kieran’s secret lvl

clark has been in love with you for two years, three months, and eleven days.

he doesn’t keep track on purpose. it just… sticks. some moments lodge themselves into him deeper than others, impossible to shake loose. the first time you laughed at one of his stupid puns during a late deadline night. the way you say his name when you’re tired—dragging the a just slightly, like you’re leaning into it. the way you always steal his pen and then deny it with a straight face.

he knows better than to hope for anything more.

because you talk about him.

the doofus.

you never call him that, of course. you call him by his name, with that same softness you never quite aim at clark. you tell clark everything—how exciting it felt at first, how unpredictable, how passionate. you use words like intense and complicated like they’re virtues instead of warning signs.

clark listens.

he always listens.

he listens when you call him from the planet’s stairwell, whispering because you don’t want lois to overhear you crying over someone who very clearly does not deserve it. he listens when you sit across from him at lunch, poking at your salad and asking if you’re “being dramatic,” and he lies through his teeth and tells you you’re not.

because he’s a sucker.

for anything that you do.

the newsroom is chaos, as usual.

phones ringing, keyboards clacking, perry barking about deadlines while jimmy nearly trips over a cable again. you’re perched on the edge of clark’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle, spinning one of his pens between your fingers.

“you’re gonna break that,” clark says mildly.

you grin. “relax! i’ll buy you a new one.”

“you say that every time.”

“and yet,” you reply, tapping the pen against his notepad, “you keep letting me steal them.”

clark smiles, helpless. “yeah. i guess i do.”

you don’t notice the way his shoulders tense when your phone lights up. you don’t notice how his smile fades just slightly when he sees the name on the screen.

you hop down from his desk. “it’s him,” you say, unnecessarily, already stepping away. “i’ll be right back.”

clark nods, because that’s what he does.

he watches you walk toward the elevators, already answering, already softening your voice.

he tells himself—like he always does—that he’s just being a good friend.

you call clark later that night.

of course you do.

it’s nearly midnight, metropolis quiet in that way that only exists between sirens, and clark is sitting alone in his apartment with an untouched mug of tea when his phone lights up again.

your name.

his heart stutters, traitorous thing.

“you okay?” he asks immediately, sitting up straighter.

you laugh, but it cracks halfway through. “wow. you didn’t even let me say hi.”

he exhales. “i take that as a no.”

and then you’re crying.

full-on, breathless, hiccupping sobs, like you’ve been holding it together all day and now there’s nothing left to brace against. clark closes his eyes, jaw tightening, as he listens to you unravel.

“he says he needs space,” you say, voice thick. “that he’s not in the right headspace for a relationship. and i just—clark, what does that even mean?”

it means he doesn’t deserve you, clark thinks.

out loud, he says, “it means he doesn’t know what he wants.”

you sniff. “so it’s not me?”

“no,” clark says immediately. too quickly. “it’s not you.”

you breathe out, like that’s something you needed permission to believe.

“he says he still cares about me,” you continue. “that this hurts him too.”

clark’s grip tightens around his phone. “does it?” he asks gently.

you hesitate.

“i don’t know,” you admit. “he sounded… distant. like he was already gone.”

clark leans back against his couch, staring up at the ceiling.

you end up crying.

and he ends up lying. “it’s gonna be okay,” he tells you. “you’re gonna get through this.”

you sniff again. “you always say that.”

“because it’s true.”

there’s a long silence on the line. not awkward. just heavy.

“thank you,” you say finally. “for being a friend.”

the words land like a bruise.

“always,” clark replies, because he doesn’t know how to be anything else.

when the call ends, he stays there, phone pressed to his ear long after the screen goes dark.

going in circles. 

again.

the next few days blur together.

you’re quiet at work, distracted, staring at your screen like the words might rearrange themselves if you look hard enough. clark brings you coffee without being asked. you accept it with a tired smile.

“you’re too good to me,” you say.

he laughs softly. “it’s just coffee.”

but it’s not. it’s everything he can give without crossing a line you haven’t invited him over.

you vent to him between assignments, voice low and furious now instead of broken. how he didn’t text back. how he left you on read. how he posted like nothing was wrong.

“he treats you so bad,” clark says before he can stop himself.

you glance at him, surprised.

he clears his throat. “i mean—anyone would be upset.”

you sigh. “i know. i just—clark, why does it hurt so much when i know i deserve better?”

because you’re still hoping he’ll change, clark thinks.

because you haven’t looked at the person standing right in front of you, another voice adds, traitorous and aching.

he swallows. “because you cared,” he says instead. “and caring always costs something.”

you study him for a moment, expression softening.

“you’re really good at this,” you say. “talking me down.”

he smiles, small and sad. “lots of practice.”

you call him again that night.

and the night after that.

sometimes it’s tears. sometimes it’s anger. sometimes it’s just silence, punctuated by the sound of you breathing on the other end while clark stays awake, listening, anchoring you without asking for anything in return.

“i’ll call you tomorrow,” you say one night, voice sleepy. “like… ten?”

clark glances at the clock. 2:13 a.m.

“yeah,” he says. “ten’s good.”

when the line goes dead, he stares at his phone and lets himself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like if someday you called him first because you wanted him, not because you were hurting.

sometimes he’s so close to confession it scares him.

but you’re not ready.

and he knows it.

so he waits.

you don’t expect him to show up. that’s the thing—you never do.

you’re sitting on your couch in yesterday’s clothes, phone facedown on the coffee table like it personally betrayed you, when there’s a knock at the door. not loud. just firm enough to be real.

you almost don’t answer it.

when you do, clark is standing there with a paper bag in one hand and that same careful expression he always wears when he’s not sure how fragile you are.

“hi,” he says.

you blink at him. “clark?”

“i—” he clears his throat. “it’s eleven-thirty. you didn’t answer your phone.”

you glance over your shoulder at the couch, the blanket, the mess you haven’t had the energy to clean. “sorry. i just… forgot.”

he hesitates, then lifts the bag slightly. “i brought food. and, uh. coffee. decaf. i remembered.”

something in your chest cracks open.

you step aside without thinking. “you didn’t have to do that.”

“i know,” he says gently. “i wanted to.”

you let him in.

clark’s apartment has always been immaculate when you’ve visited. your place is… not.

there are tissues everywhere. a half-empty glass of water sweating onto your table. the quiet is thick, broken only by the hum of the city outside.

clark sets the bag down and takes it all in without comment. no judgment. just presence.

“you wanna talk?” he asks.

you shrug. “not really.”

“okay.”

you wait for him to push. he doesn’t.

he sits beside you instead, close enough that you’re aware of the warmth of him, the solidness. it’s grounding. infuriatingly comforting.

minutes pass.

then: “he texted me,” you say suddenly.

clark’s jaw tightens. you don’t see it. “yeah?”

“he said he misses me.” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “isn’t that hilarious?”

clark exhales through his nose. “what did you say?”

“nothing. i haven’t replied.”

a beat.

“i’m proud of you,” clark says.

you glance at him, surprised. “really?”

“yeah,” he says. “that takes strength.”

you swallow. “it doesn’t feel like it.”

“it will,” he promises.

you lean back against the couch, eyes burning. “i don’t understand how he can just… walk away. like i didn’t matter.”

clark turns toward you fully now. his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it—something restrained.

“you mattered,” he says. “you still do.”

you shake your head. “then why wasn’t i enough?”

clark almost says it.

the words are right there. you were enough. you still are. you’re just looking in the wrong direction.

instead, he says, “sometimes people don’t know how to hold onto good things.”

you close your eyes, and without really meaning to, you lean into him.

clark freezes.

your shoulder presses into his arm. your head tips closer, resting just beneath his collarbone. it’s such a small thing. such an intimate thing.

he doesn’t move away. he doesn’t pull you closer either. he lets you decide.

you start doing things together that aren’t strictly necessary.

late-night walks, because you “can’t sleep.” grocery runs, because you “don’t trust yourself not to buy ice cream for every meal.” you sit beside each other on the planet’s roof during lunch breaks, watching helicopters drift by.

people notice.

jimmy raises his eyebrows one afternoon. “you two dating now?”

you laugh. “what? no.”

clark’s smile falters for half a second before he schools it. “just friends.”

“oh,” jimmy says, unconvinced. “cool. cool cool.”

lois notices too.

she watches the way clark tracks you across the room, the way you lean toward him without realizing. one evening, when you’re not around, she crosses her arms and looks him dead in the eye.

“you’re in love with her,” she says flatly.

clark sighs. “i know.”

“and she has no idea.”

“she has an idea,” he corrects. “she just… doesn’t see it that way.”

lois softens. “you gonna tell her?”

clark glances toward your empty desk. “not like this.”

“why?”

“because she’s hurting,” he says quietly. “and i don’t want to be the guy who waits for her to break so i can swoop in.”

lois studies him for a long moment. then: “you’re too good.”

he smiles faintly. “yeah. i hear that a lot.”

you call him at exactly ten the next night.

“i’m not crying this time,” you announce.

clark laughs. “i’m glad.”

“i might scream, though.”

“still counts as progress.”

you pace your apartment, phone tucked against your ear. “he keeps liking my posts. is that a thing? is that a sign?”

clark bites his tongue.

“no,” he says carefully. “it’s a breadcrumb.”

“a what?”

“something small enough to keep you hoping,” he explains. “but not enough to mean anything.”

you’re quiet. “that sucks,” you say eventually.

“yeah,” clark agrees. “it does.”

you hesitate. “clark?”

“mm?”

“why are you always so… good to me?”

he stops dead in his tracks.

because i love you.

“because you deserve it,” he says instead.

you hum, thoughtful. “you know, if i ever date again, i want someone like you.”

clark closes his eyes. “that’s… nice,” he manages.

“but,” you add, oblivious, “i don’t think i could ever date you. it would be weird.”

weird.

the word settles between you like a verdict.

“oh,” clark says. “yeah. totally.”

you don’t hear the way his voice dips. “you’re my best friend,” you continue warmly. “i don’t want to mess that up.”

“of course,” he says.

after the call ends, clark sits in the dark for a long time, staring at nothing.

stuck.

again.

the breaking point comes on a thursday.

you show up at work late, sunglasses on, jaw tight. clark notices immediately.

“what happened?” he asks, low.

you shake your head. “i don’t wanna talk about it.”

he lets it go—for all of ten minutes.

when he finds you in the stairwell again, hands shaking, phone clenched in your fist, he doesn’t ask.

he just opens his arms.

you walk into them.

this time, he holds you.

really holds you—one hand steady at your back, the other resting carefully against your shoulder. you bury your face into his chest, breathing him in, and for the first time in weeks, you feel safe.

“he told me he’s seeing someone else,” you whisper.

clark’s heart breaks quietly, efficiently.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.

“he said it just happened,” you choke out. “like i was nothing.”

“you’re not nothing,” clark says fiercely, before he can stop himself.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your eyes are red, searching. “then why does it feel like i am?”

clark’s hands tighten just slightly.

because he treats you so bad, and i’m so good to you. because i’m right here. because i can take away your hurt.

he swallows. “you don’t belong to the people who hurt you,” he says slowly. “you belong with someone who chooses you. every day.”

something shifts in the air between you.

you stare at him, breath hitching, like you’re seeing him for the first time—not as the safe place to land, but as a possibility.

“clark,” you whisper.

he holds your gaze, heart pounding. this is it. the edge. the moment he’s been waiting for and dreading all at once.

but you pull back.

“i’m sorry,” you say suddenly. “i—this is too much. i need some air.”

you slip past him before he can respond.

clark stays in the stairwell long after you’re gone, hands still curved like they remember the shape of you.

someday, he tells himself.

someday it’s going to happen.

you don’t sleep.

you lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the look on clark’s face in the stairwell over and over until it stops being background noise and starts being… something else.

the way he held you. the way his voice changed when he said you weren’t nothing. the way his hands lingered like he didn’t quite trust himself to let go.

you sit up.

because suddenly, it feels obvious.

every late-night call. every coffee. every time he showed up without being asked. every careful step he took around your feelings, even when his own were clearly bleeding through the cracks.

you think of all the times you cried over someone who couldn’t even text you back—and the one person who never failed to answer.

“oh,” you whisper to the empty room.

oh.

clark doesn’t come into work the next day.

you notice immediately.

you tell yourself you’re not panicking. you’re just… concerned. because he’s reliable. because he always texts if he’s running late. because he would never leave you hanging.

you text him first. ‘hey. everything okay?’

three dots appear. disappear.

then: ‘yeah. just took the day off. needed it.’

your chest tightens. ‘do you want company?’

a pause. longer this time. ‘you don’t have to do that.’

that’s not an answer.

‘i want to,’ you type.

another long stretch of silence.

‘okay,’ he finally replies. ‘yeah.’

clark’s apartment looks exactly like you remember it. clean. quiet. safe.

he opens the door and for a second you just stand there, staring at each other like neither of you is quite sure what rules apply anymore.

“you okay?” you ask softly.

he nods. “yeah. just… tired.”

you step inside anyway.

you don’t sit on opposite ends of the couch this time. you sit close—close enough that your knee brushes his. neither of you moves away.

“i owe you an apology,” you say suddenly.

clark blinks. “you don’t owe me anything.”

“yes, i do,” you insist. “i’ve been… using you. not on purpose. but still.”

he exhales. “you were hurting.”

“i know. but you were hurting too.” you swallow. “weren’t you?”

clark looks at you for a long moment. “i didn’t mind,” he says finally.

“that’s not the same thing,” you reply.

silence settles, heavy but honest.

“clark,” you say. “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

his hands tighten together. “because you weren’t ready.”

you shake your head. “you don’t know that.”

he looks up at you then, eyes open and unguarded. “i do. because i’ve been waiting.”

the word lands between you, soft and devastating.

“how long?” you whisper.

he smiles faintly. “a while.”

you laugh weakly. “you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah,” he agrees. “i’ve been told.”

you take a breath. “say it.”

he freezes. “say what?”

“the thing you’ve been biting your tongue over,” you say gently. “the thing you never let yourself scream out. the thing we both know you want to say.”

clark closes his eyes. when he opens them again, there’s no hiding left.

“i love you,” he says. “i have for a long time. i didn’t want to be the guy who took advantage of your heartbreak. i just wanted to be here—until you didn’t need me anymore.”

your heart aches at the words.

“what if,” you say slowly, “i don’t want to stop needing you?”

clark’s breath catches.

you reach for him then, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve like you’re afraid he might vanish.

“i kept looking at the wrong person,” you continue. “i kept chasing someone who never chose me. and you were right here, choosing me every single day.”

his voice is barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to say this just because you’re hurting.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s how i know it’s real.”

you lean in—not rushing, giving him time to pull back if he wants to.

he doesn’t.

when you kiss him, it’s gentle. careful. like both of you are afraid of breaking something fragile and precious. his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like it’s something sacred.

when you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.

“i think,” you murmur, “you might be my cure.”

clark laughs softly, breath warm against your lips. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

it’s not fireworks right away.

it’s better than that.

it’s late-night talks that don’t end in tears. it’s hands brushing in daylight. it’s realizing that love doesn’t have to hurt to be intense.

one morning, weeks later, you wake up tangled in clark’s arms, sunlight spilling across the room.

“you know,” you say sleepily, “i used to think love was supposed to feel like heartbreak.”

clark kisses your hair. “i’m glad you were wrong.”

you smile, eyes closing again.

because this time, you finally see the truth.

he was right here.