moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.

And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.

You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked. 

You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleague’s blush and your favourite hero’s shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.

Lois’s voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. “I don’t care how he does it—I need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someone’s targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.”

Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. “If you’re calling sources, I’ll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.”

Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the world’s most suspicious Boy Scout. 

You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.

The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didn’t flicker so badly. 

You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you weren’t waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.

Then the floor shuddered.

At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleep—until the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.

Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.

Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.

The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.

You didn’t have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.

The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.

And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.

“Go, go, go!” you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. “This way! Keep moving!”

People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.

The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.

Except, suddenly you weren’t falling. 

Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you weren’t dying.

Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulder—instinct, panic, maybe something else—and your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.

Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.

All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadn’t caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, you’d been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man you’d been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasn’t on a screen.

The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Superman’s voice carried through it with calm authority. “Is anyone hurt?” he called, scanning the crowd.

Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.

Superman’s shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. “Are you alright?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue you’d ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. “You need to breathe,” he said gently. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.

“That’s it,” he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasn’t dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.

The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back. 

What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?

Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you weren’t just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.

Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, “I’m fine. Thank you.” Your voice was steadier than you expected.

Superman nodded, but didn’t step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.

When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.

“I’m a reporter for The Daily Planet?” Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.

Superman smiled, raising his brows. “Are you?”

“Yes.” You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. “And, if you ever had the time, I’d love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but… more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.”

His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.

You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. “Unless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.”

Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. “No,” he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. “No exclusive deal with Clark.”

“Good,” you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.

Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both. 

“I’d be delighted,” Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.

“Great,” you exclaimed. “Wonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.”

Superman nodded, thoughtful. “How about a week from today? Next Thursday night?”

Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. “Next Thursday night works.”

“Good,” he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Superman’s gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.

Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.

You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awareness—sirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.

But Superman didn’t move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place. 

For one dizzying moment, you weren’t just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last night’s disaster.

“Holy shit,” Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. “You’re alive.”

“Barely,” Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like you’d been through war. “The police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?”

You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. “Uh… sorry?” you offered weakly. “I meant to text but my phone sort of didn’t survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.”

“You think we care about your phone?” Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. “We care about you. You could’ve been crushed, you idiot.”

“Love you too, Lois,” you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.

Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. “So what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, but—”

“—but left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.” You shrugged, casual, like you weren’t replaying it every three minutes in your head. “It was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, and…” You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. “I might’ve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.”

That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.

“You what?” Lois demanded.

“He’s coming by next Thursday night,” you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. “So everyone better clear out by then.”

Lois groaned. “Of course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.”

Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re out here living the dream.”

Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t even pause to lower her voice. “Well, well, look who finally gets to meet their celebrity crush in person.”

Heat shot to your face. “That is not—” You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe a little bit.”

Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.

Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. “Thought you could use this,” he said softly.

You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clark’s tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like he’d rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldn’t have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.

Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You didn’t have to.”

Clark gave a small smile. “I wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.” His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I’ve… seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. It’s not easy, being right there when it happens.”

Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. “Yeah,” you admitted. “It was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.”

Clark’s expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, voice low but steady.

Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. “Me too. I’d hate to miss this coffee.”

His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. “You’re really okay? Not just saying that?”

You took a sip of coffee to buy time. “I’m okay,” you said finally, quieter than you meant to. “A little shaken, maybe. I’m just really grateful Superman was there.”

Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldn’t—like how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.

Your pulse wouldn’t settle. Every time Clark’s voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind you’d blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.

“Well, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories with…” You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.

Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Superman’s blinding perfection.

It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.

“Big date Thursday,” Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.

“It’s an interview,” you corrected, every time.

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.

Lois was subtler, though only barely. “You’ve got one shot,” she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. “Don’t blow it by asking about his workout routine.”

“I wasn’t going to!” you protested.

“Sure,” she said. “Because the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.”

You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.

But the strangest shift had been Clark.

Since the train incident, you’d had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasn’t different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him. 

It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perry’s legendary rants.

By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.

The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, “Good luck, darling,” on her way out.

Lois added, “Remember. Profile, not thirst essay,” like she hadn’t already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.

When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. “You’ll do fine, kid,” he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. “Just don’t let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.”

Then it was just you.

The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. You’d dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.

You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.

You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.

A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.

He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin you’d seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if he’d just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.

“Hope I’m not late,” Superman said, voice warm, easy. “Got caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didn’t actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.”

A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. “No worries. Did you end up finding one for him?”

“Found his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.” His grin widened, as if you’d just won him over by expressing your curiosity.

Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close. 

“Thank you for coming,” you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. “Please, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?”

“Not at all,” Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet.  He moved toward the chair opposite yours.

You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. “Let’s start with some broad questions,” you said, clearing your throat. “What drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.”

Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.

“Because I can,” he said finally. “Because I was given abilities most people don’t have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?”

The way he said it wasn’t self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew you’d never forget it.

“That sounds… lonely,” you mused before you could stop yourself.

A flicker of surprise crossed Superman’s features, then something quieter. “It can be. But loneliness isn’t an excuse to do nothing.”

You tapped the pen against your notebook. “If you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?”

“That strength isn’t about what you can do,” he said without hesitation. “It’s about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.”

“You sound like a philosopher,” you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.

Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. “I’m not sure anyone’s ready to put me in that category. I just… spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.”

“Flying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?”

He gave a half-shrug. “There’s a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.”

You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Superman’s voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.

It was silly, but you couldn’t help feeling like he was studying you, too.

“Do you ever wish you could do something else?” you asked.

He tilted his head, considering. “No. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.”

The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.

“I can stop a runaway train,” he added wryly, “but ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldn’t notice your smile. “The city may never recover from this revelation.”

You hesitated because the next question felt personal. “Do you ever wish you didn’t have to be Superman?”

Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if you’d crossed a line. But then he said, “No. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasn’t Superman would be wishing I wasn’t me.” 

You weren’t supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.

“You’re good at this,” Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.

“At my job?”

He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At making someone feel like they can be honest.”

Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”

“Of course,” Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.

You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. “Alright,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Time for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?”

Superman’s brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal,” he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.

“Favourite pizza topping?”

“Pepperoni,” he said instantly.

“Desert island snack?”

“Apples.”

You laughed. “Really?”

“They’re versatile,” Superman said, chuckling lightly. “And nutritious. Hard to get sick of.”

“Alright. What does Superman do on his day off?”

“I watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,” Superman grinned, “the really sappy ones.”

You smiled back. “What’s a movie that always makes you cry?”

“Anything with Gene Kelly,” he confessed. 

You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. “What’s your guilty pleasure?”

Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. “I… bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.”

You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.

“My mother’s pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.” Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. “So when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.”

His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met. 

“That’s kind of amazing,” you said, smiling widely. “I never pictured Superman in an apron.”

He chuckled, low and easy. “Neither did I, initially. But it’s comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.” Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you weren’t about to move.

“I like baking too,” you admitted. “But I’ve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.”

His eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect,” Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.

The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. “So, pies,” you prompted, leaning forward. “What’s your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?”

“Apple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,” Superman declared happily. “But I experiment sometimes, even when it’s beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.” His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.

You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.

“I like things a little messy,” you teased.

Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.

Superman blushed. He actually blushed. “That’s good to know,” he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. “Do you bake other things too?”

“Occasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.” You laughed lightly.

He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. “Maybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but… how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.”

You felt your pulse jump. The casual offer—the closeness, and the easy intimacy of it—was impossible to ignore. “I’d really like that,” you admitted.

Superman’s eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasn’t saving the world. 

“Do you get homesick a lot?” you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.

“Yes. Every day,” he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “My parents kept me grounded. They’re amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me… human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.” 

Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.

“I get that,” you murmured. “I mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. It’s not just a comfort, it’s a familiarity that you can’t ever replace.”

For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.

Each accidental touch was electric. Superman’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook. 

By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.

You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.

“I don’t have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,” you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.

Superman’s blue eyes softened, unwavering. “You should leave it in,” he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. “As long as you’re not too specific. I don’t want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.”

You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.

“You know,” he added, lips just curving, “not a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.”

You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. “I like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,” you said, your voice catching a little. “It was two people talking. And it’s not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.”

He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. “I think you’re right,” Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.

“I promise I’ll be careful with it,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just your words, but your intentions.”

“I know you will,” he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours. 

You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch. 

“I…” you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.

“You what?” Superman asked patiently.

“I don’t think I’ve ever connected like this with anyone before,” you admitted, exhaling shakily. 

You’d spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didn’t realise he was holding.

For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Superman’s hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.

Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just double-checking that I’m supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?” he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.

You swallowed, breath catching. “That’s right,” you said, voice breathless.

He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.”

Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. “I think it’s better that way,” you agreed.

That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.

Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.

Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Superman’s hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.

He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. “I want to be careful,” Superman murmured against your mouth. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.

You giggled breathlessly. 

Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. “Why are you giggling?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I’ve had this fantasy before,” you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “For a long time.”

He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”

That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him. 

His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.

Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Superman’s lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.

You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Superman’s bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.

When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care. 

You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.

The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Superman’s breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.

The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you. 

You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.

Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. “Wow,” you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.

Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.

You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldn’t see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. He’d kissed you—or, rather, Superman had kissed you—and it had been everything he’d dreamed of for so many years.

But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldn’t come.

Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I… should apologise,” he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. “This isn’t exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.”

Your lips curved, and you shook your head. “Don’t you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.”

Clark’s heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could. 

“I’d really like to see you again,” Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. “Not as Superman in an interview. Just the person you’ve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?”

A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. “I’d love that,” you agreed, voice warm and sure.

The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Superman’s chest in your office chair.

It might’ve worked if Cat hadn’t immediately pounced on you.

“There you are,” Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. “Our very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Don’t say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Good morning to you too, Cat.”

“Don’t deflect,” she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. “There are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “Did he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Body language,” Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though you’d just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. “It’s what men do when they’re attracted to you. He did it, didn’t he?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. He’d kept eye contact like he couldn’t bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way he’d leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth before—oh God. 

Cat smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, “If you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?”

You shot her a look. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. “Fine. I’m curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?”

Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. “See for yourself. I printed this last night but haven’t edited it yet.”

Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didn’t even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.

You frowned. “What?”

She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.

Lois raised an eyebrow. “So, when exactly in the interview did it become… off the record?”

Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. “Oh my God, you didn’t!”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Liar,” Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Superman’s lips.”

For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.

Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on their desk last night.

Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish “mornin’” to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark. 

Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.

Your hands froze on the keyboard.

Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Superman’s throat last night when you’d bit his lower lip and he’d pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.

Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwise—well. Otherwise, you’d have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man who’d kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.

When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.

Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like you’d forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldn’t type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.

But it wasn’t “nope,” exactly, but a horrifically thrilling “yes.”

Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. You’d made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.

You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Break room, now.”

“Wh—?” His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.

“No questions,” you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didn’t even glance up. Cat’s mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like she’d been waiting for this day her whole life.

You didn’t stop until you’d shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.

You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.

“Clark,” you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Oh my God.”

He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. “Uh. Morning?”

“Don’t you ‘morning’ me.” You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. “What is that?”

He flinched like you’d accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. “Oh, uh, must’ve—ran into a door—”

“Ran into a door?” you whisper-yelled. “Clark, that’s not a door bruise! That’s a hickey!”

Clark’s ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Maybe it’s just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!” You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. “Oh my God, it’s you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. You’re him. You’re—” You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. “Clark Kent, but with, like, a cape!”

He winced. “I meant to tell you, I just—”

“You meant to tell me?!” Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. “Clark, we’ve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when you’re behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didn’t have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention you’re also Superman?”

“I didn’t exactly forget—”

“Oh my God.” You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. “Say it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.”

Clark swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, quietly: “I’m Superman.”

Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.

“You kissed me last night,” you whispered. “A lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the end—”

Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: “I did.” His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability you’d never heard before. “Look, I understand if you’re disappointed—”

“Disappointed?!” you whisper-screeched. “Clark, are you kidding me?! The guy I’ve been gushing over for years was in front of me the entire time? He’s one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!”

Clark’s brows furrowed. “So… that’s a yes? Or a no? I’m sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.”

Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.

Then you blurted, “Wow. I’ve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.”

Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes. His glasses started to slip on the journey, they sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on. Just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.

Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.

This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!

Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.

You feel like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.

You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.

That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story about how he saved a cat from a tree or something equally as ridiculous.

“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.

Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”

You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.

“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’

Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.

“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”

You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly have a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark has a matching headboard and armoire.

Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”

Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.

“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.

Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.

“Something wrong?” Clark asks.

Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.

“Nothing.” You promise.

You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wearing a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.

You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.

Dear god.

You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.

Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of those cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.

“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here,“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”

You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton, has pleats and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.

“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.

Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.

You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.

You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.

Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.

When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.

You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.

Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.

What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.

Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you broke another pair anyway.

You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and pulling his lips out of your reach.

Uh oh.

“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The fuck?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. The words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re too horny for patience.

Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears turning bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”

“Clark I climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.

“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”

Once again he knocks you breathless. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.

Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your heat pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.

You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he can feel it already. You should be embarrassed, but what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.

“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.

Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”

You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.

He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like a map.

You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. You yank off his jeans, working fast and aggressive, until you only have his briefs left. Your index fingers are crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.

He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.

Sweet, perfect man.

You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.

Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.

“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.

He nods, frantic, eager to please.

You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’

You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.

Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.

This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.

He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.

In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.

You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.

You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.

The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.

Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.

Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.

“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.

It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.

In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.

His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.

“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.

It makes you feel drunk.

Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.

You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.

Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.

“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.

Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.

He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”

Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.

“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.

You gasp, when did you lose control of this?

“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”

Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around him. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.

Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.

“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.

You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.

“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”

Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.

“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”

You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”

You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.

“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.

“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”

The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.

When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.

“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.

“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.

You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.

It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.

When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.

Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).

Sweet, perfect man.

“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.

Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.

“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”

You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.

You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. Mid-yawn, you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’

Then you remember what he said, right before you came.

“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.

Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.

“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.

You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picturing it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.

Your cunt roars back to life.

“Oh my god.” You groan.

Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.

Authors note: that’s all folks!!!! In all seriousness I hope you liked this, if you made it this far thank you so much. If you enjoyed this fic please holler at me. I had a lot of fun writing this and ignoring the 194729 other wips I should be finishing! Go stream mans best friend by sabrina carpenter! Okay love you, say it back!

He leans down, kissing your forehead. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asks. You nod.

He's asked you, repeatedly, if you wanted to stop. But you said no every time. There's something so alleviating about not being able to think, about not having to do anything but lie there for him, that you just needed tonight.

And Clark is willing to give it all.

He kisses your lips gently. “Last one, okay, hon? Don't want you passin’ out on me,” he says, thrusting a little faster, his fingers deft as they rub your swollen, abused clit.

You whine, body bouncing with each thrust, cunt weakly trying to tighten around his girth. Your eyes open with what little energy you have left only to watch him. That handsome face you love so much, those intense eyes, perfect lips, dark curls sticking to his sweaty forehead...

His hips are angled just right, every thrust perfectly hitting your favorite spot deep in you. Sometimes, he stretches you so far and goes so deep, you swear he's in your womb. You wouldn't be surprised if his cum was spilling right in there, ready to take and make you all swollen with his baby.

The thought makes you gasp, your orgasm building low in your belly, getting ready to snap.

Clark bites your neck gently, whispering the sweetest of praise into your ear. “Come for me, hon. You gorgeous girl, just need this last one from you. Just one more, baby, I know you've got it in you.”

You shudder, mouth falling open, tiny moans leaving you as you come, slick growing thicker as it drips from you.

Clark grunts. The sight of you coming, the way you whine, is enough to push him over the edge. He gasps, hips stuttering as he spills himself into you, giving shallow thrusts that push his cum as deep as it can go.

He doesn't pull out yet, just stays there, barely holding himself up over you, his cock softening in your cunt.

He peppers your face in kisses, murmuring I love you over and over. His hands gently caress your weak body, his ears picking up the sound of your racing heartbeat as it begins to steady.

“Relax, honey,” he says carefully as he slowly withdraws. “You did so well for me, and now you need to rest. I'll be right here. I'm always right here.”

---

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol

---

Clark Kent masterlist

It was another night of making love, Clark’s head nestled into your neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. It felt amazing as usual, but you had an ache; you needed him to itch. 

“Hey, Clark.” You whimpered, pulling his head up to look at him. His thrusts slowed down, making sure you were okay. 

“Yeah, honey?” He hummed, his signature dimpled smile beaming at you.

“I need you to fuck me like you hate me.” 

As soon as the words left your mouth, his hips stilled inside you, his cock twitching inside of you. Betraying the concerned look lacing his features. “But I don’t hate you?” 

“Yeah, honey. Obviously.” A laugh escaped your mouth, running your hands up and down his back.  “I just want you to fuck me. I love making love. I love it. But I want it fast. Hard. I can feel you holding back, you won’t break me.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, “You’re not gonna hurt me. I trust you with my life.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking.” His eyes turned dark, staring down at you with a newfound desire swirling in them. 

“I wanna feel you for days. Need you to fuck me silly, please, Clark.” You whined, clenching down on his cock. He was silent, reaching down to grip your thighs, wrapping them around his hips. He braced his hands on the headboard, gripping the wood. Without warning, he thrust up into you so hard all the air escaped from your lungs. It felt like he was in your throat, reaching places he’s never even been before. His hips are pistoning into yours so fast you couldn’t even process it. 

“F-fuck Clark, I can’t-” A wanton moan escaped your chest, digging your nails into his skin of steel so hard it hurt your hands. 

“Oh, come on. This is what you wanted, right, baby?” He grunted, making you nod, drunk off the feeling. Nothing but the sounds of the bed creaking and the slick sounds of you creaming around his cock. The creaking sounds got louder, and suddenly there was a loud crash. The bedframe splintering underneath Clark’s hands, the bed slowly falling apart around both of you. He shielded you from the debris, never once letting up his pace. 

“The bed- fuck-” 

“You feel so good, honey. Letting me use you like this.” His eyes were dark, pressing hard kisses against your neck as the bed slowly slumped to the floor. He was so lost inside you, he barely noticed the splintered wood beneath his hands.  And he was fucking you too good for you to care about it. Moving to grip your hips harshly, fucking up into your body as if you were nothing but a toy for him. 

There was no way you were able to speak with how fast he was going, the only thing alluding to you cumming was your loud whimpers and your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“I’m right here, baby,” Clark promised, moving your legs up, determined to fuck into your guts, “Being so good for me, huh? Look at you coming on my cock.” 

His eyes didn’t move away from where you both met, a white ring of release forming at the base of his cock. As soon as you were able to get some air into your lungs, you moaned his name over and over. 

“C-Clark, I can’t-” Your legs were trembling under his hold, every part of your body was on fire. So overstimulated in the best way. Clark shushed you, letting one of his hands travel down to thumb at your puffy clit. 

“Yes, you can,” He cooed, admiring the way you fluttered and shook around him. All you could do was take it, your body greedily sucking him in still. Your second orgasm coming fast, feeling different from before. He tried not to use his x-ray vision on you, but he couldn’t help it. He could see your release growing, pushing against your walls, just begging to be let out. 

“W-wait-” You stuttered out, moving your hands to try and slow him down. “I feel like I’m g-gonna-” 

He had a mischievous glint in his eye, continuing to hit the spot inside you that had you screaming. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head let him know he achieved his goal, your cunt spurted around him. A deep pleasure rolling through your body, a new sensation that had you cursing, not asking him to do this sooner. The warmth of your release had Clark’s hips stuttering, chasing his own high not far after yours. 

He tried to keep his pace, stuttering over your trembling frame. Never once stopping his praises.“Isn’t that good, baby? Knew you could do it.” 

“I love you. Love you so much.” You slurred, practically seeing stars.

“O-oh.” He whimpered, his cock twitching inside you. He was mumbling ‘I love yous’ as he watched his cum seep inside your womb, filling you up so much he could feel it leaking on the bed, mixing with where you soaked the sheets. Soon, he was gently flopping his body on top of yours, pressing small kisses to your sweat-lined skin. Both of you are catching your breaths, holding each other in the post orgasmic haze. 

Clark felt it before he knew what was happening, his head rattling on your chest. When he looked up, he saw you stifling your giggles. Contagious, Clark was unable to stifle his own laughter, and soon both of you lost it in hysterics. 

“Our bed is broken.” You wheezed, looking around to where the bed was now sitting on the floor in a pile of snapped wood. “So fucking worth it though.” 

The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence  than all of these other assholes  kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos. 

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama. 

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag: 

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! 

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal. 

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity. 

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again. 

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor. 

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries. 

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you start, eyes narrowing, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all  soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side or something?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

.

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser. 

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano. 

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. 

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away. 

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice. 

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Carefully. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped. 

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now. 

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern. 

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys. 

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts rapidly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes. 

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

.

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much. 

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too. 

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the  bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it  If he stays.

He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”

Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”

“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”

“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.

He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”

He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”

“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”

He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”

He winced. “When you say it like that—”

“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”

The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”

He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”

And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.

You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.

He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.

“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.

“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”

“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”

He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”

He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”

“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”

“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”

Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”

His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”

You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.

“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”

Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”

He frowned. “I don’t fold.”

“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”

He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”

“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”

Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”

“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”

His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”

“See? Believable and romantic.”

Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”

You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”

You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.

You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”

Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”

---

The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.

The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.

By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.

Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”

You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”

Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.

“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.

Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.

Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.

Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”

Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”

Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”

Oh God. Here it was—the test.

Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”

Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”

Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round

Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.

Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.

You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”

Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”

Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.

Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”

“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.

He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”

You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”

He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”

You grinned. “Can’t wait.”

Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”

“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”

His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.

The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.

Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.

The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”

“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.

Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”

You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”

Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.

“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”

Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”

Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”

You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”

Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”

But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”

Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”

“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”

By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”

But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.

Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”

You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”

Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”

When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.

Like he really was happy you were there.

And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.

---

The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.

You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”

Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.

For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”

Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”

“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”

He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”

“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”

“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”

“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.

“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”

He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.

The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.

“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”

He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”

Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.

Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”

His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.

The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”

Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”

When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”

Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”

“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”

He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”

You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”

Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”

But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.

And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.

---

Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”

You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”

You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”

Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”

“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”

He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.

Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.

The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.

Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”

Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”

Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”

It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”

By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”

Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”

“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”

The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.

“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.

“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.

The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”

Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”

“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”

“I don’t,” he protested weakly.

“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”

Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”

“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.

Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.

When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”

“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”

He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.

By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.

After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.

The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.

It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.

You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”

A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”

Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”

Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”

You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”

Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.

As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”

“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”

Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”

You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.

At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”

Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”

The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”

You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”

Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.

He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.

By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”

Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”

You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.

---

The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.

Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.

You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.

The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”

“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”

The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”

You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.

Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.

The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”

Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.

“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.

You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”

The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.

The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.

You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”

“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.

Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.

But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.

“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.

“You’re doing fine.”

The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.

Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.

Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.

The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.

You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.

Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.

He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”

“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”

His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”

Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”

“She’s married,” Clark protested.

“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”

“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”

The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”

He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”

You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.

Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”

You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”

When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.

At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.

---

The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”

Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”

“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”

You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”

After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.

The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.

“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”

Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”

You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”

He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”

“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”

Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”

“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”

Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”

You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”

“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”

Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”

“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.

“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”

You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”

Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”

He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”

He glanced back at you. “What?”

“It’s coming this way.”

“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”

The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”

“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”

“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”

By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.

The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”

Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”

His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”

That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”

Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”

He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.

The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.

Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”

Clark winced. “The cows.”

“The cows?”

“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.

You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”

Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”

“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”

“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.

Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”

You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.

Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.

“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”

He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”

“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”

“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.

“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”

---

Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.

Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”

And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.

Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”

“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”

He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”

“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”

“About all of it,” he said simply.

Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”

Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”

Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”

Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”

Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”

The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.

“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.

The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.

By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”

When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.

The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.

Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”

“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”

That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”

“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.

Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.

The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.

Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.

The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.

You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”

When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”

Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”

You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.

Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”

Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”

“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”

His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”

You blinked. “What?”

Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”

The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”

But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.

You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”

The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.

As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.

Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”

“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”

The women descended like hawks.

“Oh, isn’t she lovely.” “Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?” “Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”

You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.

Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”

“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.

“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”

Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.

The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”

A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.

He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”

The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”

Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”

The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”

Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.

“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”

Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”

The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.

“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.

You swallowed hard. “So we…?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”

“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.

And then he kissed you.

It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.

Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.

Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.

The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”

You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”

But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.

It hadn’t felt fake at all.

---

The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.

You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”

His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”

You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”

For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”

“Right.”

You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.

You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.

Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.

And maybe… thrilling.

---

Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.

You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.

Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”

“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.

Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.

When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”

Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”

Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”

The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”

Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”

You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”

You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.

---

The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.

But you had.

You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.

You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.

Normal.

Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.

The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”

Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”

“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”

Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”

You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”

His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.

You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.

Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.

The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.

But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.

And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.

“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.

And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”

Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”

Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.

You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.

The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.

By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”

You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.

---

It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.

You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.

When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.

“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”

He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”

“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”

He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.

“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.

“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”

Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”

Your heart thudded. “Clark…”

He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”

Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”

The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.

“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”

His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”

And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.

This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.

“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”

You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”

You looked at the clock with a nervous smile. It was almost time. To anyone passing by, it might have seemed like you were waiting for the delivery of a long-dreamed package, or that your parents were about to visit you by surprise. But no. What you were waiting for was Clark.

He left work at five o’clock sharp, punctual as a Swiss watch, and had promised to stay the night with you. It wasn’t the first time; in fact, he already stayed so often at your apartment that he was practically another tenant. He had his own pajamas stored in your closet, a pair of red slippers waiting next to yours (which were blue), and even a couple of spare suits, because more than once he had needed to leave flying—literally—early in the morning, after “many things in bed.”

Your life as a part-time teacher left you free in the afternoons; you got home at three, and the loneliness weighed a little heavier than it should. That’s why having him there was like an instant cure. Wanting to see him, kiss him, tangle yourself in his arms had become almost a ritual. Since you met him, no one had made you as happy as he did: hugging him was your favorite habit. A hug from behind, your face buried in his chest, or simply wrapping your arms around his torso while he rested his chin on your head. Nothing sexual; you just wanted to smell him, feel him, be protected by your 6’4” giant. He returned it all with everything: kisses, caresses, bringing food, more kisses, more hugs. Clark Kent, the farm boy from Smallville, was yours. And that was enough.

Perhaps the excitement was too much. For both of you.

Clark had always had perfect control over his strength, because… well, he was Superman. He could lift stranded cars as if they were cereal boxes, help workers by raising an entire train off the rails, and even lift your refrigerator so you could clean behind it. All of it done with the gentleness of someone holding a glass cup. He would never, ever hurt you. He couldn’t even imagine it.

But the problem was that today he wasn’t Superman. Today he was Clark, the man in love, climbing the stairs to your building with a smile that outshone the evening sun. His dimples glimmered, his eyes were wide with excitement, and he looked like a child about to open Christmas presents. You also smiled as you reached the door.

And that’s when the disaster began.

You reached out to open it at the exact same second he did from the outside. It was ridiculous synchronicity, fate playing a trick on you. The door, poor innocent victim, didn’t survive the impact: it thundered with such force that it sounded like a herd of buffalo had just rammed into it.

Your body shot backward like you had just taken a roller-coaster ride at lightning speed. You literally flew. Your arms flailed in the air, your feet left the ground, and for a second you had a mystical epiphany: “So this is what a balloon feels when the air escapes from it?”

“AAAAAAAAH!” you screamed, in such a high-pitched shriek that surely all the neighbors thought you were in the middle of a paranormal episode.

Clark, on the other side, opened his eyes wide and muttered in horror: “Oh no, oh no, oh no…!”

Meanwhile, you floated for half a second more before crashing onto the floor. Luckily, you didn’t land on the living-room table—otherwise it would have ended in a tragedy worthy of the ER—but you still hit hard enough to let out an embarrassing groan.

“Ay… my dignity…” you mumbled, barely conscious.

And for Clark it was worse: seeing you fly left him in shock. He hadn’t even used his reflexes. I mean, who could have thought—neither you nor him—that such an absurd scene would happen? But it did. And in that instant, his heart stopped, his skin went pale, and he felt as if he had just destroyed his own world.

“No, no, no, no, no… Love! God, are you breathing?” he murmured, rushing to you immediately. He lifted you with extreme delicacy, as if you were made of glass. Thankfully, the door had closed by itself; otherwise your neighbors would have sworn Clark had thrown you onto the floor as part of some strange domestic sport.

“Breathe, please breathe!” he begged, placing his hand on your chest. He felt your heart pounding, surely from the fright. He sighed in relief: “Yes… you’re breathing, thank heaven…” But then he turned on his X-ray vision and began examining you like a desperate radiologist. Your organs were intact, no internal fractures… though externally, of course, you looked like a train-wreck victim.

“She’s not waking up! Why isn’t she waking up?” he said, voice breaking, while cradling you in his arms. Panic was consuming him.

Clark began pacing in circles across the living room, holding you like a sack of sacred flour. His steps were so quick and clumsy he looked like a first-time father with a crying newborn in his arms.

“This is worse than when Luthor tried to blow up Metropolis! I threw myself at the door and she went flying! I’m Clark Kent, the most useless boyfriend on Earth! Who the hell hurts his girlfriend with a door? With a door!” he cried, nearly on the verge of tears.

Your body began to move slightly, reacting to his trembling voice. Clark noticed and spoke faster, almost stammering.

“Ok, ok, think! Smallville… Mom would know what to do… no, wait, the hospital! No, no, at the hospital they’ll ask what happened! What do I tell them? That I catapulted her myself? They’ll lock me up for life! They’ll take away my press card! They’ll deport me from the Justice League!”

You frowned, still half asleep, and murmured weakly: “Clark…?”

He froze. His eyes lit up with relief, and in two steps he laid you gently on the couch, like Snow White just awakening.

“You’re okay, thank heaven!” he exclaimed, gripping your hand as if you had just come out of a ten-year coma. “I swear I had a triple heart attack.”

You gave a faint smile, but Clark wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He smothered you in kisses: on your forehead, cheeks, nose, even your chin.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry… I’ll never touch a door again, I swear! Doors and I are finished! I’ll come through the window from now on, even if I get arrested for trespassing.”

You tried to laugh, but a groan slipped from your throat.

“Does it hurt? No, it can’t! Tell me where! Your back? Your neck? I’ll get ice! Or no, fire! What’s the right thing? I don’t know what’s right!”

“Of course it hurts, Clark,” you said through giggles and grimaces. “You launched me like I was a feather.”

He lowered his gaze, defeated, as if he had just committed a crime against humanity.

“I’m a monster…” he muttered, dramatically.

“Love…” you whispered, stroking his curls, trying to calm him. “It was an accident.”

Clark buried his face in his hands and sighed.

“An accident… with my girlfriend flying across the room. Do you know how ridiculous your scream sounded? If anyone recorded it, tomorrow I’ll be on the news: ‘Superman defeats his girlfriend with the apartment door.’”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even though it still hurt. “Clark, please, stop being so dramatic.”

But he didn’t lift his head. “I’ll never forgive myself. Not even if you forgive me. Who wants to date a man who throws his girlfriend across the living room? Nobody!”

You laughed again, carefully this time. “Come here, my enormous farm boy with brute strength, who almost turned me into purée.” You hugged him gently, and he leaned into you as if you both needed to fuse together.

The blow, luckily, wasn’t too bad. You ended up with a purple bruise on your abdomen that lasted three days, but nothing more than that. Clark, of course, was convinced they would wrap you like a mummy in the ER. When the doctor told him it was only a bruise, he nearly asked for a second international opinion.

And worst of all, he wouldn’t stop checking on you. Every day, every hour. He would lift your blouse without asking permission and examine you with his vision, as serious as a detective.

“Clark, I already told you it’s just a bruise…” you protested, while he tilted his head like a mad scientist.

“I’m going to keep an eye on it. I don’t care if it looks like a grape stain. That bruise won’t fool me!”

“Clark…” you said with resignation, laughing. “If you keep this up, you’re going to scare the poor bruise away and it’ll vanish out of sheer embarrassment.”

He looked at you very seriously and then sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “Promise me that if you ever see a door again, you’ll let me open it.”

“I promise to let you open all the doors… except the bathroom.”

“Deal!”

A week later, the bruise was almost gone. It had faded from a deep purple to a small, faint yellow mark, barely visible. That Saturday morning you were calm: you had cooked, eaten breakfast, and were now sitting on the couch. On the television flickered a cartoon with loud colors—the only thing moving at that hour besides a news broadcast you instantly recognized, the same one Clark always put on whenever he came over—so you left the cartoon show running in the background while you nestled into the cushions.

The door opened.

It was strange. No prior message, no warning. Even though Clark had the habit of entering your apartment as if it were his own, there was always a pattern, a call or at least a text. Not this time. This time was different. You squinted, studying the scene. The door turned on its hinges with deliberate slowness. You saw his hand on the knob, turning it with exaggerated caution, almost theatrical. You held back a laugh rising in your chest when you saw him peek his head in first, as if testing the waters. When his eyes found you on the couch, far from the entrance, his expression relaxed and he smiled, opening the door normally as if nothing odd had just happened.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. He seemed to be trying very hard not to repeat last week’s incident.

“Hi…” he said with a shy smile, as if he needed your permission to step in.

Clark wore jeans, a rolled-up white shirt, and carried several bags: probably more of his clothes and food to stock your fridge. He dropped everything carelessly on the floor and headed straight to you.

He stood before you, gently parted your legs, gave you a quick kiss, and without warning, lifted your blouse as naturally as breathing.

“Clark! What—?” you managed to protest, blushing.

He didn’t hear you. He was far too busy inspecting the small bruise still lingering on your abdomen. He brushed it with his fingers, focused, as though solving a medical case. Then he activated his x-ray vision… and that was when he made his mistake.

His thumb moved across the spot with such softness it made your skin prickle. His touch was warm and quiet. Inspecting, checking. And then, without meaning to, his gaze shifted. He had lifted the fabric too high, and in that unthinking motion, he had left your left breast completely exposed, without the shield of a bra.

He froze. Blinked. Swallowed hard.

“Sorry. I didn’t know…” he stammered, instantly looking away. “You weren’t wearing one.”

His cheeks flushed red. You felt the heat rising up your neck as well. He stared straight ahead, fixed on some extremely fascinating point on the opposite wall. But he couldn’t help it—every fraction of a second, his eyes flickered down to your chest, still half-exposed beneath the bunched-up blouse. The thin cotton fabric, soft and worn, didn’t hide much. And the morning chill, combined with the accidental brush of his fingers, had left your nipples hard, pressing clearly against the cloth in a way that now seemed indecent.

Clark drew in a deep breath, still unable to meet your eyes.

A shy but intentional smile curved on your lips as you leaned toward him, closing the distance between your faces. You kissed him, and this time it wasn’t quick or restrained; it was slow. His lips responded with the same contained urgency, and by the time he finally pulled back, his hands were already resting on your thighs, gently anchoring you against the couch.

He looked at you, and in his blue eyes you could see the inner battle he was fighting. His concern was tangible, almost a physical weight in the air between you.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. "The bruise still hasn’t completely faded."

His gaze drifted to your torso, as if he could see through the fabric to check the mark, but then returned to your eyes, defenseless. He was lost, and the sight of you—unguarded and surrendered—was driving him insane.

"It doesn’t matter," you whispered, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I’d rather you lose control while you fuck me than throw me against the floor just for opening a door too fast."

A bubbling laugh escaped you when you saw him shake his head, genuine remorse flashing across his face.

"Baby, that’s not…" he protested, the blush on his cheeks deepening into crimson. "With comments like that, I don’t feel like… like doing that," he muttered, almost in a sigh, and you laughed again, fascinated by his modesty.

"Doing what, Clark?" you teased, sliding your fingers along the line of his jaw, feeling the tension in his muscles. You were bewitched, completely caught by the charm of Clark Kent—by those eyes that looked at you with the devotion of a believer and the struggle of a man desperately trying, and failing, not to fall into the temptation you represented. And you knew it. You knew that if you asked him, he would do anything for you.

He held your gaze, and without a word of warning, he gave in. He slipped beneath your blouse, and you sank into the couch with a muffled moan. A brutal wave of sensations coursed through you when his hot mouth found your left breast. Your eyes rolled upward, showing the whites, and your breath faltered. All you could see was the fabric of your blouse puffed up, hiding his head, but your world shrank to the wet heat of his mouth, the precise pressure of his tongue circling your nipple, the rhythmic suction that made you arch your back and moan without restraint.

A sharp whimper tore from your throat when, in a surge of passion, his arm wrapped around your torso and pressed a little harder—right against the fading bruise. He froze instantly, as if he had touched red-hot iron.

He pulled back just enough for his eyes, filled with panic and desire, to meet yours through the gap of stretched fabric. The sight of his face, both worried and aroused, brought a tender, almost indulgent smile to your lips.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice rough, heavy with genuine concern.

"No," you gasped, catching your breath. "Not at all. Keep going, Clark. Please, make me come."

He shook his head, still embarrassed, but need outweighed modesty. He returned to your chest, this time with a more methodical, more deliberate approach. His mouth reclaimed your right nipple with a devotion that made you shiver. Meanwhile, his large, warm hands slid down to the waistband of your pajama pants. He pushed the fabric down, and you instinctively lifted your hips to help him, feeling the cotton give way and release you.

A deep, trembling sigh escaped your lips as, in the intimate space you had created, you felt the touch of his fingers—calloused, yet unbelievably gentle—gliding over your wetness before one, firm and sure, slipped inside you. Your legs opened completely, inviting him to go deeper, to claim that rhythm only the two of you knew.

"You're drenched, love," he murmured, his voice rough, laced with admiration that made you tighten around his finger.

You could barely nod, choking back a moan at the back of your throat. "Mhmh…" was all you managed, focusing on not falling apart too soon, on stretching out that perfect instant of anticipation.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, and the sound of your body’s natural slickness was obscenely loud in the silence. Another deep, shaky sigh left you just before the wave of orgasm began to crest—but he stopped, holding you at the edge with maddening mastery.

He emerged from beneath your blouse, hair tousled, lips shining. His hands moved with restrained urgency to his own pants, unbuttoning and pulling the zipper down with rough movements. He settled into the couch, pressing you into the cushions, exquisitely careful to avoid your torso. Instead, he hooked your thigh with his arm, lifting it, while your other leg bent against the sofa, spreading you completely open for him. With his free hand, he grasped his cock—already fully hard, glistening with precum. He slid it against your entrance, again and again, without entering, sending violent shivers through your body.

He smiled—a rare expression on him: a mix of Kent’s shyness and pure, shameless lust. Clark was shy, your Clark always, but he was also becoming a man who knew the power he held over you, and vice versa. Perhaps it was your doing; you had taught him, with patience and insistence, to enter a world of pleasure he had never dared to dream of, but now only wished to explore with you.

He brushed your clit with the tip of his cock again, fascinated by the tremor that followed. He tore off his glasses in one quick motion, tossing them aside without caring where they fell, so the heat of your bodies wouldn’t fog his vision. He gripped himself more firmly, his eyes fixed on your hips rising instinctively toward him, begging. His gaze traveled from your blouse, damp and stained with his saliva, to your glassy eyes, then down to where his cock pulsed against your soaked pussy, before lingering on your chest, where your hand clutched your breast through the fabric, teasing the hard nipple pressing against the cotton.

"God," he whispered almost to himself. "You’re so… delicious."

And then, with a slowness that made you cry out in frustration and pleasure, he pushed inside you.

Your head fell back against the couch, and a muffled cry tore from your lips. He adored how you molded to him, how your body—so open and so tight at once—always welcomed him, wrapped him, accepted him completely. Your hand, which moments before had played with your breast, now clung trembling to his shoulder. And then, with a deep, decisive thrust, Clark buried himself in you entirely.

He leaned over you, panting, watching every fiber of you tremble. Your hot breaths mingled, creating an intimate cloud around you. He was aroused beyond reason, losing rhythm for a moment, pounding hard enough to make your breasts bounce freely. He caught one in his free hand, kneading it roughly, and leaned close to your ear.

"So hard… just for me," he murmured, and though the words were shameless, the flush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment—an embarrassment he could no longer contain.

You tried to respond, but another brutal thrust stole the air, replacing words with a long, broken moan.

"Oh, Clark!" you managed, your trembling hand sliding along his cheek, moving with every thrust. "Lose control… I can take it," you added, a loving, defiant smile on your lips, though breathless.

"Really?" he asked, never slowing, his rhythm growing more erratic, more desperate.

"You could break me in two… and I’d thank you," you panted. He smiled then—a wide, rare smile you only saw in moments like this.

He would never hurt you; you knew that. But he would make you come, over and over, until you were dripping and speechless, until the tremors refused to stop. And he did. He brought you to your fifth orgasm that morning, now in bed, where the springs groaned under his weight and your strength. And just when you thought you couldn’t go further, he stopped.

Because that was his contrast. The man who could move mountains turned back into Clark Kent, the enormous, awkward farm boy from Smallville. He collapsed over you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his ragged breathing slowly evening out. You laughed weakly, teasing how he had practically made you fly across the room without realizing his strength.

But even as you teased, he would never take offense. Because you weren’t laughing at him, but with him. Because you loved him as he was—with all his overwhelming strength and his endearing clumsiness. Because, deep down, that was what he had always longed for: someone who loved him precisely for being Clark Kent, the small-town boy who sometimes broke doorknobs and needed glasses, but who loved you with an intensity strong enough to move the world.

And you were that someone. In the quiet space that followed the storm, wrapped in his arms, there was no place in the world you would rather be.

Everything began with a gesture you never thought would hold so much importance: a lamp you gave him for his birthday. You barely knew him, you had only been friends for a few months, and yet something inside you pushed you to choose that gift. It was strange, but also natural.

Your first interaction had happened much earlier, when Clark walked into the flower shop where you worked. You remember perfectly the sound of the little bell above the door and how the fresh air from the street blended with the sweet aroma of the flowers. He asked for a bouquet of roses for his mother, and you prepared it almost automatically, never imagining that he was already watching you with those bright eyes that seemed to hold a secret. His cheeks were slightly flushed and there was a nervous expression he could barely hide, as if his heart was beating harder than usual.

After that, he came back again and again with the excuse that his mother had loved the flowers. But soon you stopped believing him. He would buy roses, sunflowers, potted plants, or full bouquets that you suspected he gave to anyone he ran into along the way. For you, it was curious; for him, it was just a pretext to see you again. And even if you didn’t admit it, it made you happy every time you saw him walk in—so much so that your lips curved into a smile the moment you recognized him crossing the door.

“What bouquet will you take this time, sir?” you asked one afternoon, adjusting your apron absentmindedly.

Clark scratched the back of his neck, uncertain. “I’m not sure yet.”

Amused, you threw him a playful hint while arranging some daisies on the counter. “You should describe the woman you like. That way I could help you choose something special.”

His eyes widened in surprise, almost choking on his own words. “Woman who…? Oh, no… no, I… they’re for my mother,” he stammered, then lowered his gaze, hoping you wouldn’t keep asking. He knew he was terrible at lying and feared he might end up confessing that the real reason for all those purchases was you.

“Oh, fine,” you replied in a neutral tone, though deep down you suspected the truth.

A silence settled between the two of you. For him, it was a delightful silence, full of possibilities; for you, it was uncomfortable, as if the words got stuck in your throat.

“So… how can I help you?” you asked at last, trying to break the tension.

Clark gathered his courage and, with his cheeks still red, finally let out the question that had been circling in his mind for weeks. “Are you… are you busy this evening?”

You hesitated, surprised. “It’s just that today I finish at seven,” you explained, clarifying that you usually closed the shop at five.

He smiled timidly, but his eyes sparkled with excitement. “There are plenty of restaurants open at that hour.”

You couldn’t help smiling back. “Alright,” you replied, accepting without thinking too much.

And that’s how it all began: a simple date in a small restaurant. The warm glow of the lamps, the murmur of the people around, and the aroma of freshly baked bread created an intimate atmosphere. He spoke about his work with enthusiasm, and you shared how you had learned to tell flowers apart, to recognize their fragrance and combine them into arrangements. Clark listened to every word as if it were the most fascinating story in the world, and you noticed how his eyes lit up every time you smiled.

In time, came the invitation to his home. You were surprised when you saw the place: big, spacious, impeccably tidy. Yet something caught your attention. The walls were bare, without pictures or photographs. The furniture was practical, used only out of necessity, with no decorations or memories to give life to the space. White, plain, silent. It was a home, but at the same time it seemed like a place waiting for someone to fill it with warmth.

You didn’t say anything. Somehow, you knew that emptiness reflected part of who Clark was. And though you kept quiet, inside you thought that perhaps, little by little, you could give that space the warmth it lacked so much.

And then it happened. You grew used to that wide, silent, almost too orderly space. Over time you stopped feeling it was cold: you learned to enjoy its simplicity, that basic way he had of keeping everything in place. The curious thing was that little by little that order became part of your routine, and without realizing it, you began to associate it with the calm you felt whenever you were with him.

Before you were officially a couple you had already shared kisses—those that arrive in between hesitations and prolonged silences, as if every brush of lips were a secret kept for far too long. And then his birthday came. Nervous, you thought of a special gift and chose a golden lamp, with small carved details at its base that glimmered in the light. It wasn’t just an object; it was like a piece of yourself you wanted to leave in his home. You carefully placed it on a piece of furniture in the living room and turned it on.

Clark, standing behind you, crossed his arms and watched with a soft smile. “It looks… perfect there,” he murmured, as if the room had suddenly found its first touch of life.

He never moved it again. He left it there, as if that gift had become an essential part of the place.

Soon after, with a trembling voice and his hands clasped together, he gathered the courage to ask you to be his girlfriend. You didn’t hesitate to accept. From that moment on, his days began to intertwine with yours. Sometimes he would show up at the flower shop, inventing any excuse to see you, and other times he insisted you accompany him to his apartment for dinner. Then, as if he didn’t want to let you go too soon, he would walk you back to your own apartment, much smaller than his.

You remember how he would pause at the threshold, taking in your few pieces of furniture, the posters of your favorite artists taped to the walls, the small, unevenly hung frames. “This place truly has a soul,” he once said, smiling tenderly. And you shrugged, amused. “I just don’t like empty walls.”

He never admitted it out loud, but every time he left your apartment, he thought about how different it was from his. Your home had color, it had memories, it had life… it had what he secretly longed for his own to have.

And then came your first Christmas together.

You surprised him by showing up at his apartment carrying boxes and bags, your arms trembling under the weight, but your smile shone brighter than everything you brought. Twinkling lights, long garlands, a packaged artificial tree, glittering ornaments, red and gold ribbons. It was as if you had decided to transform every corner of his space all at once.

Clark raised his eyebrows as he watched you unload everything in the middle of the living room. With his hands on his hips and pretending to be serious, he let out a joke: “Looks like you robbed all the Christmas decorations in Metropolis.”

Your laughter filled the room, breaking the monotony of those white walls. Perched on the ladder, you carefully hung a wreath on the empty wall that had always bothered you. He watched from below, holding the tree branches while you stretched your arms.

“Don’t exaggerate, I still missed a few inflatable reindeer,” you replied between laughs.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I should be scared or grateful.”

“You should feel excited,” you teased, stepping down a rung to look at him with playful seriousness. “This house needed a bit of Christmas spirit.”

He observed you in silence for a few seconds, with that expression you had seen on him so many times: as if he wanted to carve into memory the way you smiled, the light in your eyes, even the movement of your hands while arranging every decoration.

“It’s not just the house that needed it…” he finally said, in a low voice.

You froze, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Clark cleared his throat, nervous. “I mean… I needed it. I never cared about decorations, or ornaments, or trees. But seeing you this happy, bringing all this… it’s different. You make me feel like… like I belong somewhere.”

Your cheeks grew warm at his words. You climbed down from the ladder and looked at him closely, your heart pounding. “Clark…”

He smiled, trying to soften the confession. “Although I admit, I still don’t know how I’m going to survive if you decide to hang lights even in the kitchen.”

You laughed, giving him a playful nudge on the arm. “Then you’ll have to get used to it, because I plan to fill every corner of this place.”

Over time, Clark offered you something that, for him, meant absolute trust: the key to his apartment. He didn’t say it solemnly or with a plan, he simply placed it in your hand one afternoon as you walked together. “So you can spend as much time here as you want,” he whispered, with a shyness that melted you.

From then on, you began to transform that space. You put up photos in little frames: the two of you smiling, an afternoon at the park, your first dinner out together. You placed soft cushions on the sofa, scented candles on the tables, and every so often you’d bring a new plant or an ornament you thought was perfect. Each object became a little piece of you inside his world—and the most beautiful thing was that Clark never questioned it. On the contrary, every time he came home and noticed something new, his face lit up.

One night, when you opened the door, you found him standing in front of one of the shelves. The funny part was that, without realizing it, you were looking at his face distorted through a transparent ornament ball you had left there. His eyes looked huge, disproportionate, and the sight made you burst into laughter.

Clark turned toward you, confused. “What’s so funny?”

You pointed at the ornament and walked closer. “Look at yourself… it’s like a mirror decided to play tricks on you,” you said between laughs.

He leaned a little toward the ornament, saw the effect, and rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Great, just what I needed: another version of me with a cartoon face.”

You picked up the ornament gently and turned it on. A faint light began to glow from its base, projecting a small suspended galaxy in the center, with tiny stars spinning slowly. The reflection lit Clark’s face, and for an instant he looked like a child amazed for the very first time.

“It lights up and, in the center, this appears… a galaxy,” you explained softly, glancing at him. “Do you like it?”

He was speechless for a moment, eyes fixed on the little spectacle. Finally, he murmured: “I love it.”

You both stayed there, gazing at the ornament as if time had stopped. Until Clark took a step closer, placed his hands on your waist, and kissed you softly, just a brief brush but full of tenderness. “I didn’t give you your welcome kiss,” he whispered afterward, carefully turning off the ornament. “How was work?”

As you took off your bag and left it on the sofa, you sighed, a mix of exhaustion and excitement. “Exhausting. Today I closed a huge order… thirty floral arrangements for a party. I have to deliver them in two months.”

Clark stopped in the kitchen doorway and raised an eyebrow. “Thirty? That sounds like…” he paused, smiling, “…a flower frenzy.”

“It is,” you admitted with a playful look, following him into the kitchen. “But it’s also a challenge. And if I pull it off, it’ll be the biggest order I’ve ever done.”

Clark opened the fridge and took out two bottles of water. He handed you one, and as he drank from his, he watched you with a proud gleam in his eyes.

“I know you’ll make it. I’ve never seen anyone work with as much passion as you do.”

You took a sip and looked at him curiously. “Do you really think that?”

He set the bottle down on the counter and leaned toward you, serious, though with clear tenderness.

“Of course I do. From the first time I saw you at the flower shop… I knew you were different. It wasn’t just the way you arranged the flowers, it was how you did it. Like each bouquet carried a little piece of you.”

Your cheeks flared red. You lowered your gaze, playing with the bottle cap.

“You’re going to make me blush more than you.”

Clark let out a soft laugh, stepping even closer. “Then we’re even. Because you always manage to make me blush first.”

Another time was when Clark came home from work with exhaustion painted on his shoulders. He loosened his tie, left his jacket on the chair, and was about to collapse onto the couch when something stopped him.

On the wall, next to the golden lamp you had given him for his birthday, there was something new. His eyes narrowed, curious. It was a huge frame, a collage of perfectly arranged photos. Clark slowly stood up, walked toward it, and froze in front of the images.

There he was with you, holding each other in the park. A picture of Krypto licking his face while you laughed. Another one of you both at the flower shop, taken without him noticing. But what surprised him most were the photos of him with Martha and Jonathan: as a child with a crooked cap, as a teenager in the barn, as an adult standing beside his parents. Photos he thought only existed in old albums hidden in Smallville.

His heart tightened, and without thinking, he took out his phone and dialed your number.

“Where did you get those pictures?” he asked the moment he heard your voice, even before greeting you.

On the other end, your soft laugh filled the line. “I asked your mom when we went to visit them. What do you think?”

Clark swallowed hard, still staring at the wall. “I like it,” he whispered sincerely.

“Good. I’ll come see you early,” you added absentmindedly, surely jotting down a sale in your notebook. “I love you.”

With that, you hung up.

Clark froze. The phone still pressed to his ear, as if he hadn’t fully processed it. Had he heard right? Had you said “I love you”? Or was it something automatic, like a rushed goodbye? His chest stirred restlessly.

He dialed your number again. Nothing. A second time. Still nothing. Then the message came: “Customers came in, I’ll call you later :)”

Later. Two words that to anyone else would be normal, but to Clark meant torture. It wasn’t three hours; it was one hundred eighty minutes of uncertainty.

He set the phone down on the table, tried to take a deep breath… but couldn’t. Within seconds he had his jacket back in his hand and was heading out the door. He walked fast—too fast for someone trying to look calm.

For Clark, waiting three hours wasn’t simply counting the passing of time. It was feeling each minute as an unbearable weight, one hundred eighty heartbeats that forced him to jump up, grab his jacket, and run through the streets of Metropolis.

The cold evening air cut his breath, but he didn’t care. He could only think of you, of your voice, of those two words you had said so naturally. When he finally arrived, he saw you saying goodbye to the last customer with your usual warm smile. Then you stretched with tiredness, not noticing that he was there, standing at the entrance. The bell above the door chimed, and you turned around, startled.

“Good afternoon, how can I…?” you began, until you recognized him. “Clark?”

He was restless, his hair tousled from the rush, his eyes shining with nerves.

“Are you okay?” you asked, setting the notebook down on the counter.

“Yes… no… I mean…” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, realizing how desperate he must have looked.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Clark, you’re seriously making me nervous.”

He lifted his gaze toward you, as if finally gathering the courage. “Did you say you loved me?”

The question fell into the air, direct, without detours. Your lips parted, uncertain.

“Yes…” you murmured, lowering your gaze a little. “Was it too soon?”

“No, no, not at all,” he replied immediately, raising both hands as if trying to erase any doubt. A nervous laugh almost slipped out. “It’s just… I wanted to say it first, but I was afraid you’d think it was too soon. And you said it so naturally that… it sounded right, really right, because I… I love you too.”

The silence that followed was broken by your smile. Your eyes softened, and you nodded slowly. “The truth is I didn’t know if I should say it… but it’s what I felt.”

You walked toward him with timid steps and kissed him. It was a long, deep kiss, full of relief and tenderness. Clark wrapped his arms around you, as if he could finally breathe freely. But suddenly he pulled back a little, looking at you intensely.

“Move in with me,” he blurted out, without thinking too much.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

He didn’t back down. His hands still rested on your waist, his eyes locked on yours. “Move in with me,” he repeated, his voice firm, almost pleading.

“But… Clark,” you stammered, uncertain. “It’s just… I want to, of course I want to… but you have your life so put together, and I… I carry chaos with me. My things, my habits…” you lowered your gaze, nervous.

Clark smiled softly, leaning closer so you would look at him again. “I want you. With your messy yet organized life. With your posters on the walls, with your plants I don’t know how to keep alive, with your Christmas lights in the middle of summer. I want it all. I want to be with you, truly.”

Your eyes grew misty, and you let out a trembling laugh. “You’re a disaster when you get romantic.”

“And yet you love me,” he replied, with that smile that made it impossible to deny him anything.

You hugged him tightly, burying your face in his chest. “Yes… I love you. And if you really want it… I’ll move in with you.”

Clark closed his eyes, holding you tightly against him, as if he had just heard the words he had been waiting for his entire life.

So you moved in, and if Clark’s house had already changed since you first met him, it changed even more. A brown doormat with the word “Welcome” at the entrance, coat racks, a little dog made of stone as decoration, a few plants on the windows, more frames hanging on the walls, some small ones on his furniture. His desk had changed too, now with a framed picture of you two and a lamp. You bought some dreamcatchers, some small yellow glass bird figurines with colors, and placed them in the center of the table.

When Clark walked in and looked around his home, just like every day after work, he felt at peace. It wasn’t dark or empty anymore; it was full of you, of your energy, and that was exactly what he needed. He took off his shoes, placed them in the cabinet, and slipped on the slippers that matched yours—slippers he would never let Jimmy or Lois see because they would laugh at him. They were big zebra ones, while you had lion ones. When you came out of the bedroom after folding clothes, you smiled.

“You’re home early. Did the city not need Superman today?” you asked.

“No… actually, Superman needed his girlfriend,” he said, wrapping you in his arms.

“Let’s have dinner. I cooked tonight. I followed every step—I’m sure this time I didn’t use too much salt,” you said, making him laugh.

“It’s better to have too little salt than too much,” he admitted.

“I know, you think just like me. That’s why you’re my favorite man,” you said, giving him a short kiss. “Come on.”

You gave him a short kiss on the lips and pulled him toward the table. Clark let himself be guided, as if nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

While you ate, it was obvious he couldn’t stop looking at you. His eyes followed your every move: the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way you smiled when you tasted the food, the way you pressed your lips together when you thought something had turned out “almost” right.

Clark had already shared his secret with you. You knew who he truly was—not just Superman, but Clark Kent, with all his doubts, his fears, and his convictions. And you accepted him completely, without conditions. He knew it, felt it, in every corner of the house you now shared.

The two of you laughed together, and then fell into silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. For Clark, there was no longer any doubt: you were his home. And he was determined to be by your side for the rest of your lives.

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

You weren’t distrustful. That is, you never doubted Clark. He had proven to you time and again that he loved you. He walked you home every night, his hand entwined with yours, always keeping you on the safe side of the street, while patiently listening to everything you had to tell him. He sent you good morning messages with words that never failed to make you smile, invited you to lunch whenever he could slip away from work, and never let you feel alone.

And yet, there you were, with that little thorn in your chest. You wondered if Clark truly felt comfortable in the relationship. Maybe it was ridiculous, because he seemed fine, seemed in love. The problem wasn’t him, and you knew it. It was your fear, your insecurity. You didn’t understand why the way he kissed you affected you so much.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them: you cherished every one of his kisses. Soft breaths against your forehead, tender brushes at the corner of your lips, short and sweet pecks that made you feel cared for. Even his “long” kisses didn’t last more than a few seconds—six at most. Everything was chaste, proper, restrained. You loved his tenderness, but you couldn’t help thinking that maybe he didn’t dare go further because he didn’t want to, because deep down something in you didn’t attract him. And that thought, though you tried to ignore it, lingered silently within you. You didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Least of all now, when your life was finally finding direction thanks to him.

“Ready,” you heard Clark’s voice from the kitchen.

You had gone to visit him at his apartment that afternoon. While you helped set the table, he was focused on dinner. Life with him was that simple, and that was what you loved most: with Clark everything seemed brighter. He was your sun after believing life had no meaning. And that light was something you didn’t want to lose.

“Did you really manage it?” you asked with surprise, standing up to peek toward the slightly open oven.

Clark turned with a calm smile, his eyes shining behind his glasses.

“I told you your boyfriend has more than one talent,” he replied in that playful tone that always made you roll your eyes.

“I don’t doubt you…” you said, folding your arms as you stepped back toward the table. “But I saw so many comments on that video of people failing at their first pizza… and you nailed it on the first try.”

You handed him the oven mitts so he wouldn’t burn himself, and he accepted them gently, fully aware that, although you didn’t know it, he didn’t actually need them. Clark hid many things, but seeing how much you cared for him made him think, more and more, that sooner or later he would have to tell you his secret.

Meanwhile, you focused on serving the salad and setting the sauces on the small table. Clark pulled the pizza from the oven and placed it in the center. With careful precision, he took the cutter you had bought especially for the occasion and divided the pizza into eight exact slices. Your eyes sparkled at his accuracy. Clark blushed, pushing his glasses up nervously, and you couldn’t help but smile.

You both sat down, face to face. Clark placed a slice on your plate and then one on his.

“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching for some ketchup.

He watched you softly, resting one elbow on the table.

“Go ahead, I want you to be the first to try it,” he said, with that shy smile that always disarmed you.

You took a bite, and the flavor surprised you so much your eyes lit up with genuine joy.

“Wow!” you exclaimed with your mouth still full, covering it with your hand as you chewed.

Clark let out a soft laugh, watching you with pride and tenderness.

“Is it really that good?”

“It’s really good, Clark. Seriously.” You returned his smile.

Clark smiled back as he watched you, saying nothing more. You had no idea he had spent several nights reading recipes, watching videos, and jotting down tips to make sure everything turned out right. Nor did you know that, in secret, he had used his senses to listen to the bubbling of the dough and smell the exact moment the pizza was ready. For him, all that effort was worth it if it meant seeing you smile and hearing your praise.

Clark wasn’t a man who needed to be showered with compliments; on the contrary, he got nervous when he was praised too much. But when it was you who looked at him with admiration, his heart pounded and a warmth he had never known spread through him. That feeling was something he adored.

“So you’ll be working on Christmas too?” Clark asked, breaking the silence after you had talked about your shift.

You told him that you’d probably have to stay extra hours at the restaurant where you worked.

“Yes… well, I’ll get home around ten,” you said, smiling tiredly at him. “Are you going to your parents’?”

Clark slowly shook his head, lowering his gaze to his plate.

“No… actually they’ll be spending it at the farm with the neighbors. Out there everyone knows each other, it’s like one big family,” he said calmly. Then he lifted his gaze toward you, a spark of hope in his eyes. “I thought we could spend it together. I’ll cook dinner while you’re on your way home, and then I can walk you back to your apartment.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile and you nodded, though inside the doubt bit at you again. It was such a beautiful gesture on his part, and yet… that same sweetness made you feel guilty about your thoughts. Why couldn’t you stop wondering if he loved you the same way?

Clark leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, a gesture that always calmed you and, at the same time, reinforced your insecurity. Why only on the forehead? Why always so proper?

You finished dinner, cleaned the kitchen together, and as always, Clark picked up your bag in one hand before leaving the apartment. He never allowed you to walk home alone. It was his habit, his silent promise: always seeing you safely to your building’s door.

That night, however, something changed on the way. He noticed it instantly.

Normally, you filled the walk with words. You pointed at store windows, recalled a memory, laughed at little things, and he simply listened, happy with every gesture of yours. But now you walked in silence, eyes fixed on the ground, your hands clasped in front of you.

Clark pressed his lips together. He didn’t like that stillness in you.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked softly, tilting his head to glance at you from the side.

“Yes… I’m fine,” you answered quickly—too quickly.

Clark held your gaze for a moment longer, as if he wanted to ask again. But in the end, he nodded slowly and said nothing more, though in his eyes there was a silent glimmer that made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced.

The walk to your building grew quiet—too quiet. Each step echoed in your ears with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Here we are,” Clark murmured once you stood at your door.

You unlocked it and nodded, forcing yourself to smile.

“Get home safely, okay?” you whispered. “It’s so late… why don’t you take a cab?”

Clark shook his head gently, his tone certain.

“It’s just a few blocks. I’ll be fine.” He paused, then added with a faint smile, “Rest well. I promise I’ll come on Tuesday.”

You noticed the slight blush coloring his cheeks when he leaned closer.

He came forward to say goodbye, and you hesitated a second before responding to his kiss. It was brief, barely two seconds, as chaste as always. He pulled back quickly, and you searched his face for some sign. His eyes were soft, tender—everything seemed normal.

Was it your mouth? No… you had chewed a mint before leaving his apartment.

Clark, as if he hadn’t noticed your hesitation, tilted his head and pressed one last kiss to your forehead. You gave him a half-smile, though you felt a pang in your chest.

He turned and began walking down the hallway. You closed the door behind you.

For a moment, your heart beat slowly, almost hesitantly. The silence of your apartment fell over you like a heavy blanket. You set your things down in the living room and sighed, standing still in the middle of the space. It was cozy, warm… but empty without him.

You wondered, with a mix of fear and tenderness, if Clark was truly happy with you… or if there was something you didn’t dare to see.

“Does he not like me that much?” you whispered, staring at your fingers as you fidgeted nervously with them. “I should’ve eaten more delicately, not stuffed my mouth…” You caressed your stomach as if you could hide the shame there. “I should always carry toothpaste…” you murmured, jotting it quickly in a notebook.

You shook your head with a sigh.

“I’m so foolish…” you told yourself softly. “I should just ask him if he likes me. What if he only kisses me out of pity?” Your gaze fell on your small fish tank, watching your pet swim in circles. “No… I don’t want to lose him. But I can’t force him either, can I?” You bit your lip, following the calm swaying of the little creature. “He must keep his kisses short because I disgust him…”

The doorbell rang, and you jumped slightly. You blinked in surprise. Mrs. Wilson? She had told you over the phone she’d deliver the package she had received by mistake tomorrow. Maybe she had changed her mind and brought it now. You walked to the door, ready to apologize, convinced the poor woman had come back just for you.

“Mrs. Wilson, that wasn’t neces—” You opened the door and your words died instantly. “Clark…”

He was standing there, in front of you, his face serious and his eyes shining with nerves.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, confused at seeing him so unsettled.

Clark took a deep breath, his hands clenching softly at his sides.

“I…” he began, hesitating. How could he tell you the truth? How could he explain that he had heard your words, that your insecure murmur had reached his ears and driven him to run back at full speed, careful not to let the cameras catch him? He couldn’t confess how he had arrived so quickly. But what he could do was make sure you didn’t hold onto that idea.

“Why do you think that?” he finally asked, his voice firm, though laced with such genuine concern it froze your blood.

You looked at him, confused.

“Think what?”

“That I don’t like you,” he said slowly, watching you as if he feared your response.

Your lips trembled.

“I… I didn’t say that…” you whispered awkwardly, looking away. How had he heard you if he wasn’t there when you said it? You forced an awkward smile. “I said I was fine.”

Clark didn’t believe you. He frowned and took a step closer.

“I know you. What’s wrong?” he asked, coming so close you instinctively stepped back. Calmly, he closed the door behind him, seeking privacy.

You lowered your gaze, unable to hold his eyes.

“Nothing… I don’t want…” you murmured. “It’s just silly, Clark. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He shook his head softly and leaned down, gently cupping your face in his hands, guiding your eyes back to his without harshness, as if he feared breaking you.

“I’m listening,” he whispered firmly.

Your eyes filled with tears. The knot in your throat broke, and for the first time, you let out what you had kept silent for so long.

“I feel like…” your voice trembled, “that maybe you don’t like me the way I like you. Your kisses are so short, so… as if you didn’t want to… as if something about me bothered you.”

Clark looked at you with a mixture of astonishment and pain, as if those words were the last thing he expected to hear. His thumb brushed against your cheek, drying the first tear before it fell.

“God… love… do you really believe that?”

Your silence was enough of an answer.

Clark exhaled heavily, lowering his forehead until it rested against yours.

“You don’t know how much I like you,” he murmured, his voice carrying a tremor he rarely let slip. “It’s the opposite… I hold back because I don’t want to rush anything. Because I want to respect you. I want you to know that being with you isn’t just about kisses or caresses. It’s… everything else.”

Your eyes searched his, incredulous, and he smiled shyly.

“I try to be a gentleman. To make sure you don’t feel like I’m only after that. But if what you want is a real kiss…” his cheeks flushed as his fingers intertwined with yours, “you just have to ask.”

You looked at him, embarrassed, your lashes lowering timidly while your cheeks burned. You didn’t know how to react; you could only blink every now and then, your breathing a little uneven. Clark, on the other hand, seemed perfectly aware of everything. His gaze lingered on your lips, then moved back to your eyes, only to fall again.

He knew how to restrain himself—God knew how much. He didn’t want to seem like a desperate man, much less someone who would pressure you. He endured it in silence, even though inside he was dying for it. He desired you, of course he did, but above all he wanted you to be the one to ask. He wanted to hear it from your own lips, because in his heart everything had to be built on respect.

“I only… have to ask?” you whispered, feeling the heat climb all the way to your ears.

Clark smiled, and the dimple on his cheek appeared like another caress.

“I can’t do anything you don’t ask me to…” he whispered, pressing his forehead slightly closer to yours. “But you have no idea how much I’ve held myself back.”

Your lips curved into a timid, embarrassed smile.

“Then… I want you to kiss me,” you finally whispered, lowering your voice as if the world shouldn’t hear it.

And he obeyed.

Clark leaned toward you, slowly, as if making sure you agreed. You felt his breath so close that you could barely focus on anything else. Your lips brushed against his, at first soft, as it had always been. But this time, he didn’t pull away.

The hand cupping your cheek guided your face gently as he kissed you deeper. His other hand slid down to your waist, pulling you closer. You had to rise on your tiptoes to reach him better as the pressure of his mouth grew firmer.

The kiss became more intense. Your lips moved against his, feeling the warmth and dampness as they mingled. His tongue brushed yours and you responded, hesitant at first, but soon clutching at his chest to keep from losing balance.

Clark didn’t pull back, only slowed the pace so as not to overwhelm you. He held you firmly by the waist, caressing your back gently while the kiss went on.

When he finally broke away, he did it slowly, his lips still brushing yours. Your breath came out unsteady, and your nose bumped into his, still too close, as if neither of you wanted to let go.

“I like you…” he murmured in a husky voice, just like that first time he confessed his feelings. “I don’t ever want you to think you’re not enough again,” he whispered. “Because you’re everything to me.”

He wrapped you tightly against his chest, as if sealing those words with his warmth.

You didn’t answer immediately. You stayed there, in his arms, knowing he hadn’t heard that insecurity of yours when you were alone. To him, he had only noticed your silence on the way and that had brought him back. And though your confession had been born from fear, now, in his kiss and his embrace, you felt your confidence returning.

You understood that if you wanted to avoid feeling that doubt again, you had to be honest with him every time your thoughts clouded over. Clark deserved that… and you deserved the peace of knowing he loved you without hesitation.

You nestled closer against his chest and smiled faintly. Clark, still with flushed cheeks and a heart racing wildly, lowered his head to kiss you again—this time softer, slower, like an eternal promise.

it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!

the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.

he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.

clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.

he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-

in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.

noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.

he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.

you think you could ascend.

you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."

curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.

his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.

he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.

because clark has never looked this feral.

his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.

"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.

the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.

.

how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.

and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.

he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.

he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.

despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.

a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.

you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.

he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.

in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.

your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.

with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.

well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.

your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.

"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.

he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.

a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"

"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."

clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.

a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.

a duck emoji.

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom.