you don’t even remember how it started - something about the movie playing in the background, something about the way jim looked at you during a quiet scene like he already knew what would happen next.

now your back is pressed against the arm of his couch, legs around his waist, and his mouth is dragging down your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he finds that spot that makes your breath hitch.

one of his hands is steady on your waist, guiding your hips as they rock up to meet his. the other cups your jaw, tilting your face just so, holding you there as his lips attach to your neck and suck, slow and deep.

a hickey blooms under his mouth, hot and aching. your hands fist in his shirt, hips rolling into his, the friction delicious through layers of cotton and want.

he groans when you grind up into him just right, the pressure catching him off guard, the sound slipping against your throat like a secret.

"fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, lips parted. "you’re driving me insane."

you can’t answer, not really. not with the way his hand squeezes your waist, holding you in place as he rolls his hips into yours again. the soft drag of your panties against his sweats is maddening - hot and soaked and so good.

he kisses you again, harder this time, his hand still cradling your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s trying to soothe the very thing he’s unraveling.

"you feel so good like this," he murmurs, voice low. "can’t get enough of you."

every slow thrust, every press of his mouth against your skin, pulls you closer to that edge. your body trembles under his, wanting more, needing him.

the kind of man who sleeps in just a little longer when you’re beside him, his arm draped over your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you. he shifts closer in his sleep, his nose brushing your shoulder, his body warm and solid against yours like he’s been molded to fit there.

the morning light spills through the curtains in soft streaks, catching in his messy blond hair and turning it to gold, the strands glowing against the pale linen pillowcase. you watch the rise and fall of his chest, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. it’s so easy to lose track of time like this, tucked into the safe, steady comfort of him.

when his lashes finally flutter open, his eyes are still heavy with sleep. he blinks at you like he’s making sure you’re really there, and then his lips curl into the smallest, softest smile. no words pass between you - they aren’t needed. instead, his hand finds yours beneath the blankets, fingers lacing together like it’s instinct.

he presses a lazy kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “morning,” he murmurs, voice rough and warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were still new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

The office changed at night. 

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

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

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

Almost like a different person entirely. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you liked being late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught you off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

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

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

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

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

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

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

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

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

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

For now.

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

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

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Something had changed, and you liked it.

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

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

Clark Kent? Superman?

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

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

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

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

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

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

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

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

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

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

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, amused. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. 

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

Except no, they didn’t. 

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

You stared back at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

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

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

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

There was no way they were the same person.

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

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

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

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

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

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

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

Unless that was the point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What exactly were you doing?

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinched, braced for impact.

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

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

Nothing so much as grazed you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Superman was right in front of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God.

You were losing it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you knew. You knew.

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

This was real.

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

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

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

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

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

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

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

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

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

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

You glanced up.

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

Your eyes met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could the same man feel so different?

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

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

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

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

Still unmistakably Clark Kent. 

And Superman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re supposed to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark’s expression faltered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

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

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

Clark Kent loved you.

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

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

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

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

You nodded before your words could betray you.

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

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

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

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you didn’t want him to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

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

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

“I missed this,” you murmured.

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

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

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything was back to normal.

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

the air felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were aware you were leaving. sunlight poured through the windows, but instead of warming the room, it made everything look starker, the empty patches on the walls glaring back at you. it didn’t feel like home. it felt like you were a guest trespassing in the ghost of your own life.

clark stood in the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, his big hands gentle as they folded your clothes into neat, perfect stacks. he had always been careful with your things, as though every sweater and mug and pen was some delicate artifact, worthy of protection. maybe he couldn’t help it - maybe it was just in his nature to take care of everything and everyone.

you didn’t have the heart to tell him that the packing was breaking something in you, that each sealed box felt like one less tether keeping you here. he kept glancing at you with that soft, knowing look, but you tried to stay busy, taping up another carton so you wouldn’t have to meet his eyes for too long.

you’d gotten the job offer two weeks ago. the email was still flagged in your inbox, unread now for days because you couldn’t stand to look at it again. it was everything you were supposed to want: a position people fought years for, better pay, a city with more opportunities. but the thought of leaving had felt like someone reaching into your ribcage and twisting.

when you told clark, he’d been so still you thought for a moment he hadn’t heard you. then that smile came - soft, proud, but with something faint and sharp underneath. “i’m happy for you,” he’d said, and you’d smiled back even though both of you knew it wasn’t the whole truth.

“you really don’t have to do all the heavy lifting,” you murmured now, watching him hoist a box from the kitchen counter as though it weighed nothing at all. his grin was small, almost teasing, the barest flicker of light in his otherwise subdued face. “sweet girl,” he said, “with superstrength, it’s barely lifting at all.” you tried to laugh at that, and for a moment you did, but the sound felt brittle, like a piece of glass rattling in your throat.

the car filled up fast. clark made trip after trip, moving from your apartment to the street in a rhythm that made the whole process almost too efficient - the faster it went, the closer you were to leaving. soon the backseat was stacked with boxes and bags, the trunk packed tight, your entire life condensed into compartments. it looked so small, somehow, when you saw it all fit together like that. he stood there beside the open trunk, wiping his hands on his jeans, the early evening breeze tugging at the loose strands of hair on his forehead.

you took one last look at the apartment building, the same one you’d moved into together three years ago, feeling like you had all the time in the world. it had been the first place that truly felt like home - the first place that had been yours together. now it was just bricks and glass, holding memories that didn’t quite fit in boxes. you took a deep breath and stepped out of the doorway, feeling the weight of the keys in your pocket. you hadn’t handed them over to clark yet. you weren’t ready to let go completely.

you turned to him, standing there with the sunset casting him in an orange glow, and called his name quietly. “clark,” you said, your voice barely carrying over the distant hum of the city. he looked up from where he’d been tying down the last of your luggage, his eyes meeting yours. in that moment, you could see every unspoken word, every fear and doubt that had been circling between you since the job offer had come in.

he closed the trunk with a gentle thud that echoed through the quiet street. the sound of his boots on the pavement as he approached was the only thing that broke the silence, and even that seemed to be muffled by the gravity of what was happening. when he was standing in front of you, he didn’t reach out or say anything. instead, he searched your face, trying to read the emotions you were working so hard to keep hidden.

his eyes, those piercing blue eyes that had seen the worst of the world and still had room for you, were the only part of him that betrayed his sadness. they held a depth of feeling that no superhero mask could ever conceal. in the soft lines around them, you could see the tightness of his smile, the effort it took for him to keep it from drooping. but there was something else, too - something that made your heart ache even more. a question, a plea, a silent hope that maybe you’d change your mind.

his hand reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering briefly on the curve of your cheek. his touch was warm and familiar, a brand on your skin that felt like it was searing through you. you knew that if you didn’t go now, you never would. the job was your ticket out of this stagnant chapter of your life, but leaving him was like tearing out the most vibrant pages of your favorite book.

his eyes searched yours, looking for something, anything, that would tell him you were okay. you weren’t sure what he was looking for, but when he saw the wetness gathering at the corner of your eye, his expression softened. the pad of his thumb brushed gently against your skin, catching the tear before it could fall. “don’t cry, sweet girl,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “everything will work out. i promise you that.”

you took a shaky breath, trying to hold onto his words like a lifeline. “tell me i’m going to be okay, clark,” you mumbled, your voice trembling as you leaned into his touch. the world felt like it was spinning out of control, and you needed to hear it from him - the person who had always made everything okay.

his expression grew solemn, his hand dropping to your shoulder. “you are,” he assured you, the steadiness in his voice almost convincing you that it could be true. “you’re strong, and smart, and you’re going to do amazing things. i believe in you, no matter where you go or what you do. you’re going to be more than okay. you’re going to be great.”

you nodded, blinking back the tears, and gave him a sad smile. you took him in - the way the light caught the edge of his glasses, the warmth that seemed to emanate from his very presence. you remembered the night you’d figured out his secret, the way your world had shifted on its axis. it had been right here in this very spot, under the streetlamp, the shadows playing across his face as he’d told you everything. the weight of that revelation had been terrifying and exhilarating, but it had also made you feel closer to him than ever before.

you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, and he pulled you in tight, his arms encircling you like a shield. for a moment, you just stood there, breathing in the scent of him - laundry detergent and something that was just…clark. something that was home. your forehead rested against his chest, and you could feel the beat of his heart, strong and steady.

you took a shaky deep breath in and said, "i better get going." the words felt like they were being torn from you, like you were ripping a piece of paper into a million little shreds. but you had to say them. you had to leave. you felt his arms tighten around you, his grip almost painful in its intensity. then he tilted your chin up with his thumb, his eyes searching yours one last time before his mouth found yours.

the kiss was full of all the things you hadn’t said, all the fears and hopes and love that had filled the air around you for weeks. his lips were warm and firm, and the way he held you was like he was trying to keep you in this moment forever. you kissed him back with everything you had, your heart racing against the clock that was ticking down to your departure. it was a kiss that contained a universe of emotion - the kind that could have powered a city, if only you could bottle it up and save it for later.

when you finally pulled away, you both took a moment to catch your breath. your eyes were wet, but you managed to keep the tears at bay. “i’ll miss you every day,” you whispered, the words sticking in your throat like thorns.

clark’s voice was low and serious when he responded. “i’ll be here. always. no matter what happens, or where we are, we’re in this together, okay?”

you nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle into your chest. “i love you, clark,” you managed to say, your voice thick with emotion.

his eyes searched yours, and for a brief moment, it was like the world stopped spinning. “i love you too, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through every cell in your body. the endearment was one he rarely used, reserved for moments that were both incredibly tender and incredibly painful. and this, you knew, was one of those moments.

you stepped back, trying to put some space between the two of you, but his hand stayed on your shoulder, anchoring you there. the street around you blurred into noise and movement - horns, footsteps, the hum of the city - but it all faded until it felt like you were the only two people left in the world. “i’ll come visit,” you promised, the words tasting like a vow you’d carved into your own heart.

his smile was sad but unwavering, the kind that ached just to look at. “you’d better,” he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to settle deep into your bones. “i don’t want to have to come find you.”

you let out a small, shaky laugh, lifting your hand to brush the corner of his mouth, memorizing the curve of it. “you’d do that, wouldn’t you?”