ᴛʜᴇ ᴜᴘꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ

“I’m not working with Lex Luthor,” you say. “I’m working for LuthorCorp, and it's an entry-level position. I’ll probably never even see him, let alone speak to him. I can promise you that he doesn’t, and never will, know who I am.”

He exhales hard, shoulders sagging. “You can’t promise that.”

“Clark,” you sigh, “it’s a good job. And it’ll look great on my resume, which means I can get a better job after this. But right now, I just need an income so I can find an apartment and stop crashing on your couch.”

His gaze flicks to the dark blue cushions beneath you, brow furrowing. “You’re not sleeping on the couch—you’re in the spare room.”

You roll your eyes. “It was metaphorical, you dork.”

His head tilts. “Oh.”

“Look,” you say, pushing off the couch, “I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll keep to myself, I’ll be discreet, and I won’t breathe a word about being best friends with Superman. Not even about that one time he let me try on the suit.”

Clark’s jaw tenses—not with irritation, but because he’s biting back a smile. You can tell. His lips press tight, his dimples crease, and there’s that little sparkle in his eyes that never fails to make your stomach flip.

“Funny,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You grin. “I like to think so.”

“Why can’t I just get you a job at the Daily Planet?” he asks.

You give him the look—the one you always give him when he brings this up. “Because I’m not a reporter. And I’m not going to spend my days slinging coffee for over-caffeinated, over-critical journalists.”

“You’d rather work for an evil billionaire?”

“Don’t we all work for evil billionaires?”

He narrows his eyes, brows knitting as he adjusts his folded arms—forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. And it’s painfully distracting, but Clark Kent is much too naive to realise what he does to you.

You drag your eyes back up to his face—which is no less stupidly distracting—and fold your own arms, mirroring him. “So, what’s for dinner?”

His frown deepens. “We’re not done talking about this.”

You roll your eyes again. “Yes, we are, Clark. I already accepted the job and signed the contract.” You give him your best levelling stare, even though you’re practically breaking your neck just to meet his gaze. “I start Monday.”

“Monday?”

“Yep,” you say with a nod. “And I’ve got two apartment viewings later in the week. Wanna come?”

His expression slips, the scowl softening into something uncertain. “That’s… quick.”

You step around him toward the kitchen. “Well, yeah. Don’t act like you’re not dying to have your privacy back,” you call over your shoulder.

His footsteps follow yours as you stop at the fridge and yank the door open, ducking down to see right to the back of the shelves—as if food might magically appear, even though Clark always eats his way through the week’s groceries by Friday night.

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I mean, not really. I like having you around.”

It takes you all of three seconds to decide takeout is the only option.

“Don’t lie.” You shut the fridge and turn to face him, fishing your phone from your back pocket. “There’s a big difference between enjoying someone’s company and wanting to live with them—and you, farm boy, do not want to live with me. At least not full time.”

He frowns again, placing both palms flat on the kitchen island as he leans forward. “I don’t see what the big deal is. We haven’t had any… problems so far.”

You lean back against the opposite counter, needing a little space between you and your best friend’s stupid forearms. And those stupidly large hands. And that stupidly adorable little frown he gets when he’s trying to win an argument without getting too impassioned.

“That’s because we both know it’s temporary. And neither of us has tried to bring someone home,” you say, eyes locked on your phone as you flip between food delivery apps.

“Bring someone home?” he echoes.

You nod, still scrolling. “Yeah. Like a date or a hookup or something.”

“A hookup?”

“Yes, Clark, a hookup,” you mutter. “You know—sex? The thing two consenting adults do when they’re horny or frustrated or bored.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air between you thickening with something unfamiliar. Then—

“Bored?”

“Oh my God,” you sigh, eyes wide as your head snaps up. “Bored, yes. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex or—I don’t know—jerked off out of boredom?”

Pink blooms across his cheeks. “Well, I—uh—I mean… no? Not really. I don’t really… do that.”

You still, eyes narrowing. “You don’t do what?”

He shrugs. “Jerk off… much.”

“Much?” you echo, curiosity getting the better of you.

You don’t really want to have this conversation—God knows you don’t need any more spank bank material when it comes to your best friend—but you just can’t help yourself. Whether it was Clark or anyone else, you’d press. You’re just inquisitive. Some might say nosy.

And horny. Yeah, definitely horny. It’s been a while.

His brows lift. “What? You want the weekly average, or—?”

“No,” you cut in quickly. “I don’t. Sorry. We probably shouldn’t have this conversation.”

Your eyes drop back to your phone screen as you try to will away the heat creeping into your cheeks. It’s ridiculous, really, how a man you’ve known for more than half your life can still make you feel like a nervous, blushing teenager without even trying.

“Why not?” he asks, all innocence and naivety.

You snort. “Because my sex life is non-existent, and I’d rather not be reminded of that.”

You keep your head bowed, thumb swiping too fast for you to register any of the takeout options—but you’re not really looking. You’re just focusing on steadying your pulse and ignoring the burn of Clark’s stare from across the island.

Then, after a taut few seconds that feel like an eternity, he clears his throat.

“You know,” he says slowly, voice dropping, “if you needed someone to—”

“It’s fine,” you blurt, too fast. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen just slightly, and he takes a half-step back. “Yeah, talk. That’s—uh—that’s what I was going to say. But if you don’t want to, it’s—it’s fine. But I’m here… if you do.”

You nod, pressing your lips together tightly to stop yourself from saying anything else stupid. Because even though you’re pretty sure this moment couldn’t get any more awkward than it already is, you know better than to underestimate yourself.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Okay,” you mutter. “I’ll order—um, burgers?”

He nods. “Yep. Burgers.”

You drop your gaze back to your phone as he turns and disappears down the hall. His bedroom door creaks open, and just before it clicks shut, you call out, “And this is exactly why I need to find my own apartment.”

-

“And this is your office,” Dennis from middle management says.

It’s not an office. It’s a desk—a cubicle, to be precise. Smack in the middle of an open-concept space that looks like it was designed by an evil genius with too much money and a vendetta against every colour except grey.

So yeah. Makes sense.

“Thanks,” you murmur, setting your bag down on the desk.

“We fired up your laptop yesterday and got everything set up for you,” he says, leaning against the steel-grey partition. “You should’ve had all your passwords sent to your personal email, so just log in and jump into your work email—there you’ll find a few links for company inductions and whatnot.”

You nod. “Sounds great. I’ll start there.”

He gives you a toothy smile, and your gaze catches on a little something green stuck between his incisors. “If you need anything at all, let me know. Otherwise, Katie—one of our other analysts—will pop by after lunch to show you some things.”

You nod again. “Thanks, Dennis.”

His gaze lingers a beat too long, just enough to make you squirm, before he turns sharply and stalks back through the office.

With a heavy breath, you drop into your new desk chair and flip open the laptop in front of you. It’s hooked up to one of those big curved monitors, which flickers to life instantly. You pull out your phone, check your emails, log into the laptop, and wait for it to load.

Then your phone vibrates on the desk.

CLARK: Please call me if you need me. Good luck.

You didn’t see him this morning. You were so worried about missing the train and being late that you left forty-five minutes earlier than you needed to. Clark was still asleep when you crept out of the apartment—which was probably for the best. You’d spent the entire weekend arguing about whether this job was a good idea, and you weren’t in the mood to rehash it right before your first day.

You quickly type out a response:

Call you as in phone you, or scream for help and hope someone super shows up?

He responds almost immediately.

CLARK: Hilarious.

You simply send back a winky-face emoji, then tuck your phone into your bag. The last thing you need is to get caught on your phone before you’ve even made it through day one.

The morning passes in a blur of menial HR tasks and mandatory videos about occupational health and safety. After lunch—which you spend alone in the breakroom, since apparently no one here actually takes a break—Katie shows up. She drops into the seat beside you and runs you through a few different tasks you’ll be responsible for.

The work isn’t hard, not really, it’s just data crunching—but you’re still nervous. You don’t know the software systems that well yet, and you feel a little like a toddler trying to jam square blocks into circular holes.

By four p.m., you’re wrecked. It’s not just the learning new things, it’s the socialising too. Meeting new people is draining, especially in the corporate world where you have to appear professional and composed. Which is definitely not how you’re feeling as you drag your feet through the lobby of the LuthorCorp building.

You’re just about to step out onto the street when you recognise an obnoxiously tall—and broad—curly-haired figure waiting outside.

You walk up behind him. “Clark?”

He spins around, blue eyes shining behind those dorky glasses. “Hey. How was your first day?”

Your brows pinch. “It... it was fine, but—what are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t let my girl walk home from her first day all alone.”

Your pulse skips, but you mask it with a short, unladylike snort. “Your girl? What is this, the 1940s?”

He blinks, cheeks flushing pink as he scratches the back of his neck. “I—uh—no, I didn’t mean it like—I just meant—”

“It’s fine, Kent.” You pat his arm, biting back a grin. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m exhausted.”

You both start in the direction of Clark’s apartment, weaving through the tide of evening commuters hurrying along the sidewalk. You’d originally planned to catch the train home, but since you have nowhere you need to be—and Clark’s keeping you company—you’re not averse to walking.

“So,” you say, shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets, “how was your day, Mr. Journalist?”

He shrugs. “Oh, you know. The usual. Writing, editing, coffee… saving a bus full of school kids when it lost its brakes at the end of West Frank Lane.”

You arch a brow, lips twitching. “In that order?”

He grins, those stupid dimples making your heart stutter. “Yeah. In that order.”

“Impressive.” You nod slowly. “And you still had time to wait outside my building like a total stalker?”

His smile falters, a small frown creasing between his brows. “I’m not being a stalker. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

You roll your eyes. “Clark, it’s midtown, not Gotham.”

“I don’t care,” he says firmly. “I’d rather be sure.”

You watch him for a beat, tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips—letting yourself wonder, just for a moment, what they might taste like. Then you shake your head, huff a soft half-laugh, and drop your gaze to your shoes.

There’s no point arguing with Clark when he gets like this—unyielding in his need to protect. You’re never sure if it’s Kryptonian instinct or just because it’s you, but either way, he’s immovable. If the weight of the world on his shoulders isn’t enough, he’s also decided that your safety his personal responsibility. And no matter how many times you tell him it isn't, he never listens.

So you continue walking in companionable silence—arms brushing now and then, trading sidelong glances, murmuring apologies as the sidewalk crowds around you. It isn’t long before you’re crossing the lobby of Clark’s apartment building, stepping into the lift, then waiting beside him while he fumbles with his keys.

When he finally gets the door open, he braces it with one arm and gestures for you to go first—as he always does. And, as always, you don’t bother arguing.

You step inside, drop your bag, and before you can even think about shrugging out of your coat, his hands are there. His fingers curl around the collar, gentle but certain, his body warm at your back as he eases the fabric from your shoulders. The heat of him surrounds you, his scent settling in your head until you almost forget to breathe. For a split second you nearly lean into it, nearly let yourself sink back against him—but then the coat is gone, and so is he.

You stand frozen, pulse stuttering, skin prickling, silently cursing Martha Kent for raising a man who could turn basic manners into pure torture.

“You okay?” Clark asks, voice low and much too close.

“Mhm,” you manage, clearing your throat before you force yourself a few steps further into the apartment.

You hear the rustle of his own jacket and the thunk of his satchel hitting the floor, but you still don’t turn around. You keep moving into the kitchen until your palms find the cool marble of the countertop, grounding yourself with the reminder that Clark is your best friend. Nothing more.

“Want me to cook tonight?” he asks, stepping in after you.

You glance up, brows raised. “So... pancakes?”

His eyes narrow, arms folding across his chest in that stupidly distracting way. “I can cook more than just pancakes.”

“Scrambled eggs, then?”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I can cook more than just breakfast food.”

You shrug, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Alright, then.” He uncrosses his arms and starts rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll prove it. What’ve we got?”

You step aside as he rounds the kitchen island and pulls the fridge door open. He has to crouch down to see inside, which makes his slacks go taught over his ass and around his thighs—and God, it’s hard not to stare.

“What about... spaghetti bolognese?” he asks.

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes away from him. “Do we have any spaghetti?”

You turn toward the back cupboards and pull open the top one where you know Clark usually keeps dry goods. On the highest shelf, you spot a tall jar of spaghetti—so you stretch up onto your toes and reach for it. Your fingertips brush the glass, but the jar wobbles just out of reach.

“Here, let me,” Clark murmurs, suddenly behind you.

Before you can protest, he steps closer—closer than he ever should—trapping you against the counter. His chest presses firmly against your back, the breadth of him overwhelming, solid and hot and unmovable. The counter digs into your stomach as he leans in, arms reaching around you, chin brushing the crown of your head.

Every shift of his body makes your nerves spark. The heat of him, the faint scent of him flooding your senses, the unmistakable press of something half-hard against your ass—it’s enough to steal your breath. You swallow hard, pulse hammering, the edge of the counter biting into you with delicious insistence. You want to push back, to wriggle your hips, to turn around and do something reckless—but you don’t. You can’t.

Because Clark is just being Clark. Your best friend. A considerate man. Painfully oblivious to how easily he undoes you. Utterly blind to how intimate this is.

“Got it,” he says, tilting the jar down within your reach.

But you don’t move. You can’t. And he doesn’t either—still pressed against you, radiating warmth, crowding every inch of your body until the jar might as well not exist. You force your hand up, fingertips brushing the glass, but your body is wired too tight, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

“Thanks,” you manage, barely more than a breath—and finally, finally, he steps back.

You draw a sharp, shuddering breath, and set the jar on the counter. Then, with shaking hands, you grip the cool marble in another lame attempt to ground yourself before you fall apart.

“Is there any red wine you’re willing to sacrifice,” Clark asks, already rummaging through the fridge, “or do I need to run down to the store and get a cheap bottle?”

He’s completely unaffected. Totally oblivious. His focus fixed on tomatoes and herbs and not at all on the way he just pressed you into the counter like he owned you.

“Uh, yeah,” you mutter, stumbling back. “It’s fine, use anything.”

He pauses, glancing at you with a small, curious frown. “You okay?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yep. Yeah. I’m good. Just—uh, gonna go shower.”

You rush out of the kitchen and down the hall before he can respond, slamming the bathroom door shut and falling back against it. Your skin still tingles with his warmth, your pulse still racing as you let your head fall back against the wood with a soft thud.

You haven’t felt this wired around Clark since high school. Not since those early years when every smile felt like it might mean something more—before reality set in and you realised he’d never see you as anything more than a friend. A best friend. Which has always been enough. More than enough.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Because sure, he’s stupidly attractive. Sure, he’s so kind it borders on infuriating. And sure, there are nights when your brain takes a nosedive into fantasies you’ll never admit out loud—the kind where you’re on your knees for him, gagging and gasping until you’re wrecked. But that’s all they are—fantasies, sparked by the fact that he’s unfairly good-looking and one of the only decent men left on the planet. Which is hilarious, considering he isn’t even from this planet.

The truth is, you’re happy being his friend. You really are. You just wish he knew boundaries. That he wasn’t so close, so gentle, so thoughtful in ways that blur lines he doesn’t even notice he’s crossing. Because Clark Kent may be the sweetest man alive, but he is also painfully, dangerously oblivious.

And that is exactly why you need to find your own apartment. Immediately.

- Clark -

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Jimmy asks, leaning a hip against Clark’s desk.

Clark glances up. “Hm? Me?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Yes, you. You were moody all yesterday, and I figured Perry must’ve shredded your article. But considering that article is on the front page today and you’re still sulking, I’m thinking it’s something else.”

Clark frowns. “Oh—uh, nope. I’m fine. Just… don’t feel great.”

Jimmy arches a brow, his sharp green eyes seeing straight through the lie. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your super-hot best friend who’s been crashing on your couch, would it?”

Clark spins his chair to face him fully, frown deepening. “She’s not on the couch—she’s in the spare room.”

“Sure she is,” Steve quips as he strolls past, smirking.

Both Clark and Jimmy shoot him a glare before turning back to each other.

“Anyway,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “What’d she do?”

Clark exhales hard and leans back in his chair. “She got a job.”

Jimmy blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “That’s… a good thing? You said she’d been looking for ages.”

“At LuthorCorp,” Clark mutters.

“Ohhh.” Jimmy nods slowly. “She’s working for the evil Lex Luthor.”

“Jimmy!” Lois snaps, swivelling around in her chair. “You can’t say that—not here, at least. There might be whispers about Luthor, but there’s no solid proof. And as an ethical reporter, you stick to fact.”

“Come on, Lois,” Clark says. “He’s creepy. Everyone can see it.”

She folds her arms, giving him a flat stare. “He’s a billionaire with a private weapons company. That alone makes him look shady. But without real evidence, you can't call him evil.”

“Always the diplomat,” Jimmy sighs, shaking his head.

Lois rolls her eyes. “Look, Clark, not every shadow you see is a threat. LuthorCorp might have skeletons in the closet, but it’s still a powerhouse employer. For her, this isn’t danger—it’s opportunity.”

Clark wants to bite back. He wants to tell them that Luthor has it out for Superman—and that alone should be enough of a red flag. Because who hates someone who’s just trying to help people? Sure, Clark might be biased on the subject, but history shows the same pattern over and over. Wealth, obsession with control, and hatred of what gives others hope—that’s not just ambition. That’s dangerous. And Clark knows Lex Luthor is dangerous.

But he can’t exactly say that in the middle of the bullpen without raising a thousand questions. So, with a quiet exhale, he spins his chair back toward his computer screen.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I guess you’re right.”

“Look on the bright side,” Jimmy says. “Her having a job means she can find her own apartment.”

“How is that the bright side?” Cat asks, popping up beside him. “Isn’t he like... in love with her?”

Jimmy chuckles. “Well, yeah, but living with someone you’re in love with but not with would be torture.”

Clark glances back at them. “I don’t mind living with her. It’s... nice, actually.”

Jimmy raises a brow. “Really? Doing the whole domestic routine isn’t killing you?”

“We’re not doing a domestic routine,” Clark insists, swivelling his chair around again.

Jimmy scoffs. “Right. So you’re not cooking together every night? Not grocery shopping together? Not watching movies together on the couch?”

Clark winces. “Okay, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Dude,” Jimmy says flatly, “you’re her stand-in boyfriend. That’s what this is.”

Clark’s shoulders stiffen. “No it isn’t.”

Jimmy doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts both brows and stares.

“Okay, fine,” Clark mutters. “But it’s not exactly easy to get out of a friendzone you’ve been stuck in since high school.”

“Ooh.” Cat grimaces. “Since high school?”

Clark sighs, leaning into his chair and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I really don’t want to have this conversation at work.”

“So you’ve been flirting with her?” Jimmy presses, completely unbothered.

“Yes,” Clark sighs.

“How?”

Clark lowers his gaze, frowning. “How what?”

“How have you been flirting?”

He hesitates, frown deepening as he searches for examples—any examples. “I always tell her she looks nice,” he says, trying not to cringe at how lame it sounds. “And I make fresh coffee every morning. But... she gets up before me now, so that doesn’t really—”

“That’s just being considerate,” Jimmy cuts in, brows raised like he’s waiting for a real answer.

Clark clears his throat, straightening in his chair. “Sometimes I… uh… give her my jacket.”

“You mean... when she’s cold?” Jimmy asks, deadpan. “That’s called not being a jerk.”

“Yeah,” Cat mutters. “Groundbreaking romance there, Kent.”

Clark pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Well... whenever she’s stressed out or had a bad day, I pick up her favourite snacks.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “That’s what friends do, Clark.”

Cat giggles. “Yeah, I bought Jimmy a muffin last week after Perry yelled at him, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t trying to confess my undying love.”

Jimmy gasps, smacking a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Wow. And here I thought you were finally making your move.”

Cat just shakes her head, still laughing as she looks back at Clark. “Alright, Casanova. What other swoon-worthy moves have you got?”

Clark glances aside, mouth twisting in thought. “I—uh... I walked her home yesterday.”

“Congratulations.” Jimmy smirks. “You’re a golden retriever.”

“A very loyal one,” Cat adds, grinning.

Clark lets out a long exhale, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning back in his chair until it tilts with a soft creak. This is great. Just perfect. What better way to spend his Tuesday morning than humiliating himself in front of his coworkers, parading his pathetic excuses for flirting like they’re something worth bragging about.

Snacks. Coffee. Walking you home. That isn’t flirting. That’s just being decent. That’s being a good friend—or at least, that’s what it should mean. But in his case? He’s not sure he counts as a good friend at all. Not with all the things he hides. The things he does that cross the lines of friendship, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

Like the way he studies you when you’re not looking, as if memorising your body might keep him from losing his mind. The twitch of his hand whenever it brushes yours, fighting the urge to hold on, to pull you closer. And the nights—those are the worst—where he winds up with your name breaking from his lips, his hand moving to the thought of your mouth, your skin, your body.

That isn’t friendship, and it sure as hell isn’t flirting. It’s something else entirely—and Clark hates how badly he needs it.

“I’m terrible at this,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

“Oh, honey,” Cat sighs. “Not terrible, just—”

“Horrible?” Jimmy offers.

Cat shoots him a scowl. “No. I was going to say—”

“Awful?” Jimmy cuts in again.

“No,” Cat mutters through her teeth. “He’s just—”

“Appalling?” Jimmy says, unabashed.

Cat stomps her foot, glaring at him. “What are you, a thesaurus?!”

Clark drops his hand, giving them both a flat look. “Are you two done?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Look, all I’m saying is that you need to stop hiding behind the ‘nice guy’ stuff and actually say something.”

Clark frowns, shoulders tightening. “Like what?”

Jimmy leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret. “I don’t know, maybe try ‘I like you’? Or—here’s a wild thought—just ask her out.”

Cat crosses her arms with a smug grin. “See? Not rocket science.”

“Right,” Clark says, brows knitting tighter. “So you’re suggesting I risk over a decade of friendship by being totally direct?”

Jimmy tilts his head. “Either that, or keep up the world’s slowest flirting campaign hoping she’ll eventually notice. Which, let’s be honest, she won’t, because I’m not convinced you even know what flirting is.”

“Then eventually,” Cat cuts in, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, “she’ll meet some tall, confident guy who actually makes a move. Next thing you know, you’re stuck in the front row of their wedding, watching her marry someone that isn’t you while you quietly imagine being the one holding her hands.”

“Or worse,” Lois pipes up, spinning around in her chair, “you’ll be the maid of honour.”

Jimmy snorts, Cat giggles, and Clark shoots Lois a scowl.

“I appreciate the advice,” he says tightly, “but it’s really not that simple.”

“Come on, Clark,” Cat sighs. “Have a little confidence—you’re a great guy. And just because she hasn’t thought of you romantically before doesn’t mean she never will. Ask her out, and maybe she’ll realise she’s been into you this whole time too.”

Clark scoffs. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

“Just do what I do, Kent,” Steve says, stopping beside Clark’s desk with his World’s Best Grandma mug in hand. “Ask yourself: W-W-S-D.”

Every pair of eyes turns toward him, blinking. No one speaks.

Steve rolls his eyes like it’s obvious. “What would Superman do?”

Clark wants to laugh, but he can’t—so instead, he just shakes his head and swivels back to face his computer. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters.

“Please tell me that’s not actually your motto,” Jimmy says, staring at Steve in disbelief. “Because Superman is literally super and you’re—well, you’re not. There are a lot of things Superman would and could do that you absolutely should not be doing.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s metaphorical.”

Jimmy narrows his eyes. “So... metaphorically, what would Superman do?”

“Exactly,” Steve says.

Cat exhales hard. “Okay, I’m done.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy mutters. “I’m going back to work.”

Steve just shrugs again before turning back to his desk, and eventually the bullpen settles—the chatter fading into the usual clatter of keyboards and ringing phones. Clark keeps his eyes fixed on his screen, fingers moving fast even though he’s not entirely sure what he’s typing—or which article he’s supposed to be writing.

His mind is stuck on you, because of course it is. It always is. And now, thanks to Steve, he can’t stop circling back to that stupid question: what would Superman do? If he were only Superman—if he didn’t also have to be Clark Kent, the mild-mannered, bumbling journalist—would things be different? Would he be brave enough to tell you how he really feels? Would you look at him the way he’s dreamed about for years? Would you actually want him?

Surely not. Right? You already know he’s Superman, so if that was the thing that would win you over, you’d already be interested by now. Unless it’s Clark Kent that ruins it for you. Maybe the clumsy, glasses-wearing, small-town reporter is the part you can’t stomach. Maybe if he could shed that skin, if he was just Superman, you might actually see him differently.

The thought gnaws at him all day. He spends hours trying to remember the last guy you dated—any of them, really—as if lining himself up against the ghosts of your boyfriends will somehow give him answers. But the truth is, he can’t even recall their faces. Not properly, at least. It’s not that they didn’t exist—Clark knows they did, because he remembers the jealousy burning through him each time—but they were always short-lived, always forgettable. And if he’s being honest, you’d never really looked at them like you were in love. But still, it hadn’t stopped him from hating every second of it.

Then, when he’s not dredging up old jealousy, he’s tearing himself apart over the past few weeks. Every lame excuse for flirting. Every time he lingered too long. Every moment he thought maybe—just maybe—you were blushing for him, only to convince himself it was politeness, or embarrassment, anything but interest. And last night—God, last night—that reckless moment in the kitchen when he’d cornered you against the counter. Because some selfish, desperate part of him had needed to be close, had fed him the lie that it was innocent, that he was only being helpful.

But it hadn’t been innocent. Not even close. Because now, all he can think about is the way you’d felt against him—the press of your body, the heat of your skin—and every time the memory hits, it coils low in his stomach and makes his slacks feel uncomfortably tight.

And that’s when the fear kicks in. Because he knows this isn’t harmless anymore. It’s not sweet or shy or the safe kind of crush he’s been hiding behind for years. It’s sharper, darker, needier than he ever meant it to be. He catches himself imagining what it would be like to pin you there again, only this time not pulling away. To lean in until your back arched against the counter, until you had no choice but to feel everything he’s been holding back.

The thought terrifies him. Because Superman isn’t supposed to think like that. Superman isn’t supposed to want like that.

Clark squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing his fingers to keep hammering at the keys, praying the noise of the bullpen will drown out the one thing he can’t escape—how badly he wants you, and how much harder it's getting to keep pretending it’s just friendship.

- You -

By your third week at LuthorCorp, everything is starting to feel a little less intimidating and a little more manageable. You’re no longer bugging Katie with questions every five minutes—even though she’s been nothing but patient—and you finally feel comfortable enough to wear your headphones throughout the day, drowning out the deafening silence of the office around you.

You’ve also got your swipe card on a retractable clip hooked to your pants now, which means no more embarrassing trips to security after forgetting it at your desk during lunch.

And the job itself? Almost too easy. You work independently, at your own pace, and you don’t go home thinking about it. There’s the occasional anomaly, but whenever something odd pops up, you just forward it to one of the senior analysts and move on. It couldn’t be a more perfect opportunity. One year in a role like this at a place like LuthorCorp, and the world is yours—metaphorically, at least.

Everything is looking up. You’ve even submitted applications for a couple of cozy studio apartments within walking distance from work. It’s almost as if moving to Metropolis wasn’t a huge mistake after all—just a little rough at first. But now that you’ve found your footing, everything is finally falling into place. Almost perfectly.

Almost.

Because then there’s Clark.

Clark, who stopped nagging you about your new job after the second day—and promptly started acting like the weirdest version of himself you’ve ever seen. And you’ve known Clark a long time. You’ve seen plenty of weirdness. But this? This is different.

At first, he was distant. He stopped hanging out with you after work, insisting he was too tired to watch a movie, or that he wasn’t in the mood to cook dinner together. He started working later, making up excuses about deadlines or Superman business that you knew were bullshit because there was nothing on the news. He still smiled though, still asked how your day was, but it was clipped—like he was rationing his words, careful not to give too much away. Careful not to let you think he cared.

But then came the chatter. It wasn’t his usual thoughtful questions or funny anecdotes from the newsroom, but a nervous stream of words that never seemed to go anywhere. He’d ramble about the weather, or about the burnt breakroom coffee, or about some article he wasn’t even sure was worth writing. His voice filled the space between you, too fast and too full, while all you could do was nod along and wonder if a person's moods could give you whiplash.

And now? Now he’s gone strange in a whole new way—he’s quiet, but not the good kind. He’s all spacey. Distracted. You caught him staring at you across the couch last night like he was a million miles away, only for him to blink and fumble an excuse about being tired. And just this morning, he forgot what he was saying mid-sentence, losing his train of thought halfway through asking you a question about your day.

It’s like there’s something pressing on him, something he isn’t telling you, and the more you notice it, the heavier it feels hanging between you—making it almost impossible for you to focus on anything else.

“And this is our newest recruit.” Dennis’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you quickly shove your headphones off your ears, spinning around in your chair.

Your stomach drops the moment you see the man standing beside him.

“Dennis,” Lex Luthor says, his voice low and measured, a hint of menace hidden beneath the calm. “What have I told you about notifying me of new employees?”

His suit is perfectly pressed, his shoes so polished the overhead lights bounce off them, and there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth—like he knows something you don’t. His presence feels like a spotlight has swung onto your desk, making your gut twist with nausea.

Dennis blinks, flustered. “Uh… that HR handles orientation?”

Lex’s smile widens just a fraction. “No. I’ve told you—I insist on meeting them.” His gaze drops, then moves back up slowly, lingering just long enough to make you squirm. “I like to know the people who join my family.”

Dennis laughs nervously, clearly unsure if Lex is joking. “Right, of course. Uh, this is—”

“I know who she is,” Lex cuts in smoothly, extending a hand toward you. “I always make it my business to know.”

You rise quickly, taking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr—”

“Call me Lex,” he says, leaning in ever so slightly. “And the pleasure... is all mine.”

A cold shiver zips down your spine. You pull your hand back and shove it into the pocket of your pants, masking your discomfort with an overly bright smile and a small, awkward laugh.

Lex studies you a moment longer—just looks at you. The discomfort grows as every second ticks by, and even Dennis looks bewildered by whatever the hell is happening. Seconds stretch until it feels like a full minute before Lex finally blinks, and if that alone isn’t a red flag, you don’t know what is.

“Well, then,” he says at last, clasping his hands together. “Unfortunately, I must keep moving.”

You nod once, forcing your mouth into a polite smile that feels far too tight on your face.

“Dennis.” Lex turns to him, brows raised. “Keep moving.”

“Oh—right, yes.” Dennis gives you a quick nod before turning toward the elevator. “This way, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s gaze lingers on you for just a beat longer before he follows. The second the doors slide shut behind them, you exhale hard, releasing a breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. You drop back into your chair, hands gripping your knees as you try to breathe past the nausea clawing at the back of your throat.

You’ve never felt so uncomfortable by someone’s presence alone. There’s something deeply unsettling about Lex Luthor. Something you can’t trust. Something that makes you skin crawl. And for the first time, you’re starting to wonder if Clark might be right.

Which is exactly why you don’t tell him you met the billionaire CEO. Not even when he asks how your day was, or if anything exciting happened, or why you seem a little more tense than usual. You shrug it off with an excuse about being tired and take yourself off to bed early, hoping the rest of the week won’t be as unsettling as today.

But it only gets worse.

Because Lex makes a point of stopping by your desk every single day.

On Tuesday, he asks how you’re settling in—if you need anything, if your team is being supportive enough. On Wednesday, he asks if you’re comfortable where you’re sitting, if you’d prefer to be by a window, or if you’d like a bigger desk. On Thursday, he asks about your workload, how you’re managing, how you see yourself moving forward with the company.

You don’t have the guts to tell him you don’t plan on staying for long—especially not now that he seems to have made you his new pet project.

By Friday, the rest of the office has definitely noticed his interest. A few seem unfazed, others a little jealous, but only Katie bothers to ask if you’re okay. She says she’s noticed he can be a little odd sometimes. Apparently, his last girlfriend worked in the Information Technology department, and Lex would visit her every day before they officially started dating. But when they broke up, she just… disappeared.

“We didn’t really expect her to keep working here after they split,” Katie explains, perched on the edge of your desk, “but no one’s heard from her since. It’s been, like—” She cuts off, eyes darting toward the elevator. “Shit, here he comes.”

She slips off your desk, flashes you a tight smile, and hurries back to her own cubicle.

You hear him before you see him—his shoes clicking sharp against the polished concrete floor, each step making your pulse climb higher, tighter, until he stops right beside your desk.

You glance up, forcing a polite smile. “Good morning, Mr. Luthor.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it isn't quite a smile. His gaze drags over you instead, slow and assessing, as if your posture alone might give you away.

“How many times must I ask you to call me Lex?”

Heat floods your face, betraying your unease as it coils low in your stomach.

“At least one more?” you offer, hoping he’ll take it lightly.

Relief flickers through you when the faintest smile touches his lips.

“Then please,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice, “call me Lex.”

You nod once, lips pressed tight, heart hammering against your ribs. You don’t even know why he unsettles you this much. He hasn’t touched you, hasn’t crossed a boundary outright, hasn’t asked anything you could point to as inappropriate. It’s just something in the way he watches you—steady, predatory, like you’re already marked. The next name on the list. The next girl to date him. The next girl to disappear.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” he asks, brows lifting.

You shift in your chair, buying a breath as you scramble for something—anything. “Just the usual,” you reply. “Chores, errands, hanging out with my roommate.”

Clark isn't technically your roommate—perhaps temporary roommate would be more accurate—but something instinctive makes you emphasise it. Something in your gut insists on letting Lex know you don’t live alone.

“Roommate?” he repeats, interest sharpening.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve known him since high school.”

His jaw ticks, and you don't miss it—satisfaction curling in your chest. You know Clark will protect you no matter what—you don’t need to drop his name like a shield. But it feels good to do it anyway. And you’d much rather attempt to deter Lex yourself than have to admit Clark was right all along.

“What about next weekend?” Lex asks.

“Much the same,” you reply quickly, wringing your hands in your lap.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Surely your roommate won’t mind me stealing you for one night, then?”

Your stomach knots, twisting with nausea and panic and the sharp regret of not listening to Clark.

“One night?” you echo, your voice unsteady.

Lex nods. “The LuthorCorp gala.”

“Oh,” you mutter. “I—I thought lower-level employees weren’t—”

“I’m not inviting you as an employee,” he cuts in smoothly, voice dropping lower. “I’m inviting you as my date.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Date?”

“Mhm.” He nods again, smirk curling higher. “I'll take that as a yes.”

He slips his hands into his pockets and turns away, all purpose and pride, not a single shred of doubt in his stride. The elevator doors slide open as if on cue, and only once he’s inside does he glance back—smirk still etched into his face, cocky and unsettling, like he already knows he’s won.

You don’t move even once the doors slide shut. You don’t breathe. You can’t even think. You just sit there, sweaty palms pressed hard to your thighs, heart hammering, the taste of bile sharp at the back of your tongue.

You know you don’t have a choice. You should, but you don’t. And if you told anyone—if you told Katie or your mom, or God forbid, Clark—they might even insist that you do have a choice. They’d tell you to say no, to stand your ground, to quit your job and walk away. But deep down, you know better. You felt it in the way Lex spoke—there was no room for rejection. He didn’t even wait for your answer. He decided for you, and maybe that was always how this was going to go. Because Lex Luthor has chosen you. Chosen you to be the next girl. The next name. The next mystery disappearance. And you’re not sure you have much of a choice about that either.

The rest of the day is a blur of nausea and dread. You can’t shake the clammy sweat clinging to your skin, the knot twisting tighter and tighter in your gut. Every time the elevator pings, your pulse spikes, breath hitching in your throat as you brace for him to come back. You don’t put your headphones back on—you can’t, not with your nerves stretched this thin. You need to hear every sound, every step in the hall, every voice drifting over the cubicle walls.

You think about texting Clark more than once. Your phone burns like a weight in your pocket, and it would be so easy—just one message, and he’d come running. He’d drop everything. But you can’t do that. You can’t be that selfish, and besides… what would you even say? As far as Clark knows, you haven’t even met Lex Luthor. How are you supposed to explain that not only have you met him, but you’ve somehow ended up as his date to the illustrious LuthorCorp gala?

And honestly? You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want to see him worry, or worse—watch him freak out and do something reckless. And above all else, you don’t want to admit that he was right. Not just because you’re stubborn, but because the guilt is gnawing at you. You brushed him off, laughed at his warning, and now here you are—trapped in a situation that makes your skin crawl, a situation you might have avoided if you’d just fucking listened.

Lunch passes without you moving from your chair. You’re not hungry, not when your stomach is a roiling mess, and your limbs feel too shaky to trust. So you just sit. Sit and wait and watch the clock drag its way across the afternoon. Every tick feels louder than the last, every minute stretched into something unbearable.

By the time four p.m. finally rolls around, you’re so wound that up you almost jump when Katie’s voice cuts through the hum of the office. She calls a quick goodbye over her shoulder, casual and warm, while you just blink up at her, yanked sharply back into the present.

Clark is already home when you get there—in the kitchen cooking something that smells suspiciously like pancakes. You drop your bag, shed your coat, and walk slowly through the apartment with your eyes downcast, your mind still reeling from the day.

“Hey,” Clark says, followed by the gentle clatter of the spatula against the pan. “How was your day?”

When you glance up, he’s already watching you. Leaning back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top buttons undone like he doesn’t realise how good it looks. His glasses sit tucked into his breast pocket, glinting under the light, and his dark curls fall over his forehead in that maddeningly effortless way. There’s a half-smile tugging at his lips, dimples just barely creased—the kind of smile that feels like it’s meant only for you.

“Hi,” you murmur, heat rising to your cheeks—but this time it’s not from unease, it’s the dangerous effect Clark Kent always seems to have on you. “It was... okay.”

He lifts a brow. “Okay?”

You let out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging. “It was a bit weird.”

He takes a half-step toward you, brow furrowing. “Weird how? Are you—”

“I’m fine, Clark,” you cut in gently, leaning a hip against the island counter. “I just—” You stop yourself, guilt and nerves tangling in your chest as you weigh whether or not to tell him the truth.

“You don’t seem fine,” he says, shifting his shoulders

Maybe half the truth will work.

“I got asked out at work today,” you blurt, the words spilling out quickly.

His jaw tightens, subtle but unmistakable, and he shifts his stance—arms folding a little tighter across his chest. “That’s... interesting.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyes dropping to trace the patterns in the marble countertop. “I said yes—kind of—but I don’t really want to go.”

When you glance back up, his expression has darkened. You know that look. It’s the one he wears right before he does something wildly overprotective. The look that says he’d do anything to keep you safe.

“Why don’t you want to go?” he asks, his voice unusually light—not at all what you were expecting.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff, careful. “What’s the harm in going on a date? You said yes, so obviously part of you wanted to—”

“I didn’t technically say yes,” you cut in, frowning. “He didn’t really give me a chance to respond. He just... told me he was taking my silence as a yes.”

Clark’s nostrils flare, betraying the calm mask he’s forcing into place. “He didn’t let you respond?”

You shake your head. “No. He was very... firm.”

Clark stills, and for a moment you’re not even sure he’s breathing. His shoulders are tight, his hands fisted where they’re tucked under his arms, but his face is composed—annoyingly calm. Too calm. Almost like he’s holding back on purpose. Like he doesn’t want you to see what this conversation is actually doing to him.

Which is strange, because Clark has never hesitated to be protective before. You’re used to it—it’s part of who he is. But now? Right now, when it matters? This is the moment he chooses to smother it down. To let you dangle in uncertainty. To act like going on a date you never wanted isn’t reckless. And he doesn’t even know who the date is with.

He clears his throat, turning stiffly back to the stove and picking up the spatula. “Why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested?”

You hesitate, rolling your lips as you search for a way to answer without giving away the whole truth. “That might not end very well.”

The muscles in his back twitch beneath his shirt, but he doesn’t turn around. “Why not?”

“Well,” you murmur, “he’s kind of like... my boss.”

That gets him—and he whips back around, brows shooting up. “Your boss?”

“Kind of,” you say again—because technically, Lex isn’t your direct manager.

“So this guy is abusing his position to pressure you into a date?”

You shrug sheepishly. “I guess you could say that.”

Clark frowns, jaw working as if he's biting back the words he really wants to say. “Then go to HR.”

You roll your eyes. “And tell them what, exactly? That my boss asked me on a date and didn’t give me a chance to say no? They’ll just tell me what you told me—to tell him I’m not interested. Or they’ll make a bigger deal about it, and you think that’ll go well?”

His eyes flash. “It’s harassment.”

“It’s complicated,” you counter, brows drawn stubbornly.

Clark studies you for a moment, head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to piece together the parts you’re not tell him. His gaze lingers so long it makes your skin prickle, and you’re not sure if you want him to push harder or to back off.

“Complicated,” he repeats, voice low. “That doesn’t sound like you. Usually you tell me everything.”

Guilt twists sharp in your chest, because yeah—usually you do tell him everything. But it’s not like he’s been a shining example of honesty these past few weeks either. He’s been weird and distant and overcompensating for something he clearly isn’t telling you.

Your chin tips up before you can stop yourself. “Don’t you usually tell me everything too?”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Clark,” you sigh, frustration creeping into your tone—born of nerves and guilt and the way he’s looking at you right now, like he’s already halfway to seeing through you. “You’ve been all weird the past few weeks. Acting distant, then suddenly switching it up like you’re trying to give me emotional whiplash. It’s almost like you’re keeping something from me. So why don’t you explain that?”

His lips part, then close again. For a moment, he looks caught off guard—like you’ve hit too close to something he wasn’t prepared to defend.

You step closer without meaning to, heat rising in your chest. “You don’t get to stand there acting like I’m the one holding back when that’s all you’ve been doing for weeks now.”

His jaw tightens, and the air between you sharpens. He leans forward just slightly, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

Your heart hammers in your throat, but you don’t back down. You stare at him, unblinking, right at those impossibly blue eyes that haunt your dreams and fill your filthiest fantasies. He’s so much taller, so much broader, and the kitchen suddenly feels far too small for all the tension building hot and heavy between you.

His gaze drops—just for a second—to your mouth. And then he shifts closer, the distance between you narrowing to a single heartbeat.

Your breath catches. Your pulse hums. You should step back, say something, shatter this moment before something happens that neither of you are ready for. But your body doesn’t listen. Instead, it leans in—like Clark is the sun and you’re helpless in his orbit.

His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, and your skin sparks with anticipation. You can almost swear he’s about to close the distance, to finally give in.

But then—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The smoke alarm blares through the apartment, yanking you both back to reality. Clark straightens abruptly, clearing his throat as he turns to the stove where something is hissing dangerously in the pan. You stumble back a step, chest tight, dragging in a shaky breath as if you’d just been ripped from a dream too good to be true.

“I’m—um—” You swallow hard, willing your voice to steady. “I’m gonna shower.”

Then you turn sharply and hurry out of the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom. The door slams shut behind you and you fall back against it, lungs heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. You let your head thump against the wood, and a quiet, humourless laugh slips past your lips. It’s déjà vu. Just like that night a few weeks ago—when you’d done this exact same thing. Run to the bathroom, pressed yourself against the door, and berated yourself for the thoughts you couldn’t control. Thoughts you had no business having about your best friend.

Because Clark has always been nice. Too kind, too thoughtful, too protective. And at first, back in high school, it was so easy to mistake that for something else. The way he carried your books without asking, walked you home every day, noticed when you changed your hair or wore a new perfume. The way he cheered you on like you were the only person in the world who mattered. You thought maybe it meant that he felt what you felt. But of course, he was just Clark—good, polite Clark Kent who sees the best in everyone and just wants to help. You convinced yourself he could never see you as more than a friend—you had to—and shoved it all down. You dated other people, lived your life, told yourself you were fine with just being friends. Best friends. And when he left for Metropolis, you decided it was for the best.

Except now you’re here. And now you don’t know what to think.

Because Clark is still kind, still thoughtful, still protective. But it feels different. It feels heavier. Hotter. Like there’s something behind it all that he’s not saying. And when he gets close—so close you can feel his warmth, smell the clean, addictive scent of him—it doesn’t feel like friendship at all. It feels dangerous. Like standing on the edge of something you’ve spent years convincing yourself wasn’t real.

Your stomach flips violently, and you bury your face in your hands with a groan.

You thought moving to Metropolis would be simple. Fun. You’d get a good job, live your best life, and be close to your best friend again. You didn’t expect it to be easy, but you definitely didn’t expect to be coerced into dating a billionaire CEO while simultaneously wondering if Clark Kent—your Clark Kent—wants you as more than a friend.

Surely not.

Right?

You exhale hard, fighting the urge to scream. You just need to stop overthinking. Or maybe stop thinking at all. Because Clark isn’t the problem right now.

The problem is figuring out how the hell you’re going to get out of your date with Lex Luthor.

-

The rest of the weekend is… strange. Whatever suspicions you had about Clark’s feelings die fast on Friday night, when he eats burnt pancakes alone in the kitchen before heading straight to bed—without so much as a mumbled goodnight.

By the time you drag yourself out of bed on Saturday morning, he’s already gone. Suit on, symbol bright, off to save some squirrels… or maybe the people trapped in the burning apartment building down near Bakerline, which you only know about from the morning news.

He doesn’t come home after that. You assume he went straight to his fortress to sunbake and argue with robots—because apparently their company is preferable to yours.

You don’t see him again until Saturday night—when you step out of the bathroom after a particularly steamy shower and nearly jump at the sight of him on the couch, still in his suit. It always makes you want to laugh when you see Superman in such a mundane setting—but Clark doesn’t even give you a proper look before standing, brushing past you, and slamming the bathroom door.

That pisses you off. So you spend the next half an hour pacing the kitchen, rehearsing every version of the confrontation you’re going to have. But when you finally hear his bedroom door creak open and you march into the living room, ready to let him have it, the TV steals your attention.

The nightly news. A segment about LuthorCorp’s upcoming gala.

And just like that, every carefully practiced word dies hot on your tongue.

So you sit instead, stiff and silent. The rest of the night crawls by in awkward fragments of conversation until you both give up and head to bed early.

Sunday passes in much the same way—hollow, stilted, nothing fixed.

By Monday morning, you’re more nerves than human. You can’t even decide what to obsess over first—whatever’s happening between you and Clark, or your fast-approaching date with Lex Luthor.

“You look terrible,” Katie says, leaning against the partition of your cubicle.

You give her a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Did you sleep at all over the weekend?”

“I tried,” you mutter, turning your gaze back to your screen.

Silence settles for a beat, but Katie doesn’t budge—you can feel her stare pressing harder with every passing second.

You look back at her, brows raised. “Yes, Katie?”

Her eyes brighten instantly. “You’re Mr. Luthor’s date to the gala, aren’t you?”

Your stomach drops. “How do you know that?”

“Apparently Dennis overheard Mr. Luthor telling one of his assistants, Erin, to add another seat with your name at the main table. Then Dennis told Jim, who told Cathie, who told Renee—who I overheard telling Tanner in the breakroom,” she explains in a single breath.

You drop your elbows on your desk and press your face into your hands, like you can somehow hide there. “Oh my God, what have I done?”

Katie hesitates, then leans in a little. “So... I’m guessing you’re not overly excited about it?”

“No,” you mumble through your palms. “I didn’t have a choice.”

She snorts, but there’s no humour in it. “Sounds about right. It was the same with Izzy—once he decided he wanted her, that was it. And when he was done, she just—”

“Disappeared,” you cut in, dropping your hands. “Yeah, I know. I don’t need the reminder. But if you’ve got any tips for getting me out of this mess, I’d love to hear them.”

Katie grimaces. “I wish I did... but it’s not like you can just go to HR.”

You blow out a sharp breath. “There has to be something. Some government agency, someone who can actually do something.”

“You want to sue Lex Luthor?” Katie asks, lowering her voice, brows arching. “Yeah, that’ll end well.”

You spin your chair to face her fully. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose—wishing you could go back in time, listen to Clark, and never have taken this stupid job. You should’ve just said yes to his offer at the Daily Planet. Slinging coffee for over-caffeinated journalists sounds pretty good right about now.

“Unless you happen to know Superman,” Katie says with a laugh. “He’s probably the only one who could get you out of this mess.”

Your pulse jumps, stomach flipping with nausea that crawls up your throat—but you swallow it down, forcing an awkward laugh as you swivel back to your screen.

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Superman. Right. Like he doesn’t have bigger things to worry about.”

Katie tilts her head. “You never know. He seems to like protecting the little guys.”

You frown. “And I’m the little guy?”

“In this situation?” she says, brows lifting. “Yeah. You are. Lex Luthor has you under his thumb. If I were you, I’d be out on the street looking for trouble, hoping for a glimpse of red and—” She cuts herself off, eyes flicking toward the elevator. “Shit. Speak of the devil.”

She doesn’t even bother to smile this time—she just shoots you a look twisted with pity before hurrying back to her desk, leaving you alone with the sharp click of Lex Luthor’s polished shoes drawing closer.

“Good afternoon.”

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen—twelve p.m. exactly.

You turn to him with a tight smile. “Afternoon, Lex.”

“I won’t be around much this week,” he says, matter-of-fact, as if you’re owed an explanation for his absence. “There are things I need to arrange before the weekend.”

You nod, unsure what else to do.

“I’ll text you the details Friday night. Wear something elegant—there’ll be cameras.”

It’s not a request. It’s a directive. Delivered with that slight smirk that makes your stomach twist.

You nod again, swallowing hard. “Can’t wait.”

It doesn’t sound genuine, but apparently it’s enough. His smirk tilts a little higher, he gives you a single nod, and then he’s gone—his polished shoes clicking toward the elevator. The office stirs with murmurs—the most noise you’ve heard since you started—but all you can hear is your pulse. Like a war drum, pounding in your ears. A rhythm of warning.

Your chest tightens, lungs aching, head spinning. You need air. Space. Time to figure out how you’re supposed to explain to Clark just how monumental a mess you’ve made.

You sit at your desk for a few minutes, trying to breathe through the nausea. The whispers around you grow louder, murmurs rising into full-volume conversation, but you can’t make sense of any of it. You’re too focused on keeping your breakfast down and yourself upright.

Eventually, you can’t stand it anymore. You slip on your headphones, grab your jacket, and head for the elevator. Once you step inside, you start scrolling for a song, glancing up just before the doors slide shut to catch sight of the office—half your coworkers are standing by the tall windows, their faces a mix of shock and amusement.

You frown, curious, but don’t lift a hand to stop the doors from closing. Whatever’s got their attention—a car accident, a street performer, maybe even a tourist from Gotham—it’s not enough to keep you from your walk.

By the time you reach the lobby, your music is queued and the volume is up. You nod at the security desk as you pass, then step out onto the street, glancing quickly both ways. You can’t see anything out of place—there’s no flipped car on fire or Arkham escapee running rampant. It is oddly quiet. Almost suspiciously quiet. But without any immediate danger, you remain undeterred. You need coffee and fresh air, and then maybe you’ll be able to figure out how to tell Clark everything you’ve been keeping to yourself.

He’s going to be mad, no doubt. But you can deal with angry Clark. Angry Clark is easy. It’s the disappointed, I-told-you-so kind of Clark Kent that you can’t stand. Not only because you hate being wrong, but because it always pulls him closer. Too close. Close enough that you can feel his eyes on you, hear that soft edge in his voice, close enough that it makes it impossible to forget what you’ve been trying to bury for years.

And that’s the problem. You can’t be that close to him. Not when you’re just friends. Not when every brush of his hand, every look that lingers a second too long makes your chest ache with wanting more than you’re allowed to have.

But he doesn’t make it easy. He never has. Not when he gets all stiff and stuffy about your dates, or when he insists on patching you up every time you trip over your own two feet—hovering in so close you can feel his breath while he presses an ice pack to your skin. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You know that. He’s just Clark—good, dependable Clark. But God, it feels like more. It feels dangerous.

Clark Kent is dangerous—to your health, your heart, your goddamn head.

Because what right does he have to be angry with you, anyway? What right does he have after that almost kiss—a kiss he leaned into just as much as you did—to be angry?

At least… you think he’s angry. You don’t actually know. You haven’t said more than a few clipped words to each other since Friday night. Since he got annoyed at you for holding things back. Since he got defensive when you pointed out how weird he’s been. Since he leaned in, gaze dropping to your lips, and almost—

The world lurches, and suddenly you’re not on the ground anymore. The pavement drops away beneath your feet and before you can even think to panic, you’re in the air.

You don’t need to open your eyes to know who it is—the scent, the warmth, the sheer unshakable solidity of him. It’s Clark. Superman. Both, really.

Your breath hitches and your arms curl tighter around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. His hold shifts, steady and secure, one arm strong beneath your knees and the other locked at your back, pulling you closer. It should feel terrifying—the wind rushing, the city spinning smaller and smaller below you—but all you can focus on is him. The warmth of him. The way his body feels against yours. The subtle squeeze of his arms when you cling tighter.

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might shake you apart, but not from fear. From this. From him. From the fact that you’ve barely spoken in weeks and suddenly you’re here, wrapped around him like he belongs to you. Like you’ve been starving and only just realised what for.

And maybe that’s the scariest part—not the sky, not the impossible height—but the way your chest aches with the truth you’ve been too afraid to admit. That you don’t just miss him. You need him.

Your feet find solid ground before you’re ready, and it takes you a second too long to loosen your grip. But when you finally stumble back, breathless, he doesn’t let go completely. His hand stays warm at your waist, thumb brushing your ribs—and you know it’s only meant to steady you, but right now, it feels like so much more.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, eyes searching yours.

You blink fast, glancing around the tight alleyway you’re now standing in. There are still people moving—running, actually—out on the street, so you know you can’t risk being too familiar.

“I—I’m on my lunch break, Superman,” you say, taking another unsteady step back. “What are you doing?”

He stares at you, eyes wide. “I’m… saving people. What does it look like?”

You frown. “From what?”

“Really?” he snaps, one arm gesturing wide with exasperation.

You glance toward the street, spotting a few panicked civilians rushing past—but nothing else. Your frown deepens, head tipping curiously, until Clark crooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts it up.

The sight makes your breath catch—dozens of mechanical insect-looking-things sweeping across the sky, metal bodies glinting, eyes glowing red. Their stingers look like spears, and their open jaws spark with beams of light as they chase fleeing pedestrians below.

“Oh shit,” you mutter. “What are those?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” His eyes narrow at the swarm before cutting back to you. “Why would you even leave your building?”

You scratch the back of your neck, glancing aside. “I—uh, I didn’t see them.”

“Didn’t see them?” he echoes, tone sharp. “You didn’t notice the one flying straight at you?”

You shrug, sheepish. “I was just… walking. Listening to music.”

He exhales hard, tipping his head back and dragging a hand down his face. “How many times do I have to tell you—” he cuts himself short, eyes darting toward the street. “—tell the citizens of Metropolis to be careful.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, Superman. I’m fine.”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re not fine. You’re reckless.”

You bite back a smile. “And you’re a little overdramatic.”

A flash of green streaks overhead, and you glance up just in time to see two members of the Justice Gang cutting across the sky.

“Looks like you’ve got backup,” you say.

Clark looks up, his mouth parting to reply—but then he freezes. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing at something way above your head.

You whip around. “What is it?”

“One of the insect-things,” he says quietly. “It’s hovering.”

You feel him step in close behind you, his body pressing against your back as one arm slowly winds around your waist. The warmth of him seeps through your jacket, your pulse stuttering at the contact. You lean back without thinking, letting him hold you, giving in to the want that flares in your chest.

“Why isn’t it attacking us?” you whisper.

His arm tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “But I’m getting you back to work.”

Before you can protest, he spins you around. Your hands land on his chest and for one stolen moment you catch a glimpse of that soft Clark Kent smile—before the ground disappears beneath you all over again.

- Clark -

Clark dreams about you that night, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is the dream itself.

He dreams about flying with you—holding you close, your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging like he’s the only thing tethering you to this world as the city disappears below.

He dreams it again the next night. And the next. For three nights in a row, he dreams of you in his arms, cutting through the sky above Metropolis.

But the fourth night is a little different. On the fourth night, lying in bed, Clark can’t stop thinking about how you’d looked sitting on his couch wearing one of his old shirts, smiling faintly at a movie he wasn’t paying any attention to. He couldn’t. Because all he could see was you—perfect and impossibly close, but still untouchable.

And the image of you presses so hard into his mind he can’t sleep. He can’t think of anything but you—your scent, the shape your lips make when you say his name, the memory of your body pressed warm against his chest.

Eventually he gives in. His hand slips beneath the waistband of his sleep shorts, wrapping around himself—already hard and aching from nothing but the thought of you—and he strokes himself until he’s shuddering. Until he’s coming quietly beneath the covers, muffling his moans against his arm, shame burning through his chest because you’re just one thin wall away. Oblivious. Probably sleeping.

And that night he doesn’t just dream of flying with you. He dreams of having you. Really having you. In his bed. On the couch. Bent over the kitchen counter. And—God help him—even in the sky. The risk, the rush, the idea of giving you something no one else ever could.

The dream jerks him awake, heart pounding, skin hot, cock straining against his shorts. And he knows he can’t face you that morning, so he stays in bed, breathing through the want clawing at his chest, refusing to touch himself the way he had the night before.

He listens to you get ready for work, every sound a reminder of how close you are, how much he wants you. And all the while he curses himself—not just for being weak, not just for wanting you—but for betraying the one thing he’s supposed to be. Your friend.

Because Clark knows something has shifted. That something between you is different now, and it’s his fault. He knows it. He just doesn’t know how to fix it—or if it even can be fixed. Because lately, every word, every glance feels loaded, like he’s standing on a wire stretched too thin.

And ever since he opened his big mouth at work and let Jimmy get in his head—let all of them get in his head—he hasn’t known how to act around you. He doesn’t know if he should pull closer or step back, doesn’t know what’s safe anymore. Which is probably why you’ve been keeping things from him. Why you’ve got a date this weekend and he can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Hey.”

Clark almost startles at the sound of your voice. He hasn’t seen you since he got home—he heard the shower running and decided to busy himself in the kitchen after rummaging through the fridge for something for dinner.

Still standing at the stove, he glances over his shoulder. “Hey, are you—” The words die in his throat, breath catching.

You’re wearing the same shirt—his shirt—as last night. It drowns you, hem brushing your thighs and covering the tiny shorts he knows are hidden beneath. The only difference? Tonight you’ve got long white socks pulled up over your knees. And God, Clark is trying to be respectful—he really is. He was raised to be good, polite, proper. But the sight of you in those socks is only making him wonder what they’d look like draped over his shoulders while he—

“Am I what?” you ask, brows raised.

Clark clears his throat, dragging his eyes away from your legs. “Are—um, are you hungry?”

You lift one shoulder. “A little. What’re you making?”

He looks down at the pan on the stove. Right, dinner. Food. Chicken… maybe? He can’t remember. All he can think about is the way you look right now, standing just a few feet away from him.

“Um, chicken… something,” he mutters, keeping his head down.

You step closer—he can feel it—but he doesn’t turn around.

“Chicken something?” you echo.

He doesn’t reply—he just frowns at whatever’s sizzling in front of him, resisting the urge to turn around and do something he can’t take back. He hears you shuffle, open the fridge, pop open a can, then set it quietly on the counter. You don’t retreat to the living room. You stay. Waiting. And it shouldn’t feel this tense, the air shouldn’t be this thick. It’s just you and him—it’s always been you and him—but now there’s something else.

“So,” Clark says at last, keeping his voice level, casual. “Still going on that date this weekend?”

You hesitate—and even though he refuses to turn around, he can practically see the way you’re worrying at your bottom lip.

“Yeah,” you reply softly. “Still going.”

Clark’s stomach knots, jealousy twisting tight in his gut. “Thought you didn’t like the guy.”

“I don’t,” you blurt. “I mean, I don’t think I do, but—”

“It’s complicated?” Clark offers, finally turning around.

You give him a flat look—but it’s not quite like the usual deadpan stare you pull when you’re annoyed. This one’s different. Guarded. Layered. Like you’re trying to cover up something that’s getting harder and harder to hide.

Clark doesn’t press, though. He opens a cupboard and pulls out two plates, serving up the grilled chicken and stir-fried vegetables he’d so easily forgotten about earlier—thanks to your damn socks. Then he slides one plate toward you and grabs two forks and two knives from the top drawer beside the sink.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “Smells good.”

He nods, smiling softly, wishing he knew how to break whatever awkward curse has suddenly fallen upon you both. Maybe it’s because you’re holding something back from each other, for the first time in years. Maybe it’s because he’s crossed too many lines, let too much of what he truly feels bleed through. Or maybe it’s worse—maybe your feelings have changed entirely. Maybe you don’t want to be this close anymore. Maybe every little thing that used to feel easy between you is starting to feel too heavy. Too much. And it’s all his fault.

“Hey Clark,” you say softly, eyes fixed on your dinner. “Can I ask you something?”

Clark tilts his head, brow furrowing just slightly. “Of course.”

You roll your lips and stab a piece of broccoli, obviously buying time by pushing the food around on your plate. “On Saturday night,” you mutter, gaze still downcast, “if I call you, or—or text you, will you—”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice firm. “I’ll be there. Whatever you need, I’m there.”

When you glance up, your gaze softens, eyes wide with a quiet ache that Clark can’t quite place. Your mouth pulls down just slightly at the corners, and his heart stutters. It’s that look. The one you wear when you can’t quite find the right words to say. The one that could make him say, do, be anything you needed him to.

“And,” you whisper, voice low and unsure, “you won’t be angry?”

He rears back a little, brows drawing tight. “Angry? Why would I be angry?”

You shift your weight, still stabbing at the food on your plate without yet eating anything. For a second, it looks like you’re about to say something—your lips part, breath hitching—but then you press your mouth shut and shake your head.

“It’s nothing,” you say instead, lifting your fork halfway to your lips. “Just… I don’t want you to be mad if—”

“I won’t be mad.” He leans forward, palm pressed flat against the counter. “I promise. Whatever it is, whatever you need me for—I won’t be angry.”

You nod, but you don’t seem convinced. Your shoulders are still tight, your eyes looking anywhere but at Clark, and you’re gripping your fork so tight your knuckles are white.

He doesn’t know what else he could say to make you believe him. All he knows is that there’s nothing you could do that would ever make him angry. Even when you’re reckless, even when you throw yourself into danger, he’s not mad—he’s scared. Worried. Protective. And maybe he doesn’t have much of a right to that last one, but he can’t help it. He’s always been protective of you, and he knows that won’t ever change.

Dinner passes in relative silence, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery or the occasional muttered word that feels heavier than it should. When you’re both finished, you offer to wash up, but Clark waves you off and tells you to go queue up a movie.

At the sink, he scrubs a little harder than necessary, accidentally cracking one of the plates with the pressure of his grip. He sighs, frustrated, but doesn’t stop. He can’t. Because his chest feels too tight, his pulse is rushing in his ears, and his throat is thick with all the questions he’s biting back. Like... who’s the guy? Why are you so worried? It’s not like you haven’t gone on dates before—dates you weren’t excited about, dates you later laughed about with Clark. But this? This is different. It’s written all over you, in every nervous glance, every deflection. And it’s killing him not to know why. Killing him that you can’t just tell him. Killing him that you can’t—or won’t—just cancel it.

You only make it through half the movie before heading to bed, claiming you need to be up early for work. Clark follows a few minutes later, but sleep doesn’t come easy. He tosses and turns almost all night, listening through the wall for the steady cadence of your breathing, the rhythm of your heart—like the creep he is.

By the time the sunlight cuts through his curtains, he’s pretty sure he’s had no more than two hours of sleep. Total. Then just like yesterday, he listens to you get ready and leave for work before finally dragging himself out of bed. He goes through the motions—shower, coffee, breakfast, the whole dull routine—barely conscious of anything until he’s stepping out of the elevator onto the top floor of the Daily Planet.

“Hello sunshine,” Jimmy beams, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk. “Don’t you look chipper this fine Friday morning.”

Clark shoots him a look—half scowl, half warning.

Jimmy drops his feet and leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Yikes. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“I think you mean who,” Lois says, spinning around with a smirk. “And my money’s on the super-hot best friend who’s still crashing on his couch.”

Clark drops into his chair and powers up his computer, keeping his back to them. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Jimmy chuckles. “Come on, man. We’re here for you. Whatever it is—”

“She’s got a date,” Clark blurts, swivelling to face them. “Tomorrow night.”

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Oh.”

“Ouch,” Lois mutters.

Cat pops up at her desk, eyes wide. “Oh, Clark. Honey, I’m so sorry.”

Clark shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance even though his shoulders are locked tight. “It’s fine. Really. I’m not upset.”

Lois snorts. “Really? That’s your ‘I’m totally fine’ face?”

“Who’s the guy?” Jimmy asks, blunt as ever.

“Don’t know,” Clark mutters. “She didn’t say.”

Cat steps forward, hands on her hips, brows drawn. “Wait—like, you didn’t ask, or she refused to tell you?”

Clark turns back to his desk, pretending to busy himself with the stack of papers there. “Well, I didn’t exactly ask, but she said it was… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Jimmy echoes, scooting forward in his chair. “Complicated, how?”

Clark gives him a flat look. “If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be this annoyed about it.”

“So you are upset?” Lois asks, one brow arched, smirk still firmly in place.

“Not upset.” Clark frowns, turning toward her. “Just… uncomfortable.”

Lois tilts her head. “Right. So you’re uncomfortable about her going on a date—not because you’re jealous—but because you don’t know who the guy is or why she’s calling it complicated?”

Clark nods. “Exactly.”

“Why would she need to tell you who it is?” Cat cuts in. “I mean, unless it’s someone she knows you wouldn’t approve of. But even then, it’s not like she needs your approval.”

“She doesn’t,” Clark says quickly. “I just—” He shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I just want to know what’s complicated about it. Because honestly, she didn’t really seem like she even wanted to go.”

Cat frowns. “Wait, so she’s being... forced into it?”

“I don’t know,” Clark sighs, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “Maybe. All she said was that the guy’s kind of like her boss, and she can’t go to HR because it wouldn’t end well.”

“That sounds like harassment,” Lois mutters.

Jimmy nods. “Yeah, that’s messed up.”

“I know.” Clark pushes his glasses higher on his nose. “But she doesn’t want my help, so I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t do anything,” Cat says, arms folded. “You just be her friend. Be there when she needs you. She’ll ask for help if it comes to that.”

“Exactly,” Lois adds. “And if she calls you Saturday night, you go. No matter what.”

Jimmy frowns. “But Saturday night is—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Cat cuts in, shooting him a look.

“Yeah,” Clark mutters, turning back to his computer screen. “Be her friend.”

The edge in his voice lingers even as silence settles over the bullpen, the usual sounds of the newsroom swelling to fill the space. Cat’s heels click as she returns to her desk, Lois spins back around, and Jimmy lets out a long sigh.

He rolls his chair further forward, dropping his voice low. “Hey, man—you never know. If you’re her knight in shining armour on Saturday night, she might—I don’t know—start seeing you differently.”

Clark huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You just gotta ask yourself,” Jimmy adds, his grin audible. “What would Superman do?”

Clark throws an unamused look over his shoulder, even though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the slightest twitch. Jimmy just winks, chuckling quietly, and scoots back to his desk.

Clark knows he’s only making fun of what Steve said the other week—that dumb phrase that somehow stuck. That somehow became a running joke in the bullpen, tossed around whenever someone says they're unsure or confused.

Except when Steve says it. Steve really means it when he says it.

But little do they all know just how much those words have come to haunt Clark. Because every time he sees you—every time he thinks about all the almosts that hang unspoken between you—that question echoes through his mind, relentless. What would Superman do?

Would he have kissed you that night in the kitchen, when you looked at him like he was the only person that mattered? Would he tell you not to go on that date, stop you before you slipped further away? Would he cut through all the fear and excuses, and finally say the one truth Clark has always been too scared to confess?

He hates to admit it, but the cape gives him courage. The suit, the symbol, the very idea of Superman—it makes him feel larger than himself. And when he’s flying above the city, wind roaring in his ears and adrenaline like lightning his veins, he feels unstoppable. He is unstoppable. Almost. Until it comes to you.

Because you can undo him with a smile. With a laugh that tangles in his chest. With the way you say his name, soft and sure, like it was always meant to live on your tongue.

And the worst part—the scariest part?

Not even Superman is invulnerable to you.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur of word counts, lukewarm coffee, and Jimmy’s occasional attempts at banter. Clark keeps his head down, pretending to be focused, but he just can’t stop his thoughts from drifting. To you. What you’re doing. Who you’re with. Whether, by some miracle, you’re thinking of him too. He knows it’s doubtful—but a man can dream.

By the time four o’clock rolls around, he’s more than ready to leave. He doesn’t even care that he’s the first in the bullpen to pack up. It’s Friday, and it’s not like staying back would mean getting any real work done. He hasn’t gotten much done all day. All week, if he’s being honest.

“You clocking off already?” Jimmy asks, leaning back in his chair.

Clark nods, draping his jacket over his arm. “Yeah. I don’t have anything due, so I figured I’d get out early.”

“Lucky you,” Lois mutters dryly, not even glancing over her shoulder.

Jimmy chuckles. “Sucks being the boss’ favourite, doesn’t it, Lane?”

She snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jimmy’s grin falters, and Cat giggles from the other side of the partition.

“Do you see how mean she is to me?” Jimmy says to Clark, gesturing toward Lois’ desk.

Clark shrugs. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Jimmy frowns, indignant, but Clark just smiles and slings his bag over his shoulder.

“See you tomorrow.”

Cat’s head pops up over the partition. “You still wanted to rideshare, right?”

“Of course.” Clark tucks his chair under his desk. “Just text me when you’ve left Jimmy’s.”

Lois scoffs. “We’re going to text you well before that. You’re not making us late, Kent.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “I won’t be late. Promise.”

She doesn’t reply—she just shakes her head and lifts a hand in a lazy wave, eyes still glued to her screen. Jimmy smiles, nods once, and wheels back toward his desk, while Cat grins before dropping back down behind the partition.

Clark takes his time heading home, in no rush since he already knows you won’t be there. You’d texted earlier to say you were going shopping after work, looking for something to wear on your date tomorrow night. He’s pretty sure you’d mentioned it earlier in the week too, but he’s been working hard at repressing everything you tell him about this stupid date.

At least he won’t be stuck at home alone tomorrow night, worrying about you. Resisting the urge to fly out and find you, just to make sure you’re safe. Not that he actually wants to be working on a Saturday night, but at least it’ll be a distraction. Hopefully. If he can keep his mind on the job instead of on you—and whoever this guy is.

God, Clark can’t wait until Sunday. When this whole thing is over and maybe—just maybe—you can both go back to normal. No more secrets. No more complications. Just you and him. And maybe, if he’s brave enough, he’ll finally kiss you. Or at the very least, tell you how he feels.

It’s unlikely, but... maybe.

-

“Why does Clark get the front seat?” Jimmy mutters, squirming between Lois and Cat in the back. “I’m gonna be all wrinkled by the time we get there.”

Cat rolls her eyes. “Clark barely fits in the car, let alone between two people in the backseat.”

“Stop fidgeting,” Lois snaps. “You’re sitting on my dress.”

“I can’t breathe,” Jimmy gasps, overly dramatic.

Clark wants to laugh—he knows he should. Cat is giggling, and even Lois is fighting a smile. But he can’t quite bring himself to join in. Not when his eyes are fixed on his phone—on the last message you sent.

I know you’re at a work thing but just letting you know my location is on. Have fun tonight. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home.

That’s how complicated this date is. Complicated enough that you’ve turned your location on, just in case Clark needs to find you. The thought makes his stomach twist with unease—knowing you’re spending the night with someone you don’t trust, someone who makes you feel like you need a safety net.

He has half a mind to ditch this event entirely and go find you. Just to be close. Just in case. But he can’t. He can’t be that reckless—or that obvious—no matter how much he wants to be. He has to trust you. And trust himself enough to believe that if something does happen, he’ll be fast enough to get to you.

“Uh, sir. We’ve arrived.”

Clark’s head snaps toward the driver—and in his periphery, he realises the backseat is already empty.

“Oh, sorry,” he mutters, fumbling with his seatbelt. “Thanks for the—uh, the ride.”

He slips out of the car, quietly cringing at how awkward he just made that moment. A few steps ahead, Cat, Jimmy, and Lois are waiting. Lois is helping Jimmy straighten his tie, and Cat is reapplying lip gloss using her phone camera.

“Here,” Lois says, pulling a bunch of lanyards from her purse. “Our press passes.”

Clark takes one and slips it over his head. Then he tucks his phone into his jacket pocket, pushes his glasses higher up his nose, and finally turns to face the enormous, lit-up building in front of them.

There’s a red carpet, velvet rope, and more burly security guards than he can count. A few feet from the main entrance there’s a metal barricade holding back the paparazzi, cameras flashing as they shout for guests to look their way.

Clark takes a steadying breath and looks up—at the massive banner draped across the entryway arch.

THE LUTHORCORP VISIONARY GALA

His stomach sinks. Heat prickles his skin. Something about tonight feels wrong. And it's not just the fact that you’re God knows where with some sketchy date—it's something else. Something bigger. Something that has the suit beneath Clark’s tux starting to itch.

“You ready?” Lois asks, her eyes sharp with curiosity

Clark swallows hard. “Yeah—yep. Let’s go.”

They make it halfway up the carpet before a guard checks their passes and ushers them through the doors, directing them down a long hallway toward the press entrance. The building itself is already grand, but the lavish decorations push it into the realm of impossible wealth.

Their footsteps echo against the marble floor as they move. Security guards stand posted every few feet, each one as stern and unyielding as the last—even though Clark still has a few inches on most of them. Finally, at the end of the hall, they’re escorted through a set of polished mahogany doors into the grand hall—an even more extravagant sight than the foyer.

The room is drenched in black and gold, soft light glowing down from draped ceilings. There are huge bouquets of flowers in the middle of each table, with tall candles flickering dangerously close beside them. Two bars stretch along each side of the room, sleek and shining, their shelves stacked high with dozens of glittering, multicoloured bottles. And at the very front, just before the dancefloor, is a glossy black stage with a glass podium gleaming at its centre.

“Holy shit,” Jimmy mutters, head tipped back as he stares up at the room. “Luthor must be rolling in it.”

Lois stops beside one of the tables, peering at the little place cards. “This is us.”

They each find their seats and settle in, while their table—and the ones around it—quickly fill with other journalists and reporters. The press area is raised slightly above the rest of the gala, offering a clear view of the entrance, the dancefloor, and the main stage.

After a few minutes, Jimmy and Cat wander off toward the bar, and Lois starts murmuring quick notes into her voice recorder. Clark takes the moment to sit back and slip his phone out of his jacket pocket. He opens the location app and taps your contact, watching as the little blue dot pulses on the screen. It flickers, skittering around Metropolis until—finally—it stops.

On the street behind this building.

Clark frowns. He hadn’t asked where you were going—and he realises now that he probably should have. It’s not that strange for your date to be somewhere nearby; this is the heart of Metropolis, after all. But right behind this building? That feels almost too convenient.

His pulse eases, the nausea in his stomach settling at the thought of you being so close. Maybe you picked the restaurant. Maybe you wanted to stay near where Clark would be, just in case.

But… Clark doesn’t remember ever telling you what his ‘work thing’ was. It’s not like the two of you have talked much these past few weeks. And you never asked.

So maybe it’s just a coincidence. Either way, Clark is relieved. Maybe he’ll be able to sneak away at some point in the night and check on you. Not in a creepy stalker way—just to make sure you’re safe. Just to be sure you don’t need saving. Even though, deep down, he’d really, really like to be the one to save you tonight.

“Where’s Luthor?” Jimmy asks as he returns to the table with a drink in each hand. “I couldn’t see him.”

Lois clicks off her recorder. “He’ll be the last to arrive. There’ll be an announcement—we’ll all stand. It’s a whole thing.”

Jimmy frowns. “An announcement?”

“Yes,” Lois says, firm and a little exasperated. “Steve Caldwell’s hosting tonight. He does most of Luthor’s events. He’s a good emcee, but he hates the press, so don’t expect any interviews.”

Cat squints at the stage. “Is that him—the guy with the bad toupee?”

Lois nods. “Yeah, that’s him. And it looks like he’s about to take the stage.”

Slowly, the chatter in the hall fades to hushed murmurs. Guests lingering at the bar or on the dancefloor start shuffling back to their tables, and the security guards shift into place—sharp, silent, eyes scanning the edges of the room.

Servers quicken their pace through the maze of tables before disappearing into the kitchen or behind the bars. Clark hears the soft, ominous click of all the doors falling shut—every one except the main entrance, which stays wide open, waiting for the grand arrival of Lex Luthor.

Clark feels it in his chest—the faint but undeniable pull of anticipation, like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for the signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Steve Caldwell’s voice cuts through the hush, smooth and professional. “Welcome to the annual LuthorCorp Visionary Gala. Tonight, we celebrate innovation, leadership, and the people making a difference in our world. We have a very special evening planned, but before we get started...”

He pauses, glancing toward the side of the stage—waiting for a nod, a signal.

Clark’s phone buzzes in his jacket pocket.

“Would you please stand and join me in welcoming—” Steve continues, and everyone rises from their seats— the rustle of fabric and scrape of chairs louder than it should be.

Clark slips his phone out, glancing at it quickly to see the text—from you:

Clark, I fucked up.

His stomach drops.

“Our host,” Steve announces, orchestral music swelling through the hall, “a visionary in every sense of the word—Mr. Lex Luthor!”

Lex strides through the main doors, and the room erupts in applause.

Clark’s chest tightens as he hurriedly types a response to you:

Are you okay?

Lois nudges her elbow into his side—and he looks up, brow furrowed. Her eyes are wide as she tilts her head toward the centre of the room, silently urging Clark to pay attention.

He draws a shaky breath and glances down at where Lex is standing—in the middle of the floor, arms raised, grinning like some evil mastermind who just saw his nefarious scheme come to fruition. He turns in a slow circle, basking in the attention, cameras flashing as he pauses here and there before finally facing the entrance again.

Clark’s phone buzzes. He quickly checks it—another text from you.

This is so much worse than I thought it’d be.

His lungs seize.

“Clark,” Lois hisses. “Put your damn phone down.”

“But it’s—”

“Thirty seconds, Clark. Then you can go if you have to.”

He bites his tongue and does as he’s told, slipping the phone back into his pocket. It feels like he’s just been struck by lightning—three thousand volts surging through his veins—and yet he’s expected to stand still and clap politely.

His gaze finds Lex again—and time slows.

Lex lifts an arm, hand outstretched toward the main doors. A figure appears, a woman, blurred by camera flashes. Her dress glitters, her heels click—loud and ominous in Clark’s ears. She steps toward Lex, hand reaching for his.

Clark cranes his neck, the tang of panic sharp at the back of his tongue. He needs this moment to be over. He needs to get to you, to make sure you’re okay. But everything is moving so slowly—too slowly—as if the whole world is grinding to a halt, just for this moment right here.

Then—

“Oh fuck!” Jimmy blurts, eyes wide as his head whips toward Clark. “That’s—”

“Jimmy!” Lois snaps.

He turns to her, his face pale with shock. “But it’s—”

Cat gasps. “Oh my God. It’s her.”

It doesn’t register at first—doesn’t make sense. That’s not you. You’re on a date. The date you’ve been dreading for weeks, the one you said was too complicated to cancel. But then the spotlight widens, encompassing both you and Lex—and you smile. Soft and unsure, but it’s there. It’s familiar. It’s you.

Clark’s stomach flips. His heart stutters.

You’ve always been beautiful. Always. But here, under that spotlight, with that smile on your lips and that glittering dress hugging every curve—God, Clark’s sure he’s about to pass out. From shock, jealousy, you. All of it at once. He can’t breathe. Can’t think.

When your fingers slip into Lex’s, the breath catches hard in his lungs. His chest feels too tight. His heart too large. His limbs heavy, numb.

It’s a physical ache, a hollow-throated, rib-crushing pain. The kind that makes him want to look away—but he can’t. He can’t stop watching, because you’re there, and Lex is there, and he knows that in this moment, surrounded by people, there’s absolutely nothing he can do but watch.

- You -

“Well done,” Lex murmurs in your ear, his breath warm against your bare neck. “You did excellently.”

You’re not sure how—you’re pretty sure you blacked out—but you made it across the hall without falling over or fainting. And now you’re standing beside the stage—knees weak, sweat prickling the back of your neck, forcing a smile as Lex kisses the back of your hand and steps up toward the glass podium.

The crowd is a blur of applause and praise, white noise in the back of your mind as you focus on keeping yourself upright. The edges of your vision blur. Your chest is tight. Your stomach feels like someone’s turned it inside out, like you’re going to be sick. You can’t even catch a full breath. Every laugh, every clink of glass, every flash of a camera is wrong. Everything is wrong.

You can feel the panic rising—hot in your throat, clawing at your lungs. Your hands are shaking, but you don’t dare draw attention. You should’ve been prepared for this. You should’ve known. You should’ve said no—done something, anything.

You should have told Clark.

“Miss?”

Your head snaps toward the security guard now standing beside you. He isn’t touching you, but one arm hovers near your waist while the other gestures toward a table. It’s a little smaller than the rest in the hall, fewer place settings, but the centrepiece of flowers is—somehow—even more elaborate.

“Thank you,” you mutter, voice sticking in your throat.

You step toward the table slowly, not trusting your shaky legs. The guard—one of Lex’s personal protection, you’re guessing—pulls a chair out for you, and you all but fall into it. You manage a tight smile, and he nods before returning to his post beside the stage.

Lex is at the podium, his voice smooth and practiced as it carries through the hall—but you can’t make out a word. It’s all just noise beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears and the thoughts in your head screaming at you to get out of here.

You open your purse and pull out your phone, swiping the brightness down low before bringing up your texts with Clark. He hasn’t replied to your last one, but you know he’s at a work event. Maybe he’s just busy. Caught up.

Maybe you shouldn’t be bugging him right now. It’s not like this is really an emergency. You’re safe—or at least, you think you are. Lex might be creepy, but what’s he going to do in front of all these people? You’re just uncomfortable, that’s all. And you don’t need to make it Clark’s problem unless there really is something wrong.

You draw a shaky breath and type out another text:

Sorry, that was dramatic. I’m just a bit overwhelmed, but I’m okay. I’m safe. Hope you’re having fun at your work thing.

You hit send and stare at the screen for a few seconds. The little bubble with the dots pops up—he’s typing—but then it disappears. You wait. But it doesn’t pop up again.

Your heart lodges in your throat. He’s... ignoring you? Surely not. Right? Why would he? No—he’s just busy. He’s working, and you just told him you were safe. There’s no reason for him to text back. If you need him, he’ll be there. You know that. But you’re fine right now. You just need to calm down and focus.

Focus on your plan to prove to Lex Luthor that you’re not his next victim—sorry, girlfriend.

It’s simple, really. All you have to do is turn him off without pissing him off. Make him realise you don’t fit into his world. That he doesn’t actually want you. But without pushing hard enough to make him angry—or end up like the women who came before you.

On stage, Lex is in his element, talking through a presentation about what’s next for LuthorCorp. He’s confident, charismatic, commanding the hall of hundreds like he was born for this—for persuasion, for power, for aggrandising himself.

You sit quietly, hands knotted in your lap, focusing on your breathing. You angle your head slightly away from the stage, keeping your gaze on the crowd, on the servers weaving between tables. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes if they look this way.

The main floor is filled with wealthy guests, sponsors, stakeholders—people who look like they’ve never worried about anything but money. A few faces you recognise, most you don’t. Toward the back, behind a red velvet rope guarded by security, sits a raised section of tables. You squint, trying to make out who’s there—some extra-special VIPs, maybe—but the dim light and camera flashes blur your vision.

You turn to the woman sitting beside you—someone Lex had introduced in the limo, his publicist maybe—but you’ve already forgotten her name.

“What’s that section back there?” you whisper, nodding toward the far side of the hall. “Is that, like... the mayor or something?”

Her eyes flick toward the roped-off area. “Press. They’re not allowed to mingle, but after dinner Lex and a few sponsors will go over for short interviews or statements.”

You frown. “Why can’t they mingle?”

She gives you a flat look. “They’re press. No one wants them sniffing around our guests or overhearing something salacious.”

“Oh.”

You sit up straighter, gaze still fixed on the press area, squinting as if you might actually make out a face from this distance. Not that you’d even know anyone there. Maybe Cindy from the seven o’clock news—Clark usually has it on while you eat dinner.

After what feels like another hour of Lex preaching about drones, robotics, and some new frequency he’s discovered that can manipulate something—you’re not really paying attention—he finally wraps up and hands back to the emcee.

While Steve thanks Lex and runs through the rest of the evening, Lex works the room. He stops at a few tables near yours, greeting guests you assume are important, schmoozing until Steve announces that dinner is being served. Then he returns, drops into the chair beside you, and grins like a man who just won the lottery. Not that Lex Luthor needs to win the lottery.

“How are you?” he asks, laying his napkin across his lap.

Servers emerge from the kitchen with trays of food, serving your table first—because of course.

“I’m good,” you lie, forcing a smile.

He smirks. “Good. And what did you think of the presentation?”

“Loved it.” You smile wider, faker. “You’re really good at that whole public speaking thing.”

He chuckles softly—patronisingly, somehow—as if you’re a child that amuses him. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

You try not to cringe, pressing your lips together so tightly you’re almost sure you look constipated, but Lex doesn’t notice—he’s already distracted by the steak set in front of him. Your stomach twists at the sight. It doesn’t look bad—it actually smells good—but you’re not hungry. Not even a little. All you feel is a nauseating ache where your appetite should be, and it has nothing to do with the food.

You miss Clark. You’ve been missing him ever since things got weird a few weeks ago. Since your first day at LuthorCorp, since that night in the kitchen when he pressed up behind you, and everything that used to be easy between you got complicated. Strained. Confusing.

You wish you’d had the guts to confront him, to ask him what the hell had changed. You wish you’d told him about tonight, about what your date really was, before it ever happened. Maybe then you wouldn’t be sitting here, smiling while your insides twist with regret.

Because right now you don’t just want Clark nearby; you need him. You need the stupid, steady comfort of him, the way being around him makes all the noise dull. You need someone who would notice you were breathing wrong and take you home without a second thought.

Right now, Clark Kent is the only thing you need.

“So,” Lex says, voice low, eyes still on his steak. “How do you know Superman?”

You choke, breath catching, cutlery clattering against your plate. He glances at you from the corner of his eye as he lifts a forkful of food to his mouth, impassive, unbothered. Just waiting.

You swallow hard. “Superman? Like—the caped guy?”

Lex nods, his mouth twisted into that slight smirk that makes your skin crawl.

“Well, I—um, I’ve seen him on the news,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “I wouldn’t say I know him, though. I know of him.”

Lex chews slowly, thoughtfully, his gaze drifting lazily around the table. Then he swallows, and turns back to you, his expression a practiced mask of composure.

“That so?” he asks, head tilting just slightly. “Didn’t he save you the other day—when those drones attacked the city?”

Your pulse spikes and your skin flushes with heat, your mind scrambling for an excuse. “Oh—right. Yeah, he did. I guess I forgot about that.”

Your brows pinch, just slightly, and you blink down at your plate. You don’t remember seeing Lex—or anyone from work—that day on the street, when you were standing in the alley with Clark. In fact, you’re pretty sure Superman flew you a considerable distance away from the LuthorCorp building. How could Lex have seen you? Unless he caught the split second when Clark picked you up.

“You forgot?” Lex echoes, brows raised. “Forgot that you were attacked by drones, saved by Superman, and flown halfway across Metropolis and back?”

Halfway across Metropolis? So he does know about the alley.

You shrug, doing your best to seem casual. “Yeah, I mean—fear repression or something, maybe? It was pretty scary.”

Lex’s eyes narrow. His smirk is gone now, but his mouth twitches at the corner—the only sign that he’s irritated, that he doesn’t believe you.

You keep your gaze fixed on your dinner, your expression blank as you slice into the chicken breast—even though your heart is pounding hard enough to rattle your entire body.

“You see,” Lex says, leaning closer, voice dropping lower, “at first, I just thought you were… attractive. I thought you’d look good on my arm. But then—” He pauses to stab his fork into his steak. “But then I saw you with the Kryptonian that day, in the alley, pretending you didn’t know each other.”

“We don’t,” you cut in, firm.

Lex huffs a sharp breath through his nose, his frustration cracking through the practiced calm. “Please don’t think me stupid. I’m not stupid. I saw the way you spoke to each other—it was familiar. And the way he… held you.”

You drop your cutlery onto the plate and finally look at him. “How do you know all this? Did you see us?”

His brows lift. “So you admit it?”

“There’s nothing to admit.” You sit up straighter. “He saved me, and we had a brief conversation. That’s all.”

He goes still, just watching you, studying your expression, your posture, the way you meet his eyes without flinching—even while every alarm bell in your head screams at you to run. But if you weren’t sitting, your knees would’ve already buckled. You’ve never been asked outright if you know Superman. Sure, you’ve had to cover a few times when Clark vanished or slipped up by doing something no normal man could. But this? You’ve never had to lie like this before. And you can’t tell if Lex is even buying it.

“You never answered me,” you say, eyes dropping to the untouched food on your plate. “How did you know—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Steve says into the mic, his voice cutting through the buzz of conversation. “Please continue to enjoy your meal while the Metropolitan Jazz Ensemble take the stage. There’ll be a short break before dessert—meanwhile, you’re invited to mingle and network. For our friends in the press, Mr. Luthor will be available for interviews and a brief statement shortly.”

When you look back, Lex’s plate is empty. He’s smiling now—not broad, just that clipped, knowing smile people use when they’re hiding something.

“Mr. Luthor,” the woman on your other side says, “we need to get ready.”

Lex dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and meets your eyes. “You’ll join me—won’t you?” he asks, as if you have a choice.

You don’t bother forcing a smile; you just nod and shove your chair back. Lex and the woman—Annette, you think—stand with you and begin speaking in hushed tones about what he can and can’t say to the press. You use the brief distraction to step aside and slip your phone out of your purse—but still, nothing. No text. No call. Radio silence.

Panic rises in your chest, hot and sharp behind your ribs, because for the first time in a long time you feel painfully, utterly alone. Like maybe you don’t have a guardian angel watching over you. Maybe you really are on your own. Maybe you’re just stupid. And maybe… you’re in danger.

“Ready?” Lex holds out a hand, palm up, sharp eyes narrowed at you.

You swallow hard and place your hand in his—because you know it’s not an option. “As I’ll ever be.”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat. You feel sick, like your stomach is trying to claw its way up your chest, desperate to escape. You’re not even sure how you’re still moving, still standing, still breathing. All you want to do is turn and run, but you can’t. Because Lex Luthor’s grip is too tight, there are too many people, and you’re too deep in this mess to get out now.

The room is a blur until you reached the roped off section of press where Lex pauses, tilting his head politely toward a few photographers and letting them snap a quick series of shots. There are journalists lined up along the inside of the rope, recorders ready, notepads in hand. Lex nods toward one and the questions start rolling—easy, rehearsed stuff about LuthorCorp’s latest innovations. He answers smoothly, voice even, charming, dismissive. You keep your eyes down, or across the room, anywhere but at Lex or the reporter he’s talking to. You don’t want to be introduced or questioned; you’d rather be swallowed whole by the room itself and spared from every pair of watching eyes.

With each brief interview, your heart beats a little faster. You step forward, staying close to Lex—not holding his hand anymore, but still caught at his side, stuck there like a shadow. You try to focus on breathing, on staying calm, on anything but the foreboding ache pulsing behind your ribs.

But then—

“Mr. Luthor, Lois Lane, Daily Planet.”

Daily Planet.

You freeze. Time stretches thin. Every camera flash, every murmured question, every clink of glass slows down. You feel like you’re floating just behind your own eyes, your chest tightening so sharply it’s hard to breathe.

When your gaze flicks up, you see Lois Lane. You've met her before. She works with—

Clark.

You gasp, but it catches in your throat. You can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Because he’s here. Clark Kent is here. At the gala. Just a few steps behind the woman interviewing Lex. Separated from you by nothing but a flimsy rope. A rope you could step over, duck under, break through—just to get to him. To get to the only person you want right now—the only one you need.

And—he’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful. But here, in that suit, glasses sliding down his nose, curls falling over his forehead—God, you’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. Because Clark—your Clark—is here. Here when you need him, where you need him, and—fuck, now he knows. He knows everything. He’s seeing it. And he looks... hurt.

Your hands tremble at your sides, slick with sweat. You don’t know what to do. You want to run to him, beg him to get you out of here, but you can’t. There are too many people, too many cameras. And Lex is holding your wrist now—not your hand, your wrist. His grip is tight, almost painful, keeping you pinned at his side.

“Thank you, Mr. Luthor,” Lois says, stepping back.

You’re still looking at Clark. He’s still looking at you. Neither of you has moved. He’s just... standing there, chest rising and falling too fast. You can vaguely make out the man beside him, short with brown hair, trying to draw his attention—but Clark doesn’t budge.

“That’s enough press,” Lex says, his voice low and too close to your ear. “We’re leaving.”

He tugs sharply on your arm, and you stumble, barely catching yourself before you fall. He pulls you across the hall, and you glance back over your shoulder, desperate not to lose sight of your lifeline. But halfway to the table, you do. Even when you squint, he’s gone.

Back at the table, Lex nods at one of his security guards. “Watch her. Don’t let her leave.”

Your heart hammers harder—if that’s even possible—and dread sinks low and heavy in your stomach. What have you done?

Everything blurs. Chatter turns to white noise, the room around you dissolving into colours and patterns. You can’t make out anything, can’t feel your arms or legs. All you can feel is your heart pounding against your ribs and your shallow breath coming too fast, too thin.

Lex’s voice through the mic is a distant echo—something about unforeseen circumstances, something about sponsors, something about goodnight. Then applause, and he’s by your side again.

He grabs your hand and starts walking, dragging you into step. Security guards flank you, steering you toward the main doors while the clapping swells around you. You crane your neck, searching the press area—but it’s too much. The lights, the cameras, the sea of people. You can’t find Clark in the chaos. And before you can even get your bearings, you’re being shoved into the backseat of a limo.

The door slams—and the chaos stops.

Silence.

You squeeze your eyes shut and draw a shaky breath, tipping your head back against the headrest. Your ears ring. Your lungs seize. Everything—your body, your thoughts, the air in the car—feels suddenly too heavy. Like you’re going to suffocate.

Then Lex’s voice slices through the silence. “Who’s Clark?”

You open your eyes. “What?”

“Clark,” he repeats, expression flat. “You said his name when I was talking to that Daily Planet reporter.”

You blink. “I—I did?”

His eyes narrow. “Were you talking about Clark Kent? That reporter who’s always interviewing Superman. Is that how you know him?”

“Know who?”

“Superman!” he snaps, anger finally boiling over. “That piece of shit alien that thinks he runs this city!”

You flinch, body instinctively angling toward the door, away from him. He doesn't care though—he barely even notices. He just chuckles—low and amused, the sound turning a little deranged.

“I thought you’d be a good choice,” he says, almost wistfully, as if you’ve disappointed him “Quiet, compliant, a good accessory. But you just had to go and ruin it.”

Panic surges through you as your fingers close around the door handle, hands trembling. And for one sick second, you wonder how badly it would hurt to throw yourself out of the car.

“Although, I suppose I should be thanking you.” He settles back in his seat, smug. “You’re about to bring me something I want.”

You frown, leaning into the door until its hard edges dig into your side. “Something you want?”

He smiles properly for the first time since you met him—and it’s the most unnerving thing you’ve ever seen. “Yes. You’re going to deliver Superman to me. Because I have no doubt Clark Kent will tell the Kryptonian you’re in trouble. And he’ll come.”

Your grip on the handle tightens. “But I’m not in trouble.”

Lex chuckles again, low and knowing. “Not yet.”

“Well... what if it doesn’t work?” you ask. “What if he doesn’t come to save me?”

Lex’s expression darkens. “Oh, he will. I saw the way he looked at you—and the way you looked at him. That was more than just familiarity. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already on his way—before I even have time to put you in real danger.”

Your breath stutters, chest tight, panic and regret tangling until you can’t tell one from the other. You squeeze the handle until your knuckles go white, about to yank the door open when the car shudders to a sudden stop. Both you and Lex fall forward, catching yourselves on whatever you can grab.

“What’s going on?” Lex snaps, glaring through the partition at the driver.

“There’s an accident up ahead,” the driver says. “Traffic’s completely stopped.”

This is your chance.

“Then go around it,” Lex orders sharply. “Mount the damn curb for all I care.”

Before you can second-guess yourself—before Lex can even glance back—you fling the door open and jump out. You don’t hesitate. You don’t think. You just run.

With the length of your dress fisted in one hand, you weave between cars. Horns blare, voices shout, the low rumble of traffic thrums from an adjacent road—but all you can hear is your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your shoes slam against the pavement when you finally hit the sidewalk, and you thank God you didn’t wear heels tonight. Every step feels too heavy, too slow, but you push harder. There aren’t many people to dodge, but the ones you do rush past give you startled looks—some call out, some curse at you to watch where you’re going. But you don’t care. All that matters is distance. Distance between you and the car. Between you and him. Between you and Lex Luthor.

You swing around the next corner, refusing to look back. You don’t know where you are—you only know you have to keep moving. Keep running. Even as your lungs burn. Even as your knees threaten to give out beneath you.

You know you must look insane—sprinting through Metropolis in a sparkly dress, panting like you haven’t done cardio in ten years. But none of that matters. All you can think about is your next move—where to go, how to keep Lex from catching you.

Maybe a police station. Maybe a fire station. Maybe a public bathroom you can lock yourself inside and call for help. Or Clark. You could call Clark. But the look on his face when he saw you with Lex keeps replaying in your mind, and you’re not even sure he’d answer.

You lied to him. For weeks. You pushed him away, refused his help, told him it was too complicated. But it would have been so much simpler if you’d just been honest. About everything. Not just the crappy new job and the creepy boss, but all of it. The years. The wanting. The love you’ve tried so hard to choke down. Every time you looked at him and knew, deep in your bones, that no one else would ever compare.

It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t feel the same. You just want to tell him. To talk to him. To be his best friend again and stop hiding behind excuses. You want to tell him everything—even if it breaks you.

You stop at the top of a set of stairs, gasping for air—and only then do you realise you’re crying. Your vision blurs with tears, your cheeks are wet, your throat is tight. You clutch the handrail, dragging in a deep, rattling breath. You don’t have a choice. You have to keep running. You have to keep going until you’re—

The world lurches. Your stomach swoops. And suddenly you're not on the ground anymore.

You’re in his arms.

You’re safe.

Thousands of feet above Metropolis, you’re finally safe. You squeeze your eyes shut, your tears turned cold by the rush of wind. He’s holding you so tightly you don’t even need to hold him back—but you do. You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand pressed to the base of it, the other slipping into his hair at the nape.

The noise of the city fades as you fly higher, further—away from the wreckage you left behind. You press your ear to his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heart guide your own, each beat a reminder to breathe. And by the time something solid touches your feet, it feels like breaking the surface after being held under too long. Like you can finally breathe for the first time all night.

For a moment, you both just stand there. His hold loosens but doesn’t fall away. You keep your eyes shut, your cheek pressed to his chest, waiting for your pulse to settle.

After what feels like forever—and somehow still not long enough—he pulls back. His fingers curl around your wrists, gentling unwinding your arms from his neck, and then he steps away. The sudden absence of his warmth makes you shiver, and you only then do you open your eyes to see that you’re standing on the balcony of his apartment.

You look up at him, fresh tears blurring your vision, but he’s already turning away. He doesn’t even glance back as he steps inside, boots heavy against the floor.

“Clark—” you try, but your throat is too dry, too tight.

You follow him, swiping away your tears with the back of your hand, feeling like a complete mess. He’s standing at the kitchen island with his back to you, both palms braced against the counter, head bowed. He’s completely still except for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

You swallow hard. “Clark, please. Can we—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You bunch your dress in both fists and take a step closer, voice wavering. “You don’t have to talk. Please—just let me explain.”

He turns around, his expression tight, shoulders rigid. “You don’t have to explain anything. If you want to date Luthor, then—”

“I don’t,” you cut in, too fast, too desperate. “I don’t. I really, really don’t. But I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t go to HR. I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“You could’ve told me,” he says, his voice low and rough, his eyes wide with hurt.

Your chest tightens. “I know—and I wish I did. I just... I was too scared.”

He blinks at you, just once, confusion and something close to heartbreak flickering across his face. “Scared?”

“Not of you,” you say quickly. “Just... scared.” Your heart feels like it's in your throat, your pulse spiking again—but this time it’s not panic, it’s something else entirely. “I was scared of Luthor. Scared of what people would think. But mostly I was scared of… of needing you.”

His expression falters. His mouth opens, then closes. His brows draw together, jaw working, as if the words are trying to force their way and he won’t let them. You can’t tell if he’s angry or just hurt. Probably both. But there’s something else too—something sharp and barely restrained beneath his careful composure.

You take a shallow, shaky breath. “I—I’m scared of how much I need you,” you say, voice catching. “These past few weeks have been hell. Not talking to you—not being honest—has been killing me. I don’t want any more secrets. I need you, Clark. Despite everything, I need you.”

Your words tumble out faster than you can control, frantic and raw. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make this weird, I just… I don’t want to lie anymore. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll get off your couch—I'll find my own apartment. And I know you want me to find a new job—I’ll do it, I swear. I just—”

“You have no idea what I want,” he cuts in, sharp and low—the tension breaking through his voice.

“Then tell me,” you plead, stepping closer. “Because I am so sick of guessing and pretending. I don’t know why it’s been so hard lately, I don’t know what changed, but I want to fix it.”

“I can’t.” He folds his arms, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

His eyes flick up, impossibly blue and shimmering with something you don’t recognise. “Because then everything changes.”

“Everything has changed, Clark!” you exclaim, a little louder than you mean to. “We haven’t talked properly in weeks. I don't even know how to act around you anymore. One minute you're pressing up against me in the kitchen, and then the next you’re completely ignoring me? And then the other night—” The words catch in your throat, and you swallow hard. “The other night we nearly fucking kissed, and we just—what? Forget that it ever happened? We don’t even try to talk about it?”

“I can’t,” he says again, tightening his folded arms.

You hold his gaze, heart hammering, feeling how close he is to the edge. There’s a flicker in his expression, a crack in the armour—something that betrays him, something that says he’s close to confessing the truth—and you’re determined to hear it.

“Why not?” you press again, voice firm, pulse rising.

“Because,” he says, his jaw tight, “I can’t risk this.”

You frown. “Risk what?”

“This,” he snaps, frustration spilling over as he gestures between the two of you. “Us. Everything. I can’t risk losing you to be selfish.”

You step closer again, closing the distance until only a few feet separate you. “It’s not being selfish, Clark. I’m asking you. I want you to tell me. I—”

“You!” he explodes, voice rough and a little strained. “I want you!”

Your chest seizes. Your knees feel weak. Your stomach twists like you just fell from a cliff and landed in the middle of your own heartbeat. Every nerve is humming, every inch of you suddenly alive.

You can hardly breathe, but you don’t care. All that matters is him—and the way he's looking at you. The way his eyes are locked on you, raw and unguarded and so achingly, unmistakably Clark.

He steps in, swallowing the distance between you in a single breath. “Are you happy now?”

You shake your head slowly, softly, eyes pleading as you look up at him. His chest rises and falls too fast, his gaze restless, searching your face for any sign he’s crossed a line he can’t return from.

And then he leans in, close enough for your breath to catch, his voice dropping lower. “Are you still scared?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard, willing him to keep going. Keep crossing the line. Fuck the line. You don’t want boundaries—you want him.

“What about now?” he asks, lifting both hands to cup your face—his palms pressing softly against your cheeks, like he’s afraid to touch something so precious.

You exhale softly, tilting your head into his hand, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “No.”

When you open them again, he’s even closer, his lips barely a breath from yours. Your pulse hammers in your ears, your stomach twists, your knees tremble. You’re frozen and undone all at once, balanced on the edge of something inevitable, something that could shatter you.

His thumb strokes your cheek, warm breath ghosting across your lips. “Even now?”

“Even now,” you breathe, heart racing, the words tumbling out like a confession. “Clark... please.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight. The air between you crackles, charged and electric. His lips part, like he’s about to say something else—but nothing comes. His eyes lock on yours, searching, his tongue darting across his bottom lip as if he’s holding back the last of his restraint.

You hold your breath.

Then he kisses you.

And the entire world falls away.

It’s like stars colliding, like gravity itself has finally given in. You taste him, feel him, the heat of his mouth and the solid weight of his hands cradling your face, anchoring you even as everything else disappears. His lips fit against yours like they were always meant to, urgent and reverent all at once.

Your hands clutch at his chest, fingertips pressing into the symbol, desperate for something to hold on to as you push up onto your toes, straining closer, needing more. Every year of restraint, every stolen glance, every unspoken word—they all break free in this one breathless, unstoppable moment.

The kiss deepens fast—too fast—and not fast enough. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that’s been caged for far too long, each pull and press sending shivers down your spine. His thumbs sweep across your cheeks, firm now, not careful, holding you like he’s terrified you might slip away.

You gasp into him, and he takes the sound, swallowing it, his lips parting as his tongue grazes yours—tentative for half a second, then greedy, desperate, claiming. The taste of him floods you, dizzying, addictive, and you chase it, pressing harder, tilting your head to meet him deeper.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit, bunching tight over the emblem as though it could anchor you. He’s solid under your touch, impossibly strong, but the way he kisses you—messy, breathless, almost frantic—makes him feel human, undone.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip, a sharp little spark shoots through you, straight down your spine. You shudder against him, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palms, making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

There’s no space left, no thought, no restraint—just him. His mouth, his hands, his body pulling you closer and closer until you’re certain nothing could ever pull you apart again.

But then your lungs start to burn, your head spins, and you’re almost certain you’re about to pass out. So you break apart, not far—only because breathing becomes absolutely necessary. And even as you gasp for air, your mouths still drag against each other, unwilling to fully let go. Your lips are swollen, tingling, slick with spit, and you can still taste him as the air between you rushes in sharp and shallow.

His forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, breaths colliding in the narrow space you refuse to widen. His hands are still on your face, thumbs trembling faintly as if he can’t decide whether to pull you closer again or finally let go.

You can’t stop staring at him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he’s fighting for words he can’t find. He looks half-crazed, undone in a way you’ve never seen—like holding himself back all these years has finally cracked something open.

Your chest heaves, your pulse a frantic drum, and still the urge claws at you, deeper than hunger, more dangerous than air. You want to drag him back down, to taste him until you forget your own name. And by the way his gaze drops to your mouth, the way his breath hitches, you know he wants the same.

“I want you too,” you gasp between ragged breaths. “I want all of you, Clark. I want everything.”

That’s all it takes. His hands find your waist, rougher now, fingers curling into the glittering fabric as his mouth claims yours again—hungry, relentless, burning with everything he’s held back too long. In one fluid motion he turns you, pressing you against the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your lower back as a shiver rips through you, every nerve sparking to life.

He presses into you, hips nudging closer until you feel the solid heat of him everywhere. His mouth never leaves yours, his hands restless, greedy—grasping, squeezing, mapping you out like he needs your shape branded into his palms. You melt against him, fingers clawing into his shoulders as your knees threaten to give.

Then his hands slide lower, gripping the curve of your ass, and he mutters against your mouth, rough and breathless, “Up.”

You barely have to move—he lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you on the counter and shoving your dress higher, his body sliding between your legs like he was always meant to be there.

“You have no idea—” he pants, his mouth still hot on yours, “—no idea what you do to me.”

His lips trail across your jaw, down your throat, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses as you tilt your head back, offering him more.

“When I saw you tonight,” he mumbles against your skin, his breath ragged, “I nearly lost it.”

You arch into him, a soft moan slipping free as he sucks a mark just above your pulse. The sound drags a groan from his chest, low and rough, and his hands leave your hips, sliding up your spine, fumbling for the zipper of your dress.

You want to help him—you want to straighten, to hold still, to give him what he’s reaching for—but you can’t. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but drown in the heat of him. Your heart is pounding, deafening, your skin lit up everywhere he touches, a knot of need twisting tighter and tighter in your belly.

His mouth finds its way back up—your neck, your jaw—before catching your lips again in a bruising kiss. Your hands slip from his shoulders into his hair, fingers threading through the curls with just enough pull to drag a sigh from his throat, hot against your mouth.

“I hate this dress,” he mutters against your lips. “I mean—I love it, but I hate it.”

Through the haze of want, you realise he means how difficult the zipper is. If you were with anyone else, you might’ve thought of it sooner, but you’re not. You’re with Clark—and he’s making you stupid.

“Rip it,” you breathe.

He pulls back just enough to search your face, his breath still ghosting over your lips. “You sure?”

You nod, pulse hammering. “Get me out of this fucking thing.”

His expression flickers, and the corner of his mouth curves. “But you look so good in it.”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch, a small smile breaking through. “Are you flirting with me, Kent?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes dark and bright all at once. “Have been for years, but thanks for noticing.”

Then he tears the dress. The sound of it ripping splits through the air, sharp and final, and the dress falls apart around you. For a split second, everything stills—his chest heaving, his eyes locked on yours—everything between you strung so tight it could snap.

The smiles slip from your faces, replaced with something heavier, hungrier, and the weight of it all crashes over you—the line you’re about to cross, the way nothing will ever be the same after this.

Clark draws an unsteady breath. “Are you sure about this?”

Your hands drift from his hair to cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the creases where his dimples hide. “Clark,” you whisper, voice shaking as your throat tightens, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The look he gives you is devastating. It slams into you like heat and tenderness colliding, the kind of gaze that leaves you breathless because you can feel it—his need, his love—written in every line of his face. Your chest aches with it, your pulse racing to match his.

“I’m in love with you,” you blurt, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His breath stutters—loud, uneven—and for a single, panicked second you think you’ve broken something you can’t fix.

But then his eyes light up, impossibly bright, and his smile spreads—slow, wide, completely unrestrained. His dimples crease, cutting deep enough to make your chest ache, and suddenly he’s glowing. Like you’ve just handed him the one thing he’s been waiting his whole life to hear, and he can’t quite believe it’s real.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything, like the rest of the world has vanished and all that’s left is this room, this moment, you and him. The sight makes you dizzy, swooning, your pulse hammering as that unguarded joy washes over you. It’s unfair—the grin, the dimples, the way his eyes hold nothing back—and somehow it makes you love him even more.

Before he can speak, you surge forward, capturing his mouth again, swallowing his smile, his soft laughter. His hands fumble at your dress as he kisses you, pushing it down over your shoulders, tearing a little more until the fabric finally slips free and falls to the floor.

Clark stills, just for a heartbeat, then eases back a step to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising hard and fast, lips red and swollen. When he speaks, his voice cracks under the weight of it. “You—” he swallows, eyes raking over you like he can’t take you in fast enough, “—you’re so beautiful.”

Your heart stutters, breath hitching. Superman—the Superman, cape and all—is standing in front of you, lips bruised, desire blatant in the tight stretch of his trunks, telling you that you’re beautiful—half-naked, trembling, aching, and beautiful.

“Clark,” you pant, leaning back on the counter with both hands. “Please, just—”

You don’t finish. He crashes back into you—lips, tongue, teeth—devouring you like a man starved. His hands spread wide across your back, dragging you flush against him as his hips roll forward, slow, deliberate, devastating.

You gasp into his mouth, the friction sparking down your spine, straight to the heat pooling low in your belly. You’re already wet, the thin fabric of your panties clinging to you, and it’s unbearable. You shift closer on the counter, thighs spreading, desperate to feel more of him, the hard line of him straining beneath the suit.

He grinds forward again with a low, guttural groan. You swallow the sound eagerly, smiling against his lips before catching his bottom one between your teeth and tugging—just enough to make him break, to drag another raw, strangled noise from his throat. And then—

Snap.

Your bra gives way, the straps slipping loose, and his hands are on you immediately—big, warm, rough in all the right ways. He rolls your nipples between his fingers and you can’t stop the sound that leaves you, a soft, desperate whimper torn from somewhere deep.

He sighs against your lips, the sound ragged. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You rut your hips forward, grinding against him, and he almost chokes on his breath.

“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw, desperate. “Please, Clark—touch me.”

A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, vibrating through you as his mouth claims yours again—harder, hungrier, like he’s losing the battle to hold anything back. One hand abandons your breast, sliding down the curve of your body in a slow, searing drag that leaves fire in its wake, until it settles at the top of your thigh. His fingers flex there, possessive, before urging your legs open wider.

You obey without hesitation, shifting your hips, spreading yourself for him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice like gravel, lips brushing along your jaw.

Your lungs seize. Your heart lurches, stuttering into a dangerous rhythm. You know he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds—you know he’s just acknowledging your compliance, that he isn’t even trying—but God, how can he say something like that and not expect you to fall apart on the spot?

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with curiosity and hunger. “You okay?”

You manage a swallow, a small nod. “Y—yeah, sorry. I’m just—” The words break off in a strangled gasp when he presses two fingers against your clothed cunt, firm and deliberate. “F—fuck.”

He chuckles softly, lips finding yours to swallow the sound as his fingers brush again, coaxing another. This time he presses harder, dragging the damp fabric against you, while his other hand shifts from one breast to the other—rolling each nipple until your back arches helplessly.

Then, slow—too slow—his fingers hook your panties aside, grazing over your slick heat. Your whole body jolts. “Clark,” you choke on his name, breath breaking. “Oh—God.”

He smiles against your mouth, kissing you like he can’t stop, urgent and reverent all at once as his fingers move lower. One slips between your folds, sliding easily through the wetness that’s already dripping onto the counter, and then—he finds you. He presses one finger right where you ache, right at your entrance.

You groan into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, gripping hard as he pushes in. The intrusion is delicious. Your thighs tremble, your lungs forget how to work, and the only thing that exists is him—his hands, his mouth, his body caging you against the counter like he was made for this moment.

“You’re so…” his voice rasps against your lips, breaking on the words, “so wet.”

Those filthy words in that deep voice—the same voice that usually trips over ‘golly’ and ‘gosh’ like they’re real curse words—have your mind reeling. You can hardly believe that it’s the same the man standing in front of you, touching you like this, making your thighs slick with arousal in a way no one else ever could.

“And you’re perfect,” he murmurs—just as he slides a second finger into you.

The whine that leaves your lips is needy, raw. You tip your head back, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure surges through every nerve in your body. You’ve never felt like this before—never been this turned on, this desperate, this undone. But God, you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except Clark. Your Clark.

He takes advantage of the way you’re baring yourself, chest pressed forward, throat stretched for him. His lips trail down the curve of your neck, lighting fires in their wake, before finding your collarbone. He sucks a mark into your skin, groaning low as he soothes it with his tongue, then slips lower still—mouth closing hot and hungry around your nipple.

You gasp, clutching at his curls, tugging hard enough that any other man would flinch. But this is Clark—and he just moans against your breast, the sound vibrating straight through you, making your body shudder.

His fingers work inside you at a maddening pace—thrusting, curling, coaxing. Every deliberate press makes you whimper, each movement more precise than the last, like he’s memorising the map of your body, like he’s learning exactly how to take you apart. And then his thumb finds your clit, circling slow, achingly slow, until your hips buck up into his hand with a strangled cry.

He tortures you like this for what feels like forever—his mouth roaming, sucking at your nipples, dragging up your throat, finding your lips only to abandon them for your collarbone again. Every soft lick, every sharp nip has you keening, undone by the way he devours you and yet holds back all at once. His fingers never falter—steady, relentless, never quickening, never easing—until you’re nothing but a writhing, sweating mess, panting his name like a prayer.

“Clark,” you whine, voice ragged. “Clark—please. I need—I need you. I want you.”

Your hand slips from his hair, trembling as it slides down the strong line of his neck, over the hard plane of his chest, until it stops at the bright red trunks. Your palm presses against the thick, heavy outline of him straining beneath the suit, and the heat of him makes your head spin.

He chokes on his breath, hips stuttering into your touch like he can’t help it.

“Sweetheart,” he groans against your neck, lips dragging over the sensitive skin, “‘m not gonna fit in here.”

And then, as if to prove it, he slides a third finger into you. The stretch is sharp, toe-curling, and you gasp—loud and unrestrained—the sound catching rough in your chest.

“Please,” you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. “Please try.”

A strangled sound rips from him before his mouth presses back onto yours, teeth and tongue and heat. His fingers thrust harder now, deeper, rougher, his wrist twisting as he spreads you wide, stretching you to take him. His other hand leaves your breast, skimming down your body until it grips your thigh, pushing it open as far as it will go. He drives his fingers into you again, and you cry into his mouth, shuddering with every merciless stroke.

You try to make yourself relax, to let your body open, even as every muscle aches to hold him tighter, to cling and never let go. His mouth drags hot and messy against yours, and you force yourself to breathe through it—because you’ve never wanted anything more than this man, and you know you never will.

Your hand slides lower, pressing against the thick line of him beneath his suit, and his hips snap forward instantly, chasing your touch like instinct. He’s hard, heavy, almost impossibly big, and the sheer size of him only makes your pulse race harder. You’re not worried. Or scared. You just need him inside you. Now.

“How does this thing—” you mutter, fumbling blindly at the fabric, fingers searching for a seam, a zipper, anything you can tug open. You’ve never thought about how he gets in and out of the suit before, but right now it feels like the most urgent question in the world.

He chuckles low and ragged against your mouth, his hands moving to help, and the second he pulls away your body clenches around nothing, a needy whimper tearing out of you before you can stop it.’

You don’t watch exactly what he does—you just hear the soft pop of fastenings, the hush of a zipper, the rustle of fabric. And when you look properly, you see him—skin bare, every line and plane of him lit and real. He’s perfect and honest and utterly exposed, and the sight of him takes your breath away.

He steps back into you, heat radiating off him, the bare weight of his body pressing flush against yours. You reach for him like you’ll drown without the contact, and he answers in kind—touch for touch, breath for breath—until the world narrows to skin, to heat, to the pounding thud of two hearts finally syncing.

“Clark—” you gasp, eyes drinking him in—alabaster skin stretched over thick muscle, broad shoulders you’ve clung to a hundred times, and between his legs… God. He’s so big it makes your mouth water. “You’re so—”

He silences you with a kiss, lips crashing back to yours, cheeks flushed pink as though he’s embarrassed by the force of his own want. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wide again, fingers biting into your flesh like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s seconds away from losing control.

And then you feel it—the blunt, hot head of him sliding against your folds, catching on the slick heat there. The sensation tears a shudder out of you, your body trembling with raw need. Wetness pools beneath you, smearing over your thighs, dripping onto the counter. Every nerve ending screams for more, for all of him, even if it splits you in two.

“Please,” you breathe, the word almost a sob. “I need you.”

His groan is low and guttural, torn from deep in his chest as he begins to press in. You gasp when the tip breaches your entrance—thick, hot, stretching you already past what you thought possible.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “You’re so—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, breath breaking. “We’ll go slow. Tell me if—”

You crush your mouth to his, silencing him with a kiss, fingers fisting in his curls. You cling, holding him close, letting him drink down every ragged noise spilling out of you.

He’s so big you feel dizzy, lightheaded, like your body can’t possibly take him. Some frantic part of your mind swears it has to be an alien thing, because no man—no human—could ever fill you like this.

Your chest heaves against his, hot, messy kisses pulling you through the sharp, searing stretch as he pushes you open inch by inch. You shift—thighs spreading wider, hips tilting, back arching—trying to make space for him. But after a few agonising inches, he stills.

“Lay back,” he pants against your lips, his breath mingling with yours.

One broad hand presses gently against your sternum, the other steadying your back as he lowers you. The cold marble bites into your overheated skin and you hiss, but he leans down instantly, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach. “Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with restraint.

When you’re flat against the counter, the stone slowly warming beneath your skin, you lift your gaze. He’s standing over you, chest rising hard and fast, his cock barely halfway inside—and from the look on his face, he’s hanging on by the thinnest shred of control.

You don’t mean to, but your body clenches around him, greedy, aching. The sight of him like this—beautiful, bare, wrecked and still so careful with you—makes your heart squeeze even as your body burns with need.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice almost too soft as his hands stroke your sides. “I—I’ve—” his breath stutters, eyes locking on yours, wide and sincere. “I’ve never… never wanted anyone like this… like you. All of you. Forever.”

Your breath catches. Your chest aches, head spinning, and you want to cry—you think maybe you already are, sweat and tears gathering at your temples as you stare up at this impossible, perfect man. Then he moves again, pressing forward, urging you open, stretching you until your vision goes hazy and all you can do is arch your back and whimper.

He rocks deeper, slow—so unbearably slow—your body struggling to adjust around him. The angle helps, your hips tilting as his big hands guide your thighs higher, wider, coaxing you to take more of him. You breathe through the sharpness, every nerve pulled tight with need.

You can’t stop staring. Even through the haze and dizziness, you can’t tear your eyes from him—so big, so perfect, so fucking undone as he holds himself back for you. Your gaze drifts over the slope of his nose, the curve of his swollen lips, down the hard planes of his chest and stomach until it catches on the dark hair leading down to where you’re joined.

You drink him in shamelessly, memorising every detail like he’s the map to your salvation. He consumes you—body, mind, soul—and your chest aches with the sheer force of love clawing inside you. You try to remind yourself that it’s real, that you get to keep this, but it still feels impossible.

And then—he stills. His breath catches, eyes dragging up from where he’s watching himself sink into you until they lock on yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice ragged, “you did it.”

Your lashes flutter, lungs burning as you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Something dark flickers across his face, a tremor of restraint snapping thin. “Are you sure?”

You want to roll your eyes, but you’re too far gone, too desperate. Your back arches, hands sliding up to palm your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples as you breathe his name like a plea. “Clark. Please—fuck me.”

And that’s it. Whatever thread of control he had left snaps.

He moves—not smooth, but jagged—like he’s still trying to hold himself back, still trying not to break you even as instinct claws through him. He slides out just an inch before his hips snap forward, and the jolt rips a cry from you. The sting of the stretch fades quick, drowned out by the white-hot pleasure that tears through your body.

Your fingers twist your nipples again, your back arching, gasps falling from your lips as he fucks into you with slow, jolting thrusts—each one a battle against losing himself completely. But the way his breath stutters says he’s already right there, shaking, flushed, curls mussed and wild as his eyes devour every inch of you like he’s starving.

“Harder,” you beg, head tipping back. “Clark—please, I can take it.”

He shudders—like the air’s been ripped from his lungs—and then he pulls almost all the way out, only to drive back in with a brutal snap of his hips that makes you cry out. And he doesn’t stop. He thrusts into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and just can’t anymore.

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, leaning over you, his forehead pressing to yours as his hips piston into you, rough now, relentless. “You feel so good.”

His hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks. And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.

He’s so big you feel each thrust all the way up into your chest, almost choking you with how full you are. It’s perfect. He’s everywhere—surrounding you, filling you, driving you into the cold stone until you know you’ll bruise, and you don’t care.

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, teeth and tongue and need—but there’s nothing rushed in it. Even now, even like this, he tastes you like you’re precious, like you’re some kind of miracle he can’t stop worshipping.

You cling to him, fingers tangled in his curls, legs hooking around his hips so tight you might as well be part of him. “Clark,” you pant. “You’re gonna make me—”

“I know,” he whispers, breath hot against your lips. “Me too.”

He kisses you once more—hard, hot, desperate—before pulling back, standing upright again. One hand stays at your breast, kneading gently, while the other slips between your thighs. His fingers find your clit instantly, circling, pressing with just the right amount pressure to rip a choked moan from your throat.

Your eyes squeeze shut—you can’t hold them open anymore. You’re too close, too tightly wound, your body a live wire about to snap. Your hands tangle in your own hair, tugging, as your body writhes beneath him until his palm leaves your breast and presses flat to your abdomen, pinning you down to the counter to keep you still.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice low and wrecked.

Then his hand slips lower, just enough to press into your belly—and you feel it. Feel him. Thick and deep inside you. The pressure borders on pain, sharp and overwhelming, but it’s so perfect you scream his name.

Your back arches, legs trembling violently, hips chasing every brutal thrust. His cock hits that spot again and again, unrelenting, and his fingers on your clit don’t stop—slick and ruthless—and that’s all it takes.

You shatter around him, crying out loud enough to echo, body breaking apart as pleasure rips through you. Your legs quake, your fingers knot hard in your hair, trying to hold yourself together as wave after wave crashes down. He feels it—feels you clenching, fluttering, dragging him deeper—and it unravels him completely.

His thrusts falter, losing rhythm. His grip tightens—one hand bruising your hip, the other braced on the counter’s edge—as he tries, uselessly, to hold on.

You force your eyes open just in time to see it.

His mouth falls open, a breathless moan tearing from his chest. His bright blue eyes flare molten red for a heartbeat before he squeezes them shut, head thrown back, and a raw, guttural sound bursts from him as he comes. Hot and deep inside you, again and again, until his whole body shakes with it.

And then—

Crack.

The counter shifts beneath you, just slightly, but enough to still you both. Panting, dazed, still shuddering in the aftershocks, you meet each other’s eyes. For a moment you just stare, disbelief and dopey grins tugging at your mouths.

“Did you just—” you breathe, voice ragged, “—break the counter?”

His eyes drop to where his hand had been braced, and sure enough—a jagged crack splits the kitchen island clean in two.

You sit up, head swimming, and he wraps an arm around you to steady you. He’s still inside you, still pulsing a little, still impossibly thick and somehow still hard.

For a beat you both just stare at the ruined countertop.

“That’s gonna be expensive,” you say, because of course that’s what you’re thinking about right now—right after getting your brains fucked out by your best friend… who you’re also in love with.

Clark chuckles, low and breathless, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah. It is.”

Then he scoops you up, arms sliding under you, and you squeal as your legs clamp around his waist and your arms loop tight around his neck. You feel him twitch inside you and the knot in your belly tightens again—already ridiculous and ready for round two.

“Maybe I need a roommate,” he says, flashing that grin that still makes your heart skip. “You know, help pay rent. Save money.”

You grin back—wide and cheesy—because holy shit, he’s so beautiful. So perfect. So impossibly Clark, and he’s yours. He loves you, you love him, and right now that’s everything.

“Is that you officially asking me to move in with you, farm boy?” you ask, brow raised as he strides through the apartment carrying you like you weigh nothing.

He laughs again and kicks the bedroom door open, turning toward the bed. “Was I not clear enough?”

You yelp when he drops you onto the mattress, the sudden loss of him inside you jarring. You bounce once, then he’s covering you with his warm, naked body and the world tilts. Your heart squeezes, your stomach flips, your whole body hums with giddy, ridiculous love.

“Let me be clearer,” he murmurs, voice low and a touch dark, as he trails slow, lazy kisses down your jaw and along your neck.

You arch into him, desperate for his touch, his skin. For everything and all of him.

“You know,” you gasp, breathless, the words catching as his mouth moves lower, “I’m pretty sure I’m out of a job, so I’m not sure if—”

Your breath catches as his mouth closes around your nipple, a soft nip soothed instantly by his tongue. You can feel his grin against your skin, those kiss-swollen lips curved into that boyish smile that makes your heart do somersaults.

“I said,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower, scattering goosebumps down your stomach, “let me be clear—I’m not letting you leave this apartment.” He pauses to suck a kiss just above your pelvis, the sound wet and obscene, making you clench around nothing. “Ever.”

Then he dips lower, and your lungs seize. Your thighs tremble. Your hands twist in the sheets as his mouth finally finds you, and the world shatters all over again.

And you know, in the deepest, hungriest part of yourself, that from this night on, there’s no going back—Clark Kent is yours, and every touch, every kiss, every gasp of him will leave you undone for the rest of your life.