Lois knows. You know she does, because she’s always glancing over at Clark’s empty desk, worried, when there’s metahuman shit going down on the tv screens, and making pointed comments about his articles. Jimmy might know, too, because he always glances Clark’s way when Superman comes up in conversation.

You can’t believe no one else has noticed. None of them are subtle about it at all.

“Fucking amateurs,” you mutter into your coffee cup.

“Don’t let dear old Clark hear you talking like that,” Jimmy says, startling you, and you nearly spit out your coffee all over the papers on your desk. Instead you choke it down and try not to cough as it goes down the wrong pipe.

“Fuck, Jimmy, you scared the shit out of me,” you say.

You do have a bit of a sailor’s vocabulary that makes Clark blush. (Maybe you swear more than you probably should, at your place of work, just to see that pretty pink flush on his cheeks). You blame Adrian’s bad influence.

The man in question rushes into the bullpen. You glance at the clock. Only two minutes late this morning, which has to be a personal record for him. Probably because there was no alien bullshit going on this morning that Superman had to deal with. Despite that, his tie is still crooked. So are his glasses.

And you are so, so enamored by him. You want to melt into a puddle every time you see him. Handsome and kind and respectful and—god. You never stood a chance.

“Morning,” Clark says. He’s talking to everyone, but he looks at you when he says it. You smile shyly into your coffee cup, watching him put his briefcase on his desk.

Is the suit stuffed in there? You’ve never seen him open it. No one else carries one. What does he keep in there, a legal pad? Pens? Who even writes down paper notes anymore? You all keep notes on your phone, your voice recorders—

Your train of thought is interrupted by the buzzing of your cellphone on your desk. You glance down at it and your brow furrows, accepting the call, picking up your coffee mug, and making your way toward the break room as you press the phone to your ear.

“Guess what?” Adrian says. No hi, hello, how are you. Straight and to the point. Typical.

“Why the fuck are you awake right now?” you ask him. It’s nine in the morning for you, which means it’s even earlier for him—six a.m., if you’re not mistaken, and he is not a morning person.

“I just got back from patrol,” he says. “I never went to bed, I got a tip about this drug shipment and I was doing a stake out—”

“Ade, you have to sleep if you’re going to be a functional human being,” you remind him. You know his job at Checkmate starts in a few hours.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” he insists. “Now guess what!”

“Umm, you saw a really cool bird while you were on patrol?”

“No. I did see a cute fox! I followed it for a while because I wanted to hear it make a noise, because—have you heard that song What Does the Fox Say?—I don’t believe foxes make any of those noises—”

“Adrian,” you interrupt, taking a sip of your coffee. “I know you didn’t call me at 6 a.m. to talk about fox noises.”

“Right! I’m moving to Metropolis next week!”

You choke on your coffee for the second time in the last ten minutes, because that was the last thing you were expecting him to say.

“You’re—what?”

“Not permanently! But for a couple months,” Adrian says excitedly. “Checkmate is participating in a new program with the Justice Gang. They’re trying to work with more superhero groups across the country, and Ads submitted an application, and they picked us to be first!”

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s—that’s incredible, Ade—”

“We get to hang out in person! For the first time in like, a thousand years!”

You smile. “I just saw you at Christmas, you drama queen, and it’s only the second week of January. But I know what you mean.”

Adrian yawns on the other end of the line, and you roll your eyes.

“Would you go to sleep for like, an hour, at least, before you need to go to work?”

“Don’t wanna,” Adrian says petulantly.

“Go sleep,” you order, smiling. He’s like an overtired toddler when he pulls an all-nighter for a patrol. “I’m at work, and I have to go talk to my boss, okay?”

“Are you actually going to talk to your boss, or are you going to talk to Clark with his curly hair and his dimples?” he asks. You feel your cheeks get hot. You never should have told him about your stupid crush on your coworker. He never misses an opportunity to tease you about it.

“I am actually going to talk to my boss, Adrian,” you say. “Just like you are actually going to bed right now.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you, bestie.”

“Love you too, bestie.”

When Adrian hangs up, you don’t hesitate. You stalk right over to Perry’s office and knock firmly on the frame of the open door. He looks up with a raised eyebrow, unlit cigar dangling from his lips, and sits back in his chair.

“What’s going on, kid?” he asks. You step further inside and sit in the chair across from his desk.

“I want to cover the new Justice Gang initiative,” you say firmly. Perry raises his eyebrows.

“I just got an email about that this morning. How the hell did you even know—“

“I’ve got connections at Checkmate,” you explain. “The vigilante company that they’re doing this trial run with? I know the founders. The people who work there will feel comfortable talking with me. I know I haven’t covered any metahuman stories before, but I am the right person for this story. I know I am.”

Perry looks at you. You’ve never stormed in here and—demanded something like this, and you think he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

But you want it. You want it bad. This is your chance to make the front page for the first time.

“This is going to be a big piece,” he says. “Several articles, over a couple weeks. Maxwell Lord reached out to me directly. He wants a Daily Planet exclusive.”

“I can handle it,” you insist.

“I know you can,” Perry says, and your heart races. “So I’ll give it to you. As a joint piece with Miss Lane. She’s got a working relationship with the Justice Gang, and if you know the folks over at Checkmate, that covers both bases, and you can check each other’s biases.”

You smile, wide, practically vibrating with excitement. “Thank you, Chief.”

He makes a face. “Don’t call me Chief. Now go, get back to work. I’ll forward you the details, you and Lane can hash things out together.”

“Clark,” Lois hisses.

Clark pushes his glasses up his nose and turns around in his swivel chair, abandoning his latest Superman interview draft.

“Why are you whispering?” he whispers back.

“Supply closet. Now,” Lois demands, and she stalks off. Clark watches her go with wide eyes.

“What did you do to piss her off?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m about to find out,” Clark mutters.

When he stands up, it catches your attention, and you glance up from your monitor. Clark flushes with your watchful eyes on him, sees them narrow with a bit of curiosity. Maybe suspicion.

He feels vulnerable. He always does, when you look at him. It’s like your gaze strips him bare, like you can see right through him. It makes him—restless. In a good way.

“You’d better go, before she comes back with a vengeance,” you say, smirking and nodding in the direction that Lois stalked off.

Clark blushes. He does that a lot around you. His cheeks are perpetually hot and pink when you’re in his vicinity. He goes to follow Lois, feeling the heat in his face and your eyes on his back.

He meets Lois in the hallway. She glances around, makes sure it’s clear, and yanks him inside the storage closet.

“Ah—geez, Lois,” Clark says, his head bumping into a high shelf. Some cleaning supplies tumble over, and he tries to catch them, but he just bumps into another shelf and makes things worse.

“Ow,” Lois grumbles when he accidentally elbows her in the chest. Clark flushes even more, if that’s physically possible.

“Sorry, sorry—” It’s tight, shoved in there with her, and he tries to press himself back further away from her, to make himself smaller, to no avail. “Some warning would be nice. Why are we hiding in the closet?”

“You have a problem,” Lois says, voice low.

“O…kay?” Clark says nervously. He thinks about the way you looked at him just now, your questioning gaze on his back as he walked away. “What is my problem?”

“The new Justice Gang initiative,” Lois says.

“Um,” Clark says, brow furrowing, because that is not what he was expecting. “I thought that was a pretty good idea? Mr. Terrific brought it up; it seems like a good thing. Working with more superhero groups across the country, creating a more united network. Wait a minute—how do you even know about tha—”

“Because Maxwell Lord wants a Daily Planet exclusive piece written up about it.”

“Oh,” Clark says. “Did Perry assign it to you? Why is that a problem?”

“It’s a dual assignment,” Lois says.

“Shoot,” Clark says. “Well—we can work with that, right? Who is the other—”

“Your girlfriend.”

The color drains from Clark’s face. He doesn’t even have it in him to point out that you’re not his girlfriend, or be embarrassed about his debilitating crush on you, because he’s too busy thinking about all the thousand ways that this could go wrong.

“Ah, hell,” he says.

“Wow,” Lois says. “That’s the closest thing to a real swear word I’ve ever heard you say. You kiss your mother with that mouth, Kent?”

“What am I going to do?” Clark asks, fisting his hair in his hands in a panic. “She’s gonna know. Instantly, Lois. Maybe I could get away with it if they didn’t call me by my name—I could ask them to—gosh, why do I tell everybody my name?”

“You really think Guy Gardner is gonna be able to keep his big mouth shut? You need to tell her, Clark. She needs to find out about Superman from you. Not on the job.”

“This isn’t how I wanted to do it,” he whispers, distraught. “She—what if she—”

The supply closet door swings open to reveal you, startling both of them. Lois gives Clark a worried look. If he was so absorbed in his panic he didn’t even hear your footsteps approaching with his super ears, he really is a mess over you, and it’s more serious than she realized.

“Hey guys,” you say lightly. “I assume you guys are talking about the Justice Gang piece?”

They stare at you.

“Okay. Right. Um, Lois, is it okay if I talk to Clark for a minute?”

Lois looks between you and Clark once, then twice, before she steps out of the closet hesitantly. Clark stares at you, open-mouthed, like he wants to say something, but he’s forgotten how to talk.

You step into the spot that Lois has vacated and shut the door. Clark’s breath hitches, and if his cheeks were pink before, now they’re bright, flaming red. It’s one thing to be shoved up against Lois in here, but with you—

“Did you want to—it’s um, hot in here, gosh,” he says, tugging at his tie, trying not to think about the fact that he’s crammed into this confined space with you pressed up against him, all soft and pretty, with your wide, bright eyes blinking up at him. He swallows nervously. “We can go somewhere els—”

“I already know,” you say. Soft. Quiet. “That you’re Superman.”

Clark gapes at you, frozen in place, because—what?

“I won’t tell anyone,” you assure him. “My best friend back home is a vigilante. I know how this works. With the whole—secret identity thing, and all. My lips are sealed.”

“Y-you—h-how did you—” he stutters. He doesn’t deny it. He would never insult your intelligence like that; you’re one of the smartest people he knows. But he never, in a thousand years, would have guessed that you knew.

“I just—” Now it’s your turn to flush red. “I pay a lot of attention. To you.”

“You do?” Clark asks. He tries not to be too pleased about that, but—if you’re watching him, as much as he’s watching you…

Does that mean you’re wanting him, too, as much as he’s wanting you?

“I do,” you say softly. “I promise you, your secret is safe with me.”

He stares at you, and you stare right back at him. Your heart rate is even, steady in his ears. You’re breathing a little faster than normal, but that could easily be attributed to the tiny, confined space you’re shoved into right now.

“I trust you,” he says after a moment. He really, really does.

You smile. “I’m glad.”

You both just look at each other for an awkward moment. Clark feels like he should say something more. He doesn’t know what. But the last two minutes have given him absolute whiplash, and his brain has elected to stop functioning.

“I should probably go talk to Lois,” you say. “Make a plan for this assignment.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, uh—if you need anything, I—well. Let me know. And, uh, if you have any—well, questions, about the whole—” His voice drops to a whisper. “Superman thing. We can…talk? Maybe…do dinner? At my place, or yours?”

He winces at what a mess of a sentence that was, if it can even be called that. He should be grateful he even managed to get any words out at all.

“I would like that,” you say, a little shy. “I’ll—text you? When I get home tonight?”

“Yeah,” Clark nods. “I mean—yes. Yes, please do.”

Then you leave him in the closet, the door falling shut behind you.

“Golly,” he says, rubbing his face with both hands. “What the heck am I doing…”

“Hey,” you say, opening the door to your apartment later that night to a very sheepish Clark Kent.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so late. I’m offensively, rudely late. If you want me to go home…”

You glance at your watch. You’d planned for six. It’s eight thirty. But you’re not angry, and you tell him so.

“I’m not upset, Clark. I kinda figured you would be,” you say, stepping back and walking inside. Clark accepts the wordless invitation and follows you through the foyer and into your tiny living room. 

There are framed photos all over the walls in the hallway that remind him of the ones his Ma has on all the side tables back home. Posed group pictures, candid snapshots. He pauses and looks at some, smiling to himself.

“Are those your friends from back home?” he asks, pointing to a group photo. You’re out at a bar, arms wrapped around a tall, heavyset man in a graphic t-shirt and a shorter man with silver-framed glasses and a long-sleeved polo shirt. It’s a little bit blurry, and the lighting is bad, but everyone in the picture looks so—happy.

“Yeah,” you smile. “John and Adrian. It was Ads’s birthday, that night, and we went to a gay bar, for karaoke night.”

“Oh? Are you hiding your vocal talents from the rest of the Daily Planet staff?” Clark teases.

“Absolutely not,” you giggle. “I sound like a dying bird. Never hand me a microphone when I’ve had more than two beers.”

You pause behind your couch and gesture at the television, which is running the news coverage of the alien attack of the day. The reason why he was so dreadfully late coming over here.

“Speaking of hiding things from the rest of the Daily Planet staff,” you say cheekily, and Clark sighs.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

Clark watches himself, on the screen, shoot lasers out of his eyes.

“Does that actually make your eyes really hot?” you ask, crossing your arms as you watch the replay. Then you turn and cock your head at him. “Like, if I touched your eyes right now, would they still be warm? How much can you control it? Can you use it to like, heat up your coffee when it gets cold?”

Clark raises an eyebrow. You flush.

“Sorry. That was a lot of questions. You don’t have to—”

“No,” he laughs. “That’s okay. I was…expecting the questions. That’s why I’m here, right?”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m interrogating you,” you say. “Or that, I don’t know, I’m gonna take everything you tell me and leak it online, or write an exposé, or something. I’m just—so curious.”

“I said earlier—I trust you. I mean that,” Clark says, soft and firm. “Besides, you’re not grilling me half as aggressively as Lois did when she found out.”

“So she does know,” you muse. “I thought she did. Does Jimmy, too?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Clark says, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “The Justice Gang members know who I am. My parents, obviously, and Lois figured it out a couple years back and threw herself off a rooftop to prove a point.”

“That sounds like her.”

“Now there’s you. Thank you for not doing that, by the way. But that’s really it, I think. Apparently, though, I’m not as good at hiding it as I thought I was.”

“I just…recognized the signs,” you say. “Like I said earlier, my best friend back home is a vigilante. And before he told me, he was doing all the same things. The frequent disappearances, and—well, I can’t really talk about specifics. He’s really particular about his secret identity, as I’m sure you can understand.”

Clark does understand. “You’re a good friend, you’re keeping a secret. I get it.”

What he doesn’t understand, though, is the weird, vague jealousy that starts churning in his stomach. Because he knows now that he’s not the only superhero in your life? Because he wasn’t the first? Because the other man you’re describing is your best friend, and he’s just your coworker and nothing more?

Now isn’t the time for that conversation. He’s stripped himself bare enough for the day.

“The lasers do make my eyes hot,” he says, answering your question from earlier. “And…I have used it to warm up my coffee in the break room, when no one is looking.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, feeling a little silly. “My Ma always used to have me start up the fireplace, actually, when I was a kid, and get the water boiling faster for dinner.”

You cackle. “Oh my god. You’re kidding.”

“I made myself useful,” Clark grins. “Super strength comes in handy when you’re lugging stuff around a farm all day. It was the least I could do. I didn’t make things easy for them, when I was a baby and I would just start…floating off.”

“Oh, god,” you say, shaking your head. “A flying toddler…what a disaster. With Ad—” You cut yourself off. “My friend, I mean. He’s meta, but. Nothing like you. He can heal pretty fast. He gets stabbed, he can just sleep it off, be totally fine in the morning. But the laser vision, the flying, the strength…that’s…really, really cool.”

Clark tries not to be too pleased about the fact that you think he’s cool. He shrugs it off, plays it nonchalant. “It’s just…the sun. I get my powers from the yellow sun.”

“How come nobody recognizes you?” you ask, cocking your head, squinting at his face. Clark feels himself blush under your detailed attention, eyes darting over his every facial feature like you’re going to unlock another secret part of him just by looking hard enough.

“It’s, uh,” he stutters, fumbling with the frames of his glasses.

“The glasses?”

Clark doesn’t answer, just takes them off, and your eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” you say, and Clark turns even redder when he hears you swear. You giggle. “That’s insane—the glasses are, what, magic?”

“Kryptonian technology,” he says. “Hypnoglasses.”

“The suit, too? Where do you keep it, by the way? When you run off in the middle of the day, I always wonder. Is it in your briefcase? Do you just…wear it under your clothes?”

“You really do have a lot of questions,” Clark teases.

“I am a journalist,” you remind him. “Curiosity is basically my job.”

“And you’re good at it,” he says, which makes you flush, pleased by the compliment.

“You know, I did eat without you,” you say. “I got hungry. But you just saved the city, and all, for like, the hundredth time. And I’m being a bad host, bombarding you with questions before I’ve even offered you a drink, or food, or—anyway. There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you want to heat them up with your laser vision. I would love a demonstration.”

Clark laughs.

The dynamic shifts in the office, after that night. Once Clark knows that you know—well. It shouldn’t change things. But it does. 

He should feel more confident, now, around you, but instead, the opposite happens. He’s even more likely to trip over his own feet when he walks by your desk, because now, sometimes, you’ll glance up and smile, or worse, wink at him, and it makes his knees all wobbly. The man of steel, gone weak in the knees because a pretty girl grinned in his direction. And now, when he has to run off in the middle of the day because of whatever daily downtown disaster is happening, his phone chimes with a text from you, telling him things like don’t let Guy Gardner steal your thunder today or bring me back a latte from the corner store or his personal, heart-stopping favorite, be safe ♥️.

He tries to give it back as good as he gets. When he notices your coffee has gone cold, he rolls his desk chair over to you, snags it off your desk, and says, “need a reheat?” and waits for you to laugh before he brings it back to the break room, and lasers it with his eyes. Lois catches him doing it one day and rolls her eyes so hard they almost fall out of her head.

“God, you are so down bad for her, Smallville,” she mutters, but she’s smirking. Clark doesn’t even care.

And he does feel like he can be more himself around you, now. When it’s just the two of you in the elevator, or the break room, or walking to the coffee shop on the corner for a fifteen minute break, Clark feels like he can breathe easier, because he has nothing to hide anymore.

You and Lois have been spending most of the week prepping for Saturday morning, which marks the start of the new Justice Gang initiative. He’s seen you bent over her desk for hours at a time, developing interview questions and planning out a series of articles to publish over the next month or so.

He tries to make sure you’re both taking care of yourselves while you’re absorbed in your work. When it looks like you’re about to work through lunch, he buys you both sandwiches from the deli across the street and drops them on your desk. He makes sure you’re staying hydrated, drinking water throughout the day and not just Lois’s sugary, sludgy excuse for coffee, but he will reheat it for you if that’s what you really need in the moment. It’s the least he can do, but the private, goofy smile you give him when he brings you your freshly eye-lasered coffee makes him feel more like a hero than half the things he does for the rest of the people of Metropolis.

“Ready for tomorrow?” Clark asks you on Friday.

“I am,” you say confidently. “I’m really looking forward to it, actually.” You lower your voice a bit. “I would show you the questions we came up with, but I think it might be cheating if you know the interview questions in advance.”

“Lois is rubbing off on you,” Clark mutters.

Clark arrives at the Hall of Justice bright and early on Saturday morning. He feels weirdly nervous, and it takes him a minute to put his finger on why, until he realizes—you’ve never seen him in the suit. Not in person. He keeps fidgeting, readjusting his cape, his hair, picking at invisible, nonexistent lint on his costume because he weirdly needs to make a good impression on you.

Which is ridiculous. Because you already know Clark. But you haven’t met Superman yet, not really.

“Why are you so fidgety?” Hawkgirl asks. “You act like you’ve never spoken to the press before.”

“He hasn’t,” Guy Gardner reminds her. “He is the press. He doesn’t do interviews. He just talks to himself. Like a weirdo.” Clark rolls his eyes.

“You’ll be fine, Clark,” Maxwell Lord says, which does not make him feel better. “There’s a reason I asked for the Daily Planet to cover the story.”

“Your coworkers who are covering the story do know who you are, don’t they?” Mr. Terrific says. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,” Clark says. “They do. It’s not that, it’s just—”

At that moment, a large group walks into the room. Checkmate has arrived, chattering excitedly among themselves as they admire the building, from the large modern space to the large mural on the walls. Clark’s eyes dance over the group. He catches himself frowning and schools his expression.

But internally, he’s stewing. Why did no one tell him that Peacemaker was on the Checkmate team?

A guy who talked crap about him to the media when Lex Luthor was running his smear campaign? A guy who implied on national news that he was an out of control alien with a god complex?

“It’s guys like this, they always got a whole bunch of dark, ugly secrets…Thinks he’s better than everybody else…”

Clark’s jaw clenches. It’s fine. This is fine. He can be the bigger person. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. You and Lois will be here soon, at least. That will make things better. You always make things better.

“Ah, Peacemaker,” says Maxwell. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Oh, can it, would you?” Peacemaker says. “Don’t give me that bullshit. We both know how you feel about me.”

“Chris,” sighs a blonde woman. Clark reads her nametag. Agent Harcourt. “We talked about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peacemaker mutters. “This is me on my best behavior, Emilia. Did I call Guy Gardner a puke freak to his face? No, I did not!”

Clark furrows his brow and glances over at Guy, who looks bewildered. Hawkgirl cackles, and Mr. Terrific and Maxwell Lord look like they’re regretting all of their life choices. Honestly, Clark is too, at this point, and they’re barely two minutes into this whole ordeal.

“I am not a puke freak!” Guy cries. “Would you stop telling people that!”

“Can we maybe tone it down before the press gets here, at least?” Mr. Terrific asks bluntly. “I’d like this program to get off on the right foot.”

“We would like that too, Mr. Terrific,” says another Checkmate member, Agent Adebayo, firmly.

“Please, call me Michael. We’re all pretty informal around here, we’re all professionals who can be discreet, so we do disclose our secret identities with each other, but don’t feel pressured to do so if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Everyone else goes around the room and introduces themselves. Most of the Checkmate team, apparently, are former ARGUS agents. There’s probably a story there. Clark is sure you’ll get to the bottom of that. 

One of the Checkmate tech guys looks really familiar, but Clark can’t quite put his finger on where he’s seen him before. Clark himself gets some interesting looks from them when he shares his name, but otherwise, everything goes smoothly, until it comes to one member of the Checkmate team.

“I’m good,” says Vigilante, crossing his arms. “It’s called a secret identity for a reason.”

“Whatever, man,” says Peacemaker—Chris, Clark corrects himself.

At that moment, the massive doors to the Hall of Justice swing open, and you and Lois walk in, dressed as professionally as ever, Daily Planet press badges around your necks. You grin and smile at Clark, and he starts to wave, but then your gaze flicks right past him, over his shoulder, and your smile widens even more.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clark hears behind him, and he turns around to see Vigilante—rushing at you. There’s a split second that he feels a protective instinct to step in front of you, defend you, but—it’s not an attack. It’s…excitement? The masked crime fighter lifts you up by the waist and spins you around, and you laugh, and Clark…does not know what is happening. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Chris laughs, too. “No way! Hey, kid.” He comes up and ruffles your hair.

Clark is really confused for a moment, but then he freezes as he remembers one crucial detail.

These people are from Evergreen, Washington. You’re from Evergreen, Washington. 

My best friend back home is a vigilante, you’d said. Your best friend, who is really particular about his secret identity.

A vigilante? Or the Vigilante?

That must be why Perry gave you the piece. You’ve got inside information, connections at Checkmate that other journalists at the Planet wouldn’t have. And—he is happy for you. He is. But god, why do you have to be connected to Peacemaker?

Clark’s teeth grind, loudly, and Hawkgirl raises an eyebrow at him.

“You good, dude?”

“I’m fine,” Clark says shortly.

Clark is not fine.

He pastes on his Superman smile, and he is respectful and kind and all the good adjectives that Ma Kent raised him to be. But as he answers Lois’s interview questions, his eyes keep drifting over her shoulder, across the room, where you’re sitting with the group from Checkmate, conducting your own interviews, laughing and taking notes, eyes bright and excited. You’re in your element.

You’re with your best friend. Who, according to the dossier Clark read ahead of the introductions today, has murdered quite a lot of people.

He tries not to eavesdrop. He really, really does. But when his super-sensitive ears catch the sound of his name on your lips, he can’t help himself.

“I can’t believe your Clark with the curly hair and the dimples, and Superman are the same person,” Vigilante is saying. Clark smiles to himself. Your Clark. He likes the sound of that. He wants that. He wants to be yours. “How come you never said—”

“For someone who’s always going on and on about secret identities, I would think you would know the answer to that question, Vigilante,” you say pointedly.

“True,” he says. “Hey! Doesn’t he have, like, a super dog? Have you met the super dog? Can you ask him if I can please meet the super dog? Pretty pretty please?”

“I have not met the super dog, Adrian,” you say. Hang on—your best friend Adrian, who you talk on the phone with all the time in the break room? He’s Vigilante? And that’s when it hits Clark—the tech guy, John. He and Adrian were in that framed picture, in your living room the other night. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s literally right across the room. You can go talk to Superman.”

“Who cares about Superman?” Vigilante scoffs. “I mean, I get he’s an alien. And that’s cool and all. But the dog is a super dog. That can fly.”

“So would you say Superman is like, your friend?” Peacemaker interrupts, and Clark’s heart stops. He holds his breath while he waits for you to answer, and it all rushes out of him in a relieved whoosh when you nod. Clark smiles to himself. 

Your friend. Your Clark. Not just a coworker.

“Does he really have a poop fetish?” Peacemaker continues.

The smile drops from Clark’s face.

“What in the world—“ he mutters to himself.

“Oh my god, is that what that hashtag #supershit was all about?” Vigilante cackles. Clark’s frown deepens, teeth grinding together.

“Shut the fuck up,” you scold. “You are like middle school boys, I swear. And I will describe you that way in the article if you don’t get your shit together.”

“Hey, Supes,” Lois says, waving a hand in front of Clark’s face. “Stop glowering. You’re gonna accidentally activate your laser eyes.”

“Clark? Glowering?” Mr. Terrific jokes. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him be anything but pleasant and happy-go-lucky.”

“I am pleasant,” Clark says unpleasantly.

Mr. Terrific follows his gaze across the room toward you. “Ah. Trouble in paradise?”

“There would need to be a paradise in existence in order for there to be trouble in it,” Lois mutters.

“Maybe I’ll activate my laser eyes at you on purpose,” Clark suggests, annoyed. Lois rolls her eyes.

“You’re the one who hasn’t made a move, Clark. She’s waiting. For you.”

“She doesn’t—” Clark swallows, looks down. 

Normally it’s so easy to stand tall when he’s in the super suit. It makes him feel powerful, feel good, feel like he’s doing all of the things he promised he would do to help humanity. But right now his shoulders slump a bit.

“I’m not what she wants. Or needs. I’m not even—human, Lois.”

Lois gives him a worried look. “Clark, you’re one of the most human people I know.”

He tries to be. He tries so hard. So why, suddenly, does it not feel like enough?

The first joint public appearance of the Justice Gang and the Checkmate team follows a few days later—a swarm of floating, jellyfish-like aliens wreaking havoc in the park downtown. You, Lois, and Jimmy are all on the scene—you document events, Lois catalogs damage, Jimmy takes photos. While the chaos unfolds around you, the Checkmate team flanks you for protection. Harcourt, Adebayo, Bordeaux, and Fleury stay at the ready with their weapons aimed at the sky.

Clark spends most of the time trying to wrangle the crowd out of the park, but his job is more difficult than usual with the appearance of some new heroes. Everyone has their personal phones and cameras turned on the scene. Peacemaker and Vigilante draw quite a bit of attention, and they thrive in that spotlight, showing off their sharpshooting skills as they take out kaiju after kaiju, dead jellyfish slopping to the ground one by one.

The media is buzzing the following day. The entire Checkmate team starts to garner attention in the news, but Peacemaker and Vigilante, with their flashy, colorful costumes, are the obvious instant stars of the media attention. The front-page article you and Lois publish is perfectly timed, your exclusive interviews providing answers to many of the public’s immediate questions.

Other people, though, are quick to dig into their pasts and churn up old, bad memories. You’re glad that your profiles give Checkmate the opportunity to come out ahead of any rumors. Your piece lets Chris address his past as a member of the Suicide Squad and his racist father on his own terms. It allows Adrian the chance to prove Vigilante as the hero he’s supposed to be, the hero you know he is, rather than letting people paint him as an amateur.

And the response is…fantastic. People love them. Not as much as their hometown heroes, of course. There’s something to be said about that kind of loyalty.

While Clark hasn’t quite bought into the new hero hype, he’s proud of you. He knows how hard you’ve been working, and how much it means to you when Perry stops by your desk to tell you, “Nice work, kid.” You’re getting congratulations constantly from the whole team, and every time, you light up more, practically glowing from the inside, and your happiness makes Clark happy, too, because it means he gets to see your pretty smile more.

“Hey,” Clark says, nudging you at your desk on Tuesday. “What do you say we do lunch? To celebrate your smashing front-page success?”

You look up at him with that bright, pretty smile. “That sounds great.”

As you walk down the street toward the nearest cafe, Clark clears his throat. “Um. There’s something I need to say—and I promise you, I really was not trying to eavesdrop the other day—but the ceilings are all arched in the Hall of Justice, you know, so things echo, and it was kinda quiet in there, and with my super hearing—”

“Spit it out, Clark,” you say, curious. “What’s up?”

“I just. Feel the need to clarify,” he says, blushing a furious shade of red, “that I do not have a…poop fetish?”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. They are such morons,” you say. “Chris just—believes whatever he reads on the internet, and Vigilante thinks Peacemaker is, like, perfect, so he never questions when he says something idiotic. The two of them together can be…a lot.”

“I also, um, heard you call him Adrian,” he admits. “Just. For full transparency’s sake. I’m assuming…he’s the one from the pictures? In your apartment?”

“I think he kind of already knows that you know,” you say. “I mean. I talk about him in the office all the time by name. He just didn’t want the rest of the Justice Gang to know.”

“Okay,” Clark says, feeling a little better about it. “I just didn’t want—”

“Oh my god,” you say, stopping on a dime when something catches your eye. Clark follows your gaze through the window of a kitschy I ♥️ METROPOLIS store, brow furrowed. “We have to go in there. Oh my—no fucking way. Adrian is going to lose it.”

You grab Clark by the sleeve of his suit jacket and pull him inside.

There’s an entire shelf full of Vigilante merchandise. His signature black, white, and teal chevron, splashed across t-shirts, coffee mugs, keychains—even a little figurine of his likeness, down to the tiny holsters on his utility belt that hold all of his weapons and ammo.

“How did they make all this shit so quickly? It’s literally been like, a couple days since—I have to buy it,” you say, because there really is no other option. “I mean. I have to. This is going to make his day, Jesus Christ.”

Clark’s jaw twitches as he watches you gather it all up in your arms. He pretends to look around the rest of the store.

“Hey, they have Superman merch, too. I didn’t even know they made that,” he says. He’s lying through his teeth for scraps of your attention. What has his life come to? “That’s so interesting.”

“You’re kidding, right?” you say. “They’ve been selling this stuff for ages! You should be like, making royalties or something. One of my friends bought me a shirt a couple months ago. It’s way too big for me to wear anywhere, I just sleep in it sometimes.”

Clark pictures you in bed, draped in nothing but an oversized blue shirt printed with his Superman symbol, and tries not to spontaneously combust.

“Oh,” he says, voice cracking a little. “That’s—that’s nice.”

“I would buy you a mug,” you say, holding up a blue one with a tiny caped figure painted on it, “but these are probably pretty crappy. I’m not sure they would hold up to your usual coffee reheating method.” Your eyes catch on another shelf, and you smirk, reaching to hold up a pair of boxers printed with the Superman symbol. “Maybe these instead?” Your eyes flick downward toward his crotch. “If they would even fit.”

Clark groans. He can feel how pink the tips of his ears are. “You’re trying to kill me. I offer to buy you lunch today, and you’re trying to kill me.”

You laugh, take pity on him, and put them back. Clark waits patiently with you while you check out, and carries your giant bag of Vigilante merch for you for the rest of the afternoon, because he’s a gentleman.

He doesn’t notice until you get back to the office that afternoon that you’ve clipped a brand-new Superman keychain to his messenger bag. And when he glances over at your desk to say thank you, he notices you’ve got a matching one attached to yours, dangling right next to a Vigilante one.

Clark hopes that things will get easier with the Checkmate team after your first article has been published and the reception from the general public has been positive. But things are just as tense the following Saturday as they were the first day.

While things went well when responding to an emergency, the ultimate goal of this program is to carry out mission-based work, and that requires more cohesion. More teamwork. Which requires training. And a lot of the Checkmate agents aren’t metahuman, so they’re struggling to keep up during exercises, frustrated when Guy pulls a stupid stunt with the Green Lantern Ring or Hawkgirl’s metallic wings knock them over.

Clark manages just fine during the training sessions, but during the off periods—when he’s supposed to be—socializing? He struggles. A lot. He never has before. His Ma and Pa raised him to have manners, taught him how to carry on polite small-talk conversations. He’s a journalist, for god’s sake. Half his job is talking to people. He’s a pretty open person, trusting.

But it’s hard to be open and trusting with a man like Chris when all Clark keeps thinking about is the things that he said to the media to tear him down when the world was turning against him.

He takes a deep breath. These people are your friends, he reminds himself. If he wants—if he wants to be with you, the way he intends to, once he works up the courage to actually say something about how he feels, he’s gonna need to pull up his bootstraps and get over it. He can be the bigger person. He can.

So at lunch time, he decides to make an effort. The groups have made their usual split—the Justice Gang and Lois huddled around one table, you and Checkmate circled around another. And Clark makes a choice.

He grabs his sandwich and pulls up a chair between you and Peacemaker, and the table falls quiet. But you’re beaming at him, and you put a hand on his bicep and squeeze, and that makes the awkward silence worth it.

“Uh,” Clark says. “Hi.”

“Hi there,” says Harcourt, clearly a little confused as to why he’s there, but accepting his presence anyway and nudging at Chris’s shoulder so he scoots over a bit to make room for him. Clark likes her, he’s decided. She’s capable, emotionally intelligent. How she ended up leading this ragtag group of disgraced ARGUS agents and insane killers, Clark would love to know.

“Why are you over here?” Vigilante asks bluntly.

“Adrian,” Adebayo scolds.

“Ads! My secret identity!”

“You’re an idiot, if you think he didn’t make the connection already, Adrian,” you scoff. “You’re my best friend. I talk about you all the time at work.”

“Oh. Right. Well. Don’t tell anyone,” Adrian says, pointing at Clark’s face, “or I’ll fuck you up.”

“I would never,” Clark says firmly. He glances down at you next to him. “She would…mess me up.”

“God, you weren't kidding, he really is a goody-two-shoes. He can’t even say the word ‘fuck,’” Harcourt muses. You giggle and shove a forkful of salad into your mouth.

“So, what brings the high and mighty Superman over to the rejects table?” Chris asks. He doesn’t say it with anger. Maybe a tiny bit of bitterness. But Clark is confused.

“The rejects table?”

“Chris is butthurt because he interviewed to join the Justice Gang and they rejected him,” Harcourt explains.

“They did more than reject me, Em. They asked me about my skills and then started talking about my violent tendencies and how I’m indecisive and they told me I suck right to my face!”

“They did what?” Clark says, a little shocked. “I—I didn’t even know they were interviewing for new members.”

“Clark isn’t even really part of the Justice Gang,” you point out to the group. “He’s kind of like…an independent contractor.”

“It doesn’t even matter anymore,” Chris says. “I don’t even want to be a part of your stupid group anyway.”

“I don’t know why you even applied to begin with, Peacemaker,” says Adrian. “They couldn’t even show up for us when we needed them, with the butterfly invasion at Coverdale Ranch—”

“We left as soon as we were notified,” Clark interrupts, feeling a little defensive. “We—”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the one time we needed you, you weren’t there,” Adrian says. “Harcourt almost died.”

You’re starting to look stressed out, eyes darting back and forth between Clark and Adrian, mouth open like you feel like you need to say something, but you’re not sure how to stop this from spiralling into a full-blown argument.

“Okay,” Adebayo cuts in, and some tension leaves your shoulders, and you look at her gratefully. “How about we stop making digs at Clark? We’re all human, we all make mistakes.”

“We’re not,” Adrian says plainly. “All human.”

Clark’s jaw ticks, fists clenching.

“Hey,” you say sharply, and Clark can’t see Adrian’s face beneath the Vigilante mask, but he visibly recoils. You turn back to him, look him in the eyes, and say, more quietly, “He doesn’t mean it like that. He’s just—really, very literal.”

Clark swallows. He believes you, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. It will never stop bothering him, the way everyone looks at him like he’s—other.

“I’m human in all the ways it matters,” he says to the table, tiredly, because he is so sick of explaining this to people who don’t understand. “I am sorry we weren’t able to be there for you. I’m glad you’re okay, Emilia. Hopefully this program can—help. For problems like that, in the future.”

“Not your fault,” Harcourt says. “But I appreciate it.”

The table falls silent again. You’re staring at Adrian and Chris, crossing your arms. They stare back at you, until you clear your throat pointedly.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian says, when he catches on. “I think I’m not supposed to have called you an alien. Even though you are an alien.”

It could sound a bit more genuine, but something is better than nothing, Clark supposes. 

“Apology accepted,” he says, clearing his throat.

“I’m sorry too,” Chris sighs. “You’re not the one who told me that one of my skills is sucking dick.”

John chokes on his sandwich across the table. “What?”

The following Monday, you don’t show up to work.

Clark rushes in a few minutes late, like he always does. He stopped this morning at the coffee shop on the corner and got you your favorite caramel latte. But when he goes to drop it at your desk, it’s untouched. Your computer hasn’t been turned on, your chair still pushed in, notes from last week still scattered around.

“She called in sick,” Jimmy says, when he sees Clark staring forlornly at your empty desk. “So if that extra coffee you got is meant for her…I will gladly take it. Because I had a pretty wild weekend, man, I could use the caffeine.”

“She’s sick?” Clark asks worriedly, absentmindedly handing Jimmy the coffee cup when he holds his hands out for it. You’d been completely fine on Saturday during the day.

Something must have happened that night. Clark’s chest tightens with anxiety as he remembers the conversation he overheard as he was leaving for the day.

“Are you going or not, dude?” Chris had asked Adrian impatiently as the two were tucking their guns away in their bags.

“To the orgy?”

Clark had stopped on a dime, because—what?

“Depends,” Adrian said. “You know how I feel about sex—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris said. “Only as an opportunity to bond with your best friend. If I promise a threesome—”

Clark had stopped listening after that. He feels sick to his stomach now, just like he has all weekend, thinking about it. You, going to—a sex party? To—be with Adrian?

And now you’ve called out of work. Did something bad happen? Did someone hurt you?

He slides into his chair and sets his things down carelessly, immediately pulling out his phone.

Jimmy just told me you’re not feeling well?

Make sure you rest up. Take some medicine.

I can swing by on my lunch break and bring you soup, or anything else you need. Let me know.

Clark doesn’t hear from you for a few hours. He closes his eyes, briefly tunes in across the city, listens for the sound of your heartbeat, and he hears it, strong and steady, which settles him a bit. You’re alive. You’re resting, he tells himself. That’s why you haven’t answered.

He tries to focus on his work, draft up the pieces Perry has assigned him for the week, but he keeps glancing over at your empty desk, the dark computer screen. A little pang of worry runs through him every time.

When his phone buzzes, screen lighting up on his desk, and your name pops up, his heart does a backflip.

You’re too sweet. I’m completely fine.

Just playing hooky 😂

Adrian begged me last night to take him to the aquarium 🐟🐠 he heard they have a touch tank with manta rays in it. He loves those damn things.

You’re…not sick. You’re with Adrian. Your best friend, who you have sex with. On a date.

“Why are you looking at your phone like you’re going to crush it in your hands?” Lois asks, trying to peek over his shoulder. Clark jumps. She raises her eyebrows.

“You have been so jumpy for the last two weeks, Smallville,” she says. “What the hell is going on?”

“I—” Clark starts, then cuts himself off. He’s not going to tattle on you for calling out of work. But he can talk to his own best friend about this. About you. Can’t he? “Lois, I—”

“Is this about what I think it’s about?” she asks, glancing over at your desk.

Clark leaps out of his desk chair, grabs Lois by the wrist, and drags her over to the supply closet, shutting them both inside.

“Is this where we’re having all of our important private chats now?” Lois asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You started it!” Clark accuses.

Lois sighs. “Tell me what’s going on in your big doofus brain. What is eating you up so much?”

“She’s not here today.”

“I noticed.”

“She’s not sick,” he says, distressed. “She’s with Adrian. At the aquarium. On a date.”

Lois pauses. “Did she say that, Clark, or is that a conclusion that you’ve jumped to? Because I think you’re jumping. Not even jumping. You’re using your superpowers and flying to conclusions. She likes you, Clark. Just tell her how you feel.”

“I don’t think she does,” he says hoarsely. “I think she’s in love with Adrian. I think they…” Clark swallows past the lump in his throat. “I think they were. Together, on Saturday night.”

“Are you telling me you think they fucked?”

“God, Lois, please don’t say it like that,” Clark says, flushing redder than he ever has before in his life. Thinking about it, alone, is hard enough, but—when she says it like that, so vulgar—he feels like he’s going to be sick.

“She did not have sex with Adrian,” Lois says. “She was with me on Saturday night.”

“...what?”

“We went out for drinks and sorted through our notes for the day, like we did last week, and organized everything so we could prep for the article writing this week,” Lois says. “For someone with super vision, you really are blind as a bat, Clark. She. Likes. You.”

“I just—Peacemaker and Vigilante were—they were talking about—” Clark lowers his voice. “—an orgy—”

“You think she went to the orgy?” Lois shakes her head. “You are an idiot, Clark Kent. It’s a terminal diagnosis.”

“But—”

“You want to know if she was at the orgy?” Lois says. “You know who you can ask? Jimmy.”

Clark stares. “I—what?”

“Jimmy went to an orgy this weekend,” Lois says. “With Eve. She posted about it on her Instagram story. I imagine it was the same one. There cannot be that many Saturday night orgies happening in Metropolis on the same day—”

Lois pulls out her phone and brings up a photo. “See, look—”

“Please do not show me a naked photo of Jimmy, Lois. I can’t take it. Not after the week that I’ve had.”

The first official field mission happens the following week.

“Lex Luthor might be in prison, but that hasn’t stopped his company from doing shady research,” Mr. Terrific says to the group at the debrief. 

“Most of his employees did not face the same charges he did, after the Metropolis rift situation,” Bordeaux tacks on. “We know that for a fact, because many of them were recruited by ARGUS. That’s part of what sparked the founding of Checkmate in the first place. But some of those employees are still operating under LutherCorp as well.”

“We need to find out the extent to which Luthor still has his hands in the business,” says Harcourt. “Especially since he’s been transferred from Belle Reve to a lower-security prison that allows him to have more visitors.”

“So we’re just…gathering intel?” Chris asks. “Sounds lame.”

“It’s not lame, dude, it’s like a spy mission!” Vigilante says excitedly. “Can I like—hide in the vents and snipe the bad guys?”

“No hiding in the vents,” Adebayo says, “but you are going to be there to snipe the bad guys. But you are only shooting if necessary, Vigilante.”

“Fucking sick,” he says joyfully.

“I have to emphasize,” Maxwell Lord cuts in, “that when we say necessary, we mean absolutely necessary. It’s one thing for you and Peacemaker to take out a bunch of mindless kaijus invading the local park. It’s entirely another to senselessly kill—”

“I get it,” Vigilante snaps. “Despite what you all might think about me, I’m not a fucking moron, and I don’t just kill people for no reason.”

“So what’s the plan?” Guy Gardner says, redirecting the conversation. “Are we going in undercover?”

“You’re an idiot,” Mr. Terrific tells him. “You? Undercover?”

“Hey, I can work undercover!”

“You are one of the most recognizable superheroes in the city,” Hawkgirl says. “And you are a bad liar.”

“We’re going in after hours,” Harcourt interrupts. “One or two a.m. The lab techs and employees will be gone for the day, and then all we’ll have to worry about is security.”

“The Raptors,” Clark says. “Luthor’s flying armed forces? He’s got them doing low-level security work?”

“That’s precisely why we think it might not be as low-level as they’re making it out to be,” Adebayo says. Clark nods.

“Good point. They’re powerful, but their biggest strength is in numbers. I can’t imagine all of them will be on staff at one time, especially in the middle of the night. If we’re careful, we might be able to get in and out undetected,” he muses.

“We’ll be dividing and conquering,” Mr. Terrific says. “There are four main floors to the lab, and we’ll each take one. Agents Bordeaux and Adebayo will be going in with Guy to cover the first floor. Peacemaker, Judomaster, and Kendra will cover the second floor. I’ll be going in with Agents Fleury and Harcourt to cover the third. Clark, you’ll cover the top floor with Agent Economos and Vigilante.”

Of course I am, Clark thinks, self-pitying, but he pastes on a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

They spend the next few hours reviewing the plan, giving everyone the opportunity to ask clarifying questions and understand their roles before they pile into discreet vans and leave. It’s an interesting experience for Clark, who usually just—flies, wherever he has to go, at least when he’s in the Superman suit.

But it’s kind of nice. The camaraderie, the way the Checkmate group jokes and laughs and shoves at each other playfully. Clark even sees Mr. Terrific crack a smile, a sight so rare he has to pick his jaw up off the floor. And maybe—he’s starting to get it. What you see in these people. Why you love them the way you do. 

When they arrive at their destination, everyone grows quiet, more serious. Mr. Terrific and Economos huddle around a computer near the front of the van, typing away furiously, doing something to shut down the security systems silently and remotely so the teams can get inside undetected. Then, one by one, the groups trickle out of the van, and under the cover of darkness and nonfunctioning cameras, make their way inside.

There are no Raptors anywhere to be seen, which puts everyone on edge, but they go through with their tasks as planned, splitting up to their assigned floors and starting to dig through paperwork, lab tests and results. Vigilante and Clark are mostly there to keep an eye out for Economos as he hops onto a computer attached to the mainframe and digs as deep as he can into the files, to see if anything interesting pops up.

“Raptors located,” comes a whispered report from Adebayo on the first floor, sent through to everyone’s earpieces. “They’re coming up from the basement. There’s something down there that they’re guarding.”

“Economos, can you find anything out about that?” Mr. Terrific asks.

“Working on it,” John reports, typing furiously as Clark glances over his shoulder. “God, their file labeling system is so shitty—”

Suddenly, an alarm starts blaring, startling the entire team out of their quiet focus.

“Okay, time’s up,” Guy Gardner says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Everyone abort mission,” Mr. Terrific orders.

“Wait—I just need a second—” John says, and Clark puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Take the time you need,” he says firmly. “Remember, I can fly us out a window, if I have to.”

“If Economos is staying, I’m staying,” Vigilante says. “I’m not leaving my number four BFF behind.”

A door slams open across the room, three Raptors spilling through the doorway, guns raised, fingers twitching on the triggers.

Before Clark even has the chance to do anything, all three of them go down, bullets in their heads.

“Haha! Right in the fucking forehead, did you see that Economos?” Vigilante laughs, the end of his gun smoking. “Would have been cooler if I had a chainsaw, but…” 

Clark’s jaw hits the floor. “I—what—”

“Economos, are you done yet?” Vigilante says calmly, like he didn’t just kill three people and laugh about it.

“You just killed them!” Clark sputters.

“Uh, yeah,” Vigilante says, scoffing. “Did you not see the way they were pointing their giant fucking guns at us? You’re welcome, by the way.”

“They wouldn’t have—I’m bulletproof! I could have just stepped in front of you!”

“I’m done,” Economos says, apparently completely unfazed by the literal murder that took place right behind him less than a minute ago.

Clark clenches his fist, stalks over to the nearest window, and punches through it.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got to go. Before more people show up, and you kill them, too.”

“I’m sensing that you’re upset,” Vigilante says.

“I am upset,” Clark confirms, lifting Economos and flying him down to street level, dropping him at the van. When he turns around to go back for Vigilante, he’s already scaling his way down the building with a grappling hook. Where the heck did he even get a grappling hook?

The following day, you and Lois drop by the Hall of Justice for another round of interviews. The information Economos was able to pull from the computer was incredibly valuable, so everyone is celebrating a mission success, really.

Except for Clark, who keeps thinking about the way the Raptors went down with bullet holes in their heads, and how Vigilante had laughed as he’d killed them.

He tries, desperately, not to listen now as Adrian recounts the whole situation to you. But when he glances over, he sees the way you’re hanging on his every word, and you are smiling and laughing, and Clark just—doesn’t know what to do.

He knows Adrian is your best friend. He knows that. But it is so, so hard not to walk over there and yank you out of your seat and just hide you away until his bad influence goes all the way back across the country to Evergreen, Washington, and things can go back to the way they were before all this. Back when you were just the pretty girl who sat across the bullpen at the Daily Planet, and he looked at you and felt light and happy, and not this terrible, churning, awful, uncomfortable jealousy.

“Thank you,” you’re saying to Adrian, and Clark inhales sharply. “For protecting John and Clark.”

“Just doing my job,” Adrian says, but Clark can hear the proud smile in his voice, the way he preens under your attention. 

And Clark can’t take it anymore. He comes up behind you, taps on your shoulder, and you look up at him with your bright eyes and your pretty smile, and—god. 

He’s in love with you. But he can’t live like this.

“Can I talk to you, for a minute?” he asks. “Outside?” He glances down at your Daily Planet notepad. “And, uh, off the record?”

“Of course,” you say, leaving your things at the table and following him through the side doors into a little courtyard where Hawkgirl likes to practice her flight combat.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“I’m worried about you,” Clark says, honestly, and your brow furrows.

“Worried about me? Why? I’m doing—great,” you insist. “I mean—I’m having the time of my life, professionally. This piece with Lois is everything I’ve wanted, and I think Perry is really impressed by it so far—”

“He is,” Clark says, smiling softly, because you deserve to know when people have said nice things about you. “He told me he was. That he was proud of you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s—awesome,” you say, a little awed. “I mean. Work is amazing. I’ve gotten to spend more time with you, and get to know you better, since I, you know, know everything now. And I like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you, too,” Clark says, and he opens his mouth to say more, but you keep talking, words coming out of you in a rush.

“And my friends are here,” you add. “From back home. It’s so amazing to spend time with them and see them succeed, and with these articles, I get to help be a part of their success. I mean, Adrian—”

“Adrian,” Clark interrupts, “is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Why? Did he say something stupid to you again?” you ask, concerned. “I can talk to him about it. I promise you, he doesn’t mean it in any type of way. He really does just take things so literally, and he doesn’t realize how he comes across sometimes, I’ve been trying to work on it with him—”

“He’s dangerous,” Clark says. “I don’t—I don’t think he’s—safe, for you to be around.”

“Adrian?” you say, disbelieving. “He’s harmless, Clark!”

“I watched him kill three people yesterday! And he laughed while he did it!”

“And what were they doing?” you demand. Clark looks caught off guard.

“Wha—it doesn’t matter!”

“It does,” you say firmly, growing more serious. “It does. Adrian doesn’t just go around killing people for no fucking reason. He kills bad people who do bad things.”

“He is a bad person,” Clark says furiously. “Good people do not kill other people!”

“Oh get off your fucking high horse, Superman!” you shout, voice raising to match his. “Newsflash, you are not a better person than him just because you’ve never killed anyone. The only reason you can sit up on your pedestal and act like you’re better than everyone else is because there are people like him on the ground doing the fucking dirty work for you!”

Clark jerks back like you’ve physically slapped him. He thinks back to when Lex Luthor stuck him in a glass cell to rot away in his pocket universe. How he struggled to breathe when Metamorpho morphed into Kryptonite, the agony he experienced when he shoved the green crystal closer to Clark’s face. He feels a little like that right now, deep in his chest. In his heart.

“Clark,” you say, instantly regretting the way your words came out and trying to take his hand, but he steps out of your reach. “I—I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right—”

“Is that really what you think?” he asks. Not angry anymore. It’s just a distraught whisper. “Or have your friends just—convinced you of that?”

“What—what do you mean?” you ask, voice shaking. “Have they convinced me of what?”

“Do you know what Peacemaker said about me on the news? When—when that video of my parents—” Clark chokes. He can barely get the words out. “He said exactly what you just said. He said I think I’m better than everyone else because I don’t kill people. I don’t think that.” He swallows, voice thick, eyes wet with a sheen of tears. “I try every day to just prove that I’m human enough to exist among you all. That I’m not a threat. And then people spin it like—like I’m the bad guy? But it—it kills me. When people die. When I could save them.”

“You are not the bad guy Clark,” you say softly. “You are the most good person that I’ve ever known. I love that you love humanity. It makes—it makes me hopeful. But not everyone is as good as you are. Do you have any idea how many people have died because of Lex Luthor, even after he’s been put behind bars? You should talk to Fleury. Dozens of ARGUS agents, at least. I’m not telling you to—to change who you are, Clark. I don’t want that. I like you just the way you are. I just think you need to understand where they’re coming from. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

Clark doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He can’t look at you when you lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “For the way things—came out, just now. You are my friend, and I respect and admire you for everything you do. It’s important, and I think we would all be worse off without you. But your way is not the only way.”

You go back inside. Clark can’t bring himself to do the same. He flies home in pensive silence.

“Basically,” Mr. Terrific sums up, “we need to find out what’s in that basement. They’re going to be on higher alert than they were last time, so we’ll need a smaller team. I discussed it with the Checkmate leaders, and we agreed that myself, Superman, Peacemaker, and Vigilante would be the best choices, as we have all had direct experiences with the Raptors or active combat experience that would be beneficial should we need to face them again.”

Clark grinds his teeth for the fortieth time in the last two weeks. It’s a miracle he’s got any molars left.

“I think my activity in the computer is what set off the alarm, last time,” Economos says. “I was digging pretty deep into their files, I might have accidentally tripped something inside the system by accessing something I shouldn’t have been. But either way, we know Luthor is keeping his most well-protected experiments down in that basement. Including the original device he used to rip open his first pocket universe.”

“The goal is to get in and destroy it,” Mr. Terrific says. “So we don’t ever have to deal with another universal rift.”

“Okay,” Clark says. “When are we going?”

“Tonight,” Adebayo says. “It’s only been two days. They won’t be expecting you to come back for a second night in the same week, so there’s less chance for things to go wrong.”

Things go spectacularly wrong.

It was supposed to be simple. Get in, destroy the device, get out. The basement is darker, creepier, a bit better protected than the other floors they explored a few nights prior, but infiltration is easier, because Peacemaker and Vigilante have been outfitted with heavily drugged blowdarts to knock out the Raptors.

Clark had insisted. The last thing he wanted to see tonight was another casualty.

It grates on his nerves, the way Chris and Adrian laugh and giggle as they make their way deeper into the lab, making a game out of who can take down more Raptors. Like it’s a joke, not a job. Like they’re playing a video game, not drugging people.

“Wanna try?” Vigilante says, holding the blowdart out to Clark, and he cringes.

“I absolutely do not want to try.”

Vigilante grumbles, and then has the audacity to bring you into the conversation. “She’s more fun than you. I don’t get what she sees in you. She would want to try.”

“Because you’re a terrible, terrible influence,” Clark grits out.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Peacemaker laughs.

“I don’t get what she sees in you,” Clark says, a little bitterly. Chris raises his eyebrows.

“Holy shit, are you jealous of Vig?” he gasps.

“Why would Superman be jealous of me?” Adrian says.

“You’re in love with her,” Chris realizes. “You want to fuck her?”

“Please, for the love of god, stop talking,” Clark grumbles.

“Hang on—what does that have to do with me?” Adrian asks, completely clueless.

“Oh my god, you think she’s fucking Adrian?” Chris says.

“Would you guys keep it down?” Mr. Terrific says halfheartedly, because he is incredibly invested in the drama unfolding before him.

“Um, absolutely not. You think we’re fucking?” Adrian says, face screwing up with disgust. Clark cringes at the way he says it so crudely. “We do not fuck. That’s gross. Just because she’s a girl and I’m a guy does not mean we have to fuck. I don’t even like fucking—”

“Please,” Clark interrupts. “Stop—stop saying that word. I will do anything. And—that is absolutely not what I meant.”

“Besides, she doesn’t want to fuck me, anyway. She’s in love with you,” Adrian says, like it’s obvious, and Clark freezes.

“She’s—what?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Adrian says. “I’m like, notoriously bad at emotional shit. And I’ve known for months. You really didn’t know?”

“I could have told you that too, Clark,” Mr. Terrific mutters as they finally reach the bottom of the staircase. “Now can we return to this conversation later, and maybe focus on the mission now?”

“Or we could just not ever talk about this again,” Clark proposes, but his heart is racing, because—you’re in love with him? If Adrian is right—

If you’re in love with him, he needs to tell you that he’s in love with you too. He needs to apologize for the stupid argument that you had, and hope it’s not too late.

Mr. Terrific opens the door at the bottom level and lets Peacemaker and Vigilante head in first with their blow darts. They take out six Raptors standing around in the room before they call the all-clear.

The room is dimly lit, the walls lined with hundreds of boxes like metal lockers.

“Fuck,” Chris says. “Which box is it in?”

“I guess we’d better start looking,” Mr. Terrific says. “Take it one by one. Clark, can you snap the locks off? Or just break the doors?”

Clark nods and starts making his way down the line, frowning at every strange contraption and suspicious bubbling concoction behind each door. The entire room is full of dangerous machines and biohazards.

“Be careful,” he warns the others. “This stuff looks unsafe.”

Then he opens another door, and a cloud of green dust puffs into his face, and Clark coughs violently as he inhales it.

“Gross,” Vigilante says. “What the hell was that stuff?”

Clark can feel his throat closing up, the strength draining from his body in an instant, and he looks at Mr. Terrific, panicked, as he tries to speak. But his vision goes blurry, and his knees hit the floor, and then there’s nothing at all, because he just inhaled a lungful of pure Kryptonite.

You jerk awake suddenly in the dark to a loud banging noise.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, eyes trying to adjust to the dark. And then you hear— “Adrian?”

It’s coming from the front door. Adrian is pounding on your apartment door in the middle of the night, calling your name.

“Shit,” you say, suddenly wide awake, jumping out of bed and racing down the hallway. You throw the door open so fast it nearly leaves a dent in the wall. “Oh my—oh my god, what the fuck—”

Adrian and Chris push past you, dragging an unconscious Clark between them, and your heart leaps into your throat as you slam the door shut.

“What the fuck happened,” you ask, panicked. “Adrian—what—is he—”

“Kryptonite,” he huffs. “Where can we—”

“Shit—sorry, I—my bed, put him in my bed—”

“We were in the LuthorCorp labs,” Chris says as they toss Clark’s dead weight on top of your mattress. 

You rush to his side instantly. He’s sweaty, feverish, his breathing shallow and wheezy, and it shakes you to your core. You’ve never seen him—unwell. He’s Superman. He doesn’t get hurt, or sick, or injured—

“It was like, they ground it down into a fucking powder or some shit,” Adrian says, yanking his Vigilante mask off. He looks a mess, too, eyes wilde, hair sticking up all over the place. “He just fucking—inhaled it. Started—choking, and passed out.”

“I’m gonna call Lois,” Chris says, looking at Clark’s prone form on the bed. “Terrific told me I should, that she’s got his family’s contact information, just to let them know. But he says Supes will be okay. I’ll be right back.”

“Clark,” you say, brushing his messy hair out of his face. “Clark, wake up. Please, wake up.”

He doesn’t answer. Your eyes well with tears.

Adrian puts a hand on your shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain. He’s never been a very good liar. But you love him for trying.

“Adrian, what do I do?” you whisper. “I—what if he—”

“He’s fucking Superman,” Adrian says firmly. “He is not going to get taken out by a powdered green rock. How fucking lame would that be?”

You laugh, wetly, a few tears streaking out of the corners of your eyes.

“He can’t—I never even told him—”

“Um, about that,” Adrian says. “I might have. Said something?”

“...What?” you sniffle.

“He said something to me tonight,” he says. “About me and you. He thought we were…fucking? And I was obviously like, no fucking way. Shut that shit down real quick. And I maybe might have told him that you are in love with him.”

“I never even told you that,” you say, trying and failing to brush the wetness from your cheeks.

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I might have some deficiencies when it comes to emotional intelligence, but I am really fucking smart when it comes to you. And you need to get it together bestie. I won’t lie, I was hesitant about him at first. And I wasn’t sure I could trust him with you, after the whole butterfly situation, but—you know. I can’t be here to protect you all the time. I live all the way across the county. He’s a decent second choice.”

It doesn’t sound like much. But coming from Adrian, who never trusts anyone with anything—the fact that he’s telling you he trusts Clark with you is the closest to a blessing you’re ever going to get.

You both look up when you hear Chris in the doorway, tensing as you wait for his update.

“Lois says she’s seen it before,” he says. “And he recovered basically overnight. So he’ll probably be fine by morning. Once the sun comes up in a couple hours, he should heal right up. Open up the curtains, let as much light in as you can. He’ll wake up at some point, he’ll be able to tell you what he needs. She’s gonna call his parents, and he can call them himself, too, when he’s awake.”

You slump with relief, even more tears coming to your eyes. Your hand finds Clark’s and squeezes tightly as you look at him, still unconscious, still sickly, but—not forever.

“Thank you guys,” you say, voice thick. “I just—I love you both. A lot.”

“Anything for you, kid,” Chris says softly, coming over to pat you on the head. “I’m gonna head out, though. I don’t think my face, no matter how beautiful and jacked, is the one Supes wants to see when he opens his eyes. You coming, Vig?”

“Do you want me to stay?” Adrian asks you, because he will. For you.

“Can you?” you ask, feeling a little pathetic as you look up at him. “Just—until he’s awake?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, brushing the last of your drying tears away with his gloved hands. “I’ll be out in the living room on the couch, if you need me. You just stay here with him, okay?”

You nod, turning your attention back to Clark as Adrian and Chris file out of the room.

Clark wakes up in a bed that’s not his own, with a warm, solid weight draped over his side. When he cracks open his eyes, his heart nearly stops at the sight of you, curled up next to him, snoring softly. Your arm is draped over his waist, and you’re using the edge of his cape like a blanket.

He blinks into the bright sun shining through the bedroom window and takes a deep, relieved breath. Then movement in the doorway catches his attention.

“Adrian,” he says quietly, trying not to wake you. It’s the first time he’s called him by his name, but—he’s standing there without the mask on. No suit, just silver-framed glasses and sweats. It feels like an invitation.

“Hey,” Adrian says, smiling. “Glad you’re awake, dude. That was fucking scary last night. Try not to do that again any time soon. Maybe ever? She was upset. I hate it when she cries.”

Clark’s heart wrenches at the thought of you crying over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking down at you, almost afraid to move. He doesn’t want to disturb you. You look so peaceful.

“I’m gonna go,” Adrian says. “I was just sticking around until you were, you know, conscious again, in case she needed anything. But you look better now, so I think you’ve got that covered. And I think maybe you two have some things to talk out, and I don’t need to be here for that, so…”

“Thank you,” Clark says. “For the save last night. And for looking out for her, and…for everything else, too.”

Adrian just gives him a little salute before he turns to go.

Clark closes his eyes again, enjoys the sun on his skin for a few more minutes as he listens to Adrian gather up his things in the other room and leave, the door to your apartment clicking shut behind him. He relaxes back into the pillows and shifts closer to you, because as much as he knows with his mind that the sun is what’s healing him, he feels in his heart that your presence is what’s truly making him feel better. Safe and calm and warm.

Just ten minutes later, he hears your eyelashes flutter, and he tilts his head up and looks down at your head on his bicep as you blink awake, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. He feels you press your ear to his chest, listening to him breathe.

“Hey,” he says, catching your attention, and you startle, looking up with wide eyes.

“Clark,” you cry, worried. “You’re awake! Are you—do you feel okay? What do you need—”

“‘m okay,” he says, lifting a hand to your forehead and brushing you hair, mussed from sleep, out of your face. “Are you okay?”

You’re silent, staring at him as you shift up onto your elbow to get a better look at him, one hand tracing over his neck, where just last night, his veins had been blackened with Kryptonite poisoning.

“Your heart is racing,” Clark murmurs, arms circling your waist, hands rubbing down your back in a soothing motion.

“You and your stupid fucking—super hearing,” you choke out. “Don’t smirk at me like that. You scared the shit out of me.”

Then you reach up, hands cradling his face, and you kiss him. Clark feels his own heart start to race, too, so fast, so hard, it might pound right out of his chest if it weren’t for the weight of you on top of him, holding it inside. He lets his eyes drift shut, tilts his jaw for a deeper angle, tightens his arms around you and finally lets himself hold you the way he’s wanted to for weeks. It’s intense, and urgent, and impatient, and when your lips unlock from his to take a gasping breath, he pauses.

“Hey, honey,” he says, soft, soothing, because there’s anxiety lingering there, too. He can hear it in your heartbeat, in the quiet hitch of your breath when you breathe in, like you can’t fill your lungs all the way. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” 

He sits up carefully, shifting you around in his arms until you’re settled in his lap.

“I’m in love with you,” you say. “You fucking moron.”

“I deserve that,” Clark says with a tiny smile, and you offer him a shaky one of your own. “I love you, too. In case you didn’t know.”

“I hoped,” you whisper. “I really, really hoped. God, I can’t believe you thought I was fucking Adrian.”

“He told you about that,” Clark winces. “I’m sorry—”

“I think we’ve both apologized to each other enough over the last week,” you say, putting a hand over his mouth before he can say anything further. He smiles against your fingers. “Maybe we should just stop being stupid, huh?”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

You move your hand to kiss him again, and it’s tentative and tender and perfect. Everything he’s wanted.

“You have to call your parents,” you say when he breaks away and presses his forehead against yours. “And Lois. And you should probably call Mr. Terrific, too—”

“Shh,” Clark says. “Just—let me have this. For a second.”

“You can have me for as long as you want,” you say softly. “All day. Every day. Except not next Friday, because that’s the day before Adrian leaves to go back home, and I promised I would take him to the zoo.”

“Maybe…” Clark hesitates. “Maybe I could come? And get to know him better?”

You smile. “I would like that.”

“You’re kind of a fucking weirdo, aren’t you?” you’d assessed from where you were leaning against the dooframe. You’d only realized how it sounded a moment too late. For someone whose whole world revolved around perception you really had a knack for sticking your foot in it.

They had all been exchanging barbs and banter while Adrian went on about…something. You’d actually lost the thread a ways back. You may have been distracted by your first day jitters, but you were also kind of sure no one in the room knew what the fuck he was talking about. 

Leota and John laughed. Harcourt - you had to keep reminding yourself not to call her Emilia - was unreadable. But Adrian Chase physically recoiled. He swiveled in the office chair towards where you stood in the doorway of the conference room. His face scrunched behind his wire-frame glasses. Who would pick frames that made them look more like a 70s serial killer? Another tally for the weirdo column.

“I meant it as a compliment. Promise,” you said, smiling too wide. That didn’t seem to help.

“I - no. I am not a ‘fucking weirdo’, thank you very much. Who - who even are you? Who is she? What’s she doing here?”

You stepped into the room. “Oh I’m - ”

“This…” Chris paused in the doorway behind you and then heaved a sigh before slapping you on the back and continuing, “is our new social media manager.”

You opened your mouth to correct him but instead were interrupted by the verbal disbelief of one Adrian Chase. 

“Our what?” Adrian bit out. John and Harcourt exchanged a glance. You made a concentrated effort to make sure your smile didn’t melt into a grimace even though your shoulder stung under Chris’s firm hand. Note to self: stay out of the way of Chris’s friendly gestures. 

“Chris and I thought it might be a good idea to have a social presence. You know, do a little branding, a little advertising. We have experts in all kinds of stuff, like John is our tech expert and Adrian you’re our…weapons…expert…and she’s here to be our public relations expert,” Leota was quick to jump in. But Adrian was already riled up.

“Social media? Like? Posting things. On the internet? Where they live forever no matter how hard you try to get things deleted? You never can! Like, for a totally fictional example, if there was a picture of you from when you got pantsed in front of the whole school posted on Facebook and some asswipe wouldn’t delete it and then he died and no one could log into his account to delete it for you? Like the internet where things like that happen? No fucking way, dude!”

“That was…extremely specific,” you commented. “And yes. That social media. But technically I’m a – ”

“I totally forgot about that, man!” Chris laughed. Then he cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry that happened, Adrian.”

“Chris! You can’t just go around saying my government name in front of new hires! Now she knows my secret identity!”

You frowned, your brows tugging together as Leota heaved a sigh. “Adrian, you’re not even wearing your mask right now.”

“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “I would have, like, put it on if anybody warned me there was going to be a civilian here!”

“Well, I’m not a civilian,” you argued gently, but you suspected he wasn’t really listening anyway. You tapped the badge clipped to your blazer. “I’m Checkmate.”

Adrian stared at you dumbfounded, his glasses askew and halfway down the bridge of his nose. Something about it was kind of…endearing?

“And another thing!” Everyone groaned. John simply gave up and stood to leave the room altogether. “Who vetted her?”

“Literally all of us,” Leota replied. She winced like she knew what was about to come next.

“All of us? Even Economos?” Adrian asked quietly. John halted in his retreat, drawn back into the fray. “But no one asked me! Next thing you’re going to tell me Fleury got a say.”

“Well, that would be because I did get a say,” Fleury said flatly. Adrian doubled over at the waist, gripping at his curls.

“What the fuck, you guys!”

You turned to Chris and arched an eyebrow. “I think you under sold how bad his reaction would be.”

Chris’s eyes were firmly pressed shut and he merely shrugged. “There is no fully preparing someone for the shitstorm that is Adrian.”

“Adrian?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light. It probably wasn’t personal. Probably. 

“Vigilante to you,” he replied. 

“Vigilante,” you rectified without protest (even if you thought it was pedantic). “How about a…trial run? You give me two weeks and if at the end of those two weeks you think I am entirely incapable and not a worthy addition to this team, I’ll go.”

Adrian stood upright again. “Do you mean it?”

You flashed him a smile and nodded. Sometimes you scared even yourself with the ease with which you could lie. “First task, getting that picture of you off the internet. How’s that sound?”

“Well, that picture was totally fictional, remember?” he insisted.

“Of course it was.”

Adrian blinked slowly. “But if it was real, it’s totally impossible.”

“I think you’ll find I’m more than capable of the impossible.”

A week in and you’d made progress with the whole team, even Harcourt. But Adrian was.... 

It was as though every time you caught his eye he’d shift those cute little features of his into something resembling disgust. Just to make sure you really got the memo on his disapproval. He made quick work of making your job impossible - refusing to stand still for photos (“so no one would have a true sense of his form” - whatever that meant), absconding with Eagly for a “bonding nature walk” the morning of a photoshoot (Eagly didn’t come back for two whole days), “accidentally” tripping over the router and absolutely destroying it so you couldn’t do work for an entire day while Economos tried to repair the damage. Though that last one may have been a genuine accident, you still weren’t sure. Adrian was…kind of a clusterfuck. 

You’d gotten that picture of him wiped from Facebook and the internet forever on your first day (and also a rather blurry selfie of some woman in bed between a masked but otherwise naked Vigilante and Peacemaker that you’d found in the annals of Twitter - you’d be keeping that one to yourself. Wiped from the internet but not your brain, unfortunately.) but he didn’t know that yet. You’d been hoping you’d win him over with your natural charm. Clearly, that was not going to cut it.

After you’d walked in on him complaining about you to Harcourt in the kitchen (again), you’d decided to reveal your first hand.

It was a link to Facebook, sent without fanfare, over Teams.

You sat back in your chair and waited with a smug smile on your face. You knew he’d received it, because the tell-tale alert blared out from his computer where he couldn’t - or more likely, wouldn’t - turn the sound down. 

After a long moment he glanced up at you from his work station over the divider and then looked back at the computer. The furious sound of typing followed, the little dots dancing on your screen as you daydreamed the glorious apology you were about to receive.

Vigilante: this link doesn’t work lol

Your eyebrows were liable to fly off your face at the rate with which they lifted. You fidgeted in your seat and then brought your fingers to the keyboard, flying across the keys with the kind of practiced skill you’d retained since middle school computer lab.

You: That’s kind of the point.

You could feel Adrian’s eyes on you. God, how dense was he? You kept typing.

You: I promised I’d deliver.

A flurry of typing and then – nothing. Was he doing this on fucking purpose? You didn’t want to yield the field to him, didn’t want to cave and meet those eyes that were so intently burning into your skin. Why were you so desperate for his approval, anyway? Something to be examined another time.

You: The fucking –

You backspaced.

You: The picture from Facebook. That’s what the link used to go to. 

You heard a sharp inhale and then felt the heaviness of his gaze turn from you back to his computer. 

Vigilante: his whole profile is gone

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard, recalling the Google search you’d done to find out how he’d died. He’d wrapped his car around a pole doing 100 and absolutely obliterated on alcohol. He had a laundry list of DUIs and an array of domestic violence charges and a wrap sheet longer than you could bear to sort through. And, of course, he’d bullied Adrian Chase in high school. It had been basically community service to call in a favor and wipe his existence from fucking Facebook.

You: Yeah, well, he seemed like a real dick.

His eyes were on you again. Then, the sound of typing.

Vigilante: ur kind of insane Vigilante: i like it

That second message was deleted before you had a chance to screenshot it and cherish it forever. You had a feeling it would be the last inkling of kindness from Adrian for a while.

You’d also learned that nobody at Checkmate seemed to know what your job was. And, in fact, you were sort of doing three separate jobs for the low, low price of one. But that was fine. You were willing to do the daily grind of social media managing on top of everything else until you’d proved your worth enough to justify hiring another person to focus on socials. Plus, you had to admit, it was kind of…fun? to be hands on with projects again in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. Of course, sitting at a desk all day had started to make you itch, which may have been the root cause of your worst idea yet.

Which was how you found yourself dressed head-to-toe in black and ducking into some creepy warehouse with Peacemaker where Adrian had already been laying in wait. You couldn’t seem to temper the rate of your heartbeat - getting to be out in the field with them was a thrill you hadn’t really anticipated.

Adrian may have been masked but you could tell his mouth was hanging wide open and you were certain the granule of favor you’d curried with him the week before had already melted away.

“Why is she here?”

Ah yes. That classic Adrian Chase tone that seemed to imply an undercurrent of I wish you would drop dead.

“I’m getting b-roll,” you explained. You’d had a career full of justifying your very existence on any team - of course, this was a little out of even your depth. But you were game for anything. Or, at least, you were fairly certain you were. Most likely. Almost definitely. 

“I offered for us to stage a pretend mission but she insisted,” Peacemaker whispered loudly. 

“People can sense when something isn’t authentic. I want them to feel like they can practically taste the gunpowder, raise their pulses a little, you know?” you said, feeling that familiar sense of excitement building up in yourself. It was different, sure. A little more life and death, absolutely. But you couldn’t deny that the thrill of a good content capture got you a little hot under the collar. And, apparently, so did the thrill of a mission. 

“I’m not protecting you if something happens,” Adrian huffed. 

“Dude, c’mon, chill the fuck out,” Peacemaker sighed.

“Don’t get killed, camera girl,” Adrian mumbled from under his Vigilante mask. You’d stopped bothering to correct him on your job long ago. “Camera girl” was at least maybe a step up from the previous day’s “glorified influencer”. You gave him a two finger salute and you could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

For a while, everything went remarkably well. You followed along with the two of them in silence, keeping yourself tucked behind Peacemaker, following his every step like he insisted. Admittedly, it’d been a while since you’d done any serious cardio and you were probably slowing them down. In fact, you were certain you were because Vigilante made a snide comment about it before breaking off from you and Peacemaker. But all things considered you got some excellent footage. 

Until things went to shit. 

Your phone fumbled straight out of your hands and onto the cement floor of the warehouse. You winced as you stooped to pick it up. But when you returned to standing, Peacemaker was gone. He’d carried right on without you, which, fair enough. You were sure he wasn’t used to accounting for hapless civilians on the job. God, you really needed to take Harcourt up on that offer to train, didn’t you?

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath. Your head swiveled one way, then the other. Every inch of the godforsaken warehouse looked exactly the same. A sudden commotion down the row of shelving units drew your attention and you found yourself staring down a group of armed men at the opposite end of the floor.

“Hey!”

“Fuckfuckfuck.”

Before you could turn tail and make a break for the stairs behind you something collided with you and knocked the air right out of your lungs and you straight off your feet. You hit the dusty concrete hard, but your head was thankfully cradled by Vigilante’s warm, gloved hand. He was wrapped around you, his chest heaving. You opened your mouth to say something but were interrupted by a cacophony of gunfire. You winced and squeezed your eyes shut - you also selectively ignored the feeling of Vigilante’s hold on you tightening. 

The silence between you was somehow icier than ever before when the gunfire ceased. Adrian unraveled his arms from around you and pushed himself slightly upright, peering between shelves. He pumped a fist in the air.

“Good one, Peacemaker!” he cheered. Then his head snapped back towards you and he leaned close. “I can’t believe you made me miss all the fun.”

“Sorry,” you squeaked out. It was all you could manage for the moment. Your ears were ringing, your heart was hammering in your chest like it was trying to make a break for it, and Vigilante’s fucking utility belt was digging into your stomach. 

“You ruin everything.” The words were sharp but the tone wasn’t. Still, it punctured the tiny little bubble of hope that had been steadily building in your chest for the last two weeks. You tried to keep a hold on your expression, and really hoped you weren’t about to fucking cry. You had already been grappling with the reality that someone might not like you, as hard as you tried to get them to. Being nearly shot and then also yelled at by the person who saved you in the first place had a way of throwing your already chemically unstable emotions into combustible chaos.

“They’re all charmed by you, but I’m not, for the record,” Adrian huffed. His warm breath sprawled across your lips. 

“Okay.” You weren’t sure what else to say, distracted as you were by Adrian still laid flatly on top of you, pressing your spine into the cold, hard concrete.

“I’m not!”

“I believe you,” you said emphatically.

“If you’re going to record anything, you should record me saying that!” he said, gesturing towards the phone still clutched tightly in your hand. Apparently, even in the face of mortal danger you were going to protect your investments. He sat back on his heels but didn’t get up right away, his legs warm on either side of your hips. You arched an eyebrow and then, without saying anything you lifted your phone above your face and hit record. A moment of stunned silence passed between the two of you.

“It’s recording,” you said flatly.

“Oh! Well, then, uh…let the record show that I am not charmed by you!” he said, jabbing a gloved finger towards the camera.

“By who?” you asked. You couldn’t help yourself. There was just something deliciously fun about taunting him, drawing him into absolute consternation. You couldn’t see his face, but just knowing the tips of his ears were getting red was enough. You’d take your revenge, paltry as it was. Didn’t you deserve just an ounce of retribution after the way he’d been treating you? “Just so the record is as thorough as possible.”

“You! By you!” he exclaimed. He grabbed hold of your phone and spun the camera around so that you were the subject. He pointed at you from offscreen like he was about to accuse you of being a witch. “This social media girl. I am not charmed by her! I am not under her influence!”

You swallowed a laugh and grabbed your phone back from Adrian. “Consider it on the record. Happy?”

“What the fuck are you two doing?” 

You both turned your heads to find Peacemaker standing over you, covered in blood. “Stop dry humping and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Adrian made a noise of disgust and muttered something under his breath as he got to his feet. You stared up at him from the ground, expectantly. Adrian only crossed his arms over his chest. You rolled your eyes. Chris looked between the two of you. “Seriously, dude?”

He pushed past Adrian to reach down and haul you to your feet with one sharp pull. Upright again and thoroughly exposed to gravity, all your bones suddenly felt like Jell-o, and the contents of your stomach threatened to make an appearance. But you slapped on a smile and gave Chris a thumbs up. 

Note to self: Turns out Adrian will save you after all. Stay the fuck out of the field.

Week three came and went and you were still there. One, because even though none of them seemed to understand your job at all (now you weren’t so certain either, honestly) the growing numbers didn’t lie. And two, well…Adrian never really had any actual power in the situation anyway. But you’d thought it might help to let him think he did. 

Of course, just because he hadn’t insisted on your dismissal didn’t mean he wasn’t going to suddenly be nice. He was in the middle of emphatically rehashing what had transpired on the mission to an absolutely aghast Leota when you waltzed into the conference room for a scheduled meeting. 

“Oh perfect timing! I was just telling Ads how you stood there like…well, basically like you are right now. Totally useless! Didn’t even have the instinct to protect herself!” Adrian was laughing. You bit on the inside of your cheek and absently tugged your sleeve down to cover the healing bruises from you and Adrian’s tango with the concrete.

He’s just a challenge. It’s fine. It’s just a challenge and you can handle challenges.

Your mouth seemed to disagree with your brain, however.

“Did you tell her about the part where you laid on top of me for way longer than necessary?” you countered. You smacked your forehead with your palm. “Oh wait, I can just show everyone the video! Unless…you already did?”

So maybe you’d texted the video to Adrian the same night as the mission while you laid awake, hot and pissed off, thinking about all the things you wished you’d said in response to get him to shut the fuck up for once. Adrian had not responded to that text, which, in some ways, meant you got what you wanted. And that he knew he looked fucking stupid in that video. But now back at the office he was apparently feeling bold again.

He opened his mouth but you held up a finger which seemed to startle him for just long enough for you to continue.

“You didn’t let me die, and for that I am grateful, okay?” you said in a tone that didn’t sound very much like you were grateful at all. In your opinion, saving someone was basic decency, but you knew that wasn’t how Adrian’s warped little brain worked. “So we’re even. I did you a favor, you did me a favor. And I’m here to stay, so I’d recommend getting used to it.”

Leota looked between you two, confused. You’d thought that keeping what you’d done for him strictly between the two of you would have curried you at least a little bit of favor, gained perhaps a sliver of trust - but no. Still no. No matter what you did, it was never enough. Adrian would keep making your life hell, and you’d keep trying to win him over. 

Maybe Adrian’s brain wasn’t the only one that was warped.

“You only ended up here because no one else wanted a stupid influencer. Because what does an influencer even do besides influence things?”

“I wouldn’t know because, once again, I am not an influencer,” you bit back. 

“Wow so you can’t do your job and you can’t even do an influencer’s job. What are you good at?” Adrian said with a sneer. Leota slapped him on the arm and hissed out his name in disbelief. But you only smiled. 

You put your laptop down on the table with a little more force than strictly necessary and then braced your hands against its flat surface. “You know what, Vigilante? Next time don’t bother saving me. At least when I’m dead I won’t have to clean up your fucking messes anymore.”

Adrian did not seem to have a response for that. You watched his brain short circuit in real time, his eyes widening slightly, his mouth agape. You continued, addressing the rest of the room, “Did anyone else here know that Vigilante killed a guy for doing graffiti in broad daylight next to a playground last week?”

“Jesus…” Leota guffawed. 

“Oh, that’s right, no one knew that because I’m good at my goddamn job!”

The room was shocked into silence. 

Adrian’s voice was markedly quieter when he protested, “So you want us to congratulate you for doing something that isn’t even your job? Aren’t you just supposed to be posting stuff on Instagram?”

“No, I’m not. And you know that,” you said coolly. “My job is to make you look good. And you don’t make it easy, Vig.”

“Dude, I don’t think you get it. LuthorCorp wanted her to run their PR team,” John interrupted. You glanced over at him - you weren’t sure how he knew about that. But, it seemed he was trying to gas you up, so you’d take what you could get.

“Lex Luthor wanted me,” you corrected with a smile and humble shrug of your shoulders. You left out the bidding war between Luthor and Maxwell Lord that had ended with you simply walking away from a very lucrative proposal.

“Then why us?” Emilia asked.

“Probably a spy,” Adrian muttered to himself. Something about arguing with him was a little cathartic. So maybe you’d basically said you’d rather be dead than deal with him. At least now the feeling was firmly mutual. You didn’t need to care about him! Maybe you were finally free from thinking about solving Adrian Chase all the time.

“I figured if I was going to be doing something morally grey it might as well be for the underdog and not in the service of a soulless billionaire,” you admitted.

“Morally grey?” Adrian scoffed. “The world is actually very black and white. There’s legal and there’s illegal.”

“Right. And to solve the illegal things you are…also doing illegal things?”

“No, I’m doing justice.”

“Outside the justice system?”

Adrian stood up abruptly. Well, good, you thought, let’s finally have it out. 

“Fuck you, you’re doing this on purpose! Stop trying to fuck with me - you’re always fucking with me! With your little...your little quips, and your jabs, and your smile for the camera, Adrians, and your pretty mouth, and oh my god your incessant need to document things! Like! I feel like I can’t even take a piss without thinking you might be taking a ‘candid’ photo of me. And it’s so dumb! Social media is stupid and the internet is forever and you being on this team is a threat to us all!”

There was a long pause before you split your lips into a grin. “Oh, so I'm on the team now?”

“What? That’s what you took away from that?” Adrian asked, hands waving vaguely in the air as if he was gesturing at the physical manifestation of everything he’d just said.

“Well, that, and that you think I have a pretty mouth,” you teased. You were glad you’d finally lost your cool because you felt a goddamn weight off your shoulders, plus whatever implosion was happening inside Adrian Chase was a delight to experience. If you’d thought Adrian was going to have an aneurysm before, your concern only amped up at the way he went red from the neck up. 

“What? I didn’t say that!”

Leota laughed. “You kinda did, Adrian.”

“Why would I - I wouldn’t say that! Because it’s not even true, first of all. And actually, what a weird, super specific thing to say about someone’s face!”

“It was really specific, wasn’t it?” you continued to taunt, unable to help the easy smile on your face. It was a convenient enough cover to deflect all attention back onto a thoroughly scrambling Adrian as you tried to ignore the way that particular comment had made you feel a little unsteady. Maybe you weren’t free from him at all. 

He certainly thought about you even when you weren’t around. But you’d be lying if you said that didn’t also mean that he prickled under your skin in equal measure. Adrian thinking about your mouth wasn’t something you’d anticipated, exactly. You’d considered a lot of possibilities for his behavior, but none of them accounted for –

“What the hell, dude?” Chris groaned. “How many times have I told you that’s not how you compliment a woman? It’s weird. It makes you sound like a serial killer.”

“Well I wasn’t trying to compliment her! I was telling her how she annoys me.”

Annoying was fine, actually. Annoying was manageable. But annoying maybe wasn’t the full truth.

You straightened up abruptly and flipped your laptop open. You knew just the diversion tactic to stop the inevitable path that the conversation was headed down. The fingers of one hand flurried across the keys as you reached for the conference room TV remote with the other. You mirrored your screen to the TV and then took a small step back, crossing your arms over your chest as you watched them all read the words on the screen. After a moment you clicked to the next slide. Then, you clicked again. And again.

“What is all this?” Chris finally asked. Your posture deflated only slightly and you bit your tongue to keep from making a Real Housewives receipts-related reference. 

“Everything,” you replied simply. “It’s okay go ahead, take your time. Soak it in.”

You put your hands on your hips and waited. 

“You did all this?” Emilia asked.

“In only three weeks?” Leota clarified. You gave them both a tight nod and a small smile. 

“This is only the beginning. This is a brand in its infancy. Now, due to the nature of a lot of your work,” you glared at Adrian, “things are a little unconventional. But so far, the reception has been very positive. People here don’t need a Superman. They want something that feels relatable and accessible. At the end of the day, people want safety in these uncertain times. Checkmate is going to give it to them.”

You could see The Picture™ in the preview for the next slide and your finger hesitated over the button. You scowled and slammed your laptop shut instead. 

“End of fucking slideshow.”

Chris clapped so suddenly it made you nearly jump out of your skin. He stood up and kicked his chair back behind him.

“You’re cool as fuck,” he said with a kind of seriousness that seemed ill-suited to the sentence. “Meeting adjourned!”

You started to protest that this wasn’t actually the meeting at all - Fleury was the one who’d put something on the calendar in the first place. But he was nowhere to be found and you were not about to piss on your own parade.

“Lex Luthor can eat my fucking shorts,” Chris said, putting both of his hands on your shoulders. Then he gave you a tight nod and was out of the conference room with a peace sign chucked idly over his shoulder. The room dissolved as quickly as it had assembled. Adrian was close to the door but still lingering for some godforsaken reason, looking a bit like a kicked dog. 

“Vigilante?” you called out. He looked at you over his shoulder and you offered him a smile that you hoped conveyed warmth but also a bit of menace. “Can I have a word with you?”

Leota hung back in the doorway as Adrian heaved a sigh and turned around, radiating the body language of a petulant child. Your gaze darted over to her and your nose wrinkled slightly. “Sorry, Leota. Can I talk to Adrian alone?”

“Oh!” Leota blinked in surprise. “Sure. Sure, sure, sure. I’ll just be…down the hall. In case you, uh, need anything.”

She gave you both finger guns before slowly exiting the room, her head on a swivel as she made her way down the hall and just out of view. You had a feeling she wasn’t going far.

“What do you want?” Adrian scowled, arms crossed over his chest. His lower lip pouted slightly, an expression you’d grown to expect from him.

“I don’t want anything. I just want to show you this,” you said, hoping your hand wasn’t shaking at all as you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out the folded, printed screenshot. You extended it towards him, pinched between your index and middle finger. You waited as he unfolded the paper and stared at the image. The fiery confidence had seemingly fled your body for greener pastures and you picked at your nails.

“Are you blackmailing me?” he asked, his jaw suddenly tight. You watched carefully the way the tendons in his fingers flexed. Despite having seen him in action, it was usually still hard to reconcile the Adrian standing before you with the Vigilante persona. But something about the shift in his demeanor made them feel not so separate at all.

“Jesus Christ, no. Of course not!” you exclaimed. “Adr - Vigilante, I’m trying to help you. And I’m trying to make you understand. You need to be careful.”

“Why aren’t you yelling at Chris?” he asked, dragging his gaze from the paper in his hands to your face. 

“I’m…” you sighed and softened your tone. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to yell. Besides, Chris doesn’t give a fuck. His bare ass is all over the internet. People know his identity. You on the other hand…”

To your surprise, he nodded.

“I’m not telling you not to have…” you paused. Every day at Checkmate was an HR person’s nightmare, but you certainly weren’t trying to contribute to it. You considered your words carefully. “A life. Just…I don’t know, be careful.”

“Don’t get photographed having threesomes with Peacemaker. Got it.”

You winced. “Maybe…just keep cameras out of the bedroom in general, hm?”

“Okay,” he nodded. You weren’t totally convinced he understood. A long silence passed between you and then he opened his mouth again with an audible inhale. “Maybe I’ll just only have sex with people who already know my secret identity.”

“Oh, that’s not what I - ”

“Ads is an obvious no. I mean, I’d be down but I don’t think she wants what I’ve got going on. Chris is a yes. Been there, done that, if you know what I mean!” He raised his hand like he expected you to high five him. You shook your head and he dropped his hand slowly before continuing. “Econogoat? Absolutely yes. Buuuut I don’t think he’d want to. Harcourt could punch me in the throat and I’d like it but that’s Chris’s girl, you know? And I respect that. Fleury? You know what, and I think this may surprise you? I think yes. Judomaster - fuuuuck no. Bordeaux is a solid maybe.”

You sputtered slightly at that. Bordeaux was gorgeous and lethal and yet Adrian was only giving her a passing shrug. The man made no sense.

“And there’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’re the only other person on the list of people who technically know about my secret identity so it would be safe to fuck.”

You were genuinely confounded. It was somehow a proposition (maybe?) and also just a statement of fact. It didn’t matter - there was no world in which you would ever be fucking Adrian Chase.

“Absolutely not.”

“No, no you’re right,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Sex is about bonding with friends, and we are not friends.”

A genuinely astounded “What?” was all that managed to leave your mouth. “Sorry, what?”

“Where did you find this by the way?” he asked.

“The depths of hell,” you replied with a shudder. He was staring at you. “Oh, sorry. I mean Twitter. X. Whatever.”

“Do you think this counts as revenge porn?” Adrian asked, his eyes lighting up with a peculiar gleam. You cocked your head slightly - why did he seem so excited? “Revenge porn is a crime.”

“It is…” you agreed. Something clicked in your head. You shook your head emphatically. “No! No, Vigilante.”

“Maybe I should kill Amber?” he contemplated, seemingly to the air and not to you at all.

“It’s gone now!” you exclaimed. He seemed to suddenly remember you were there. “That’s the whole point. It’s gone. And besides, everyone in the comments thought it was AI. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

You didn’t include that mostly everyone in the comments was you. Under various anonymous accounts. One cleverly edited SynthID screenshot later and all the interest had waned. You had been so chuffed in the moment you’d thought - I can’t believe they pay me for this. 

Of course, the subsequent phone conversation with Amber to bribe convince her to delete it had you thinking you definitely weren’t getting paid enough. The memory of the conversation sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“Okay.” Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “For now.”

Leota reappeared in the doorway with an exhale. Her hand fluttered to rest over her chest. “Ohmygod. Sorry. I know you said private conversation, which I totally respect, but I just suddenly got worried that Adrian - ”

Adrian whined at the use of his name. You weren’t sure if some part of him thought you might forget his name given enough time. He straightened slightly. “Wait, did you think I was going to hurt her?”

“Well, literally yesterday you dragged your thumb across your throat when you were talking about her so…”

Adrian’s mouth dropped open and he looked back at you. “But that’s like the universal signal for getting fired. You know, like, getting axed.”

Leota’s palm met her forehead with an audible smack. “It very much is not, Adrian.”

“Oh! Well…that’s dumb. If I wanted to mime killing someone I would probably just mime exactly how I’d kill them,” he said simply. He lifted his hands and then began an elaborate pantomime that you were pretty sure was supposed to be poisoning. You glanced down at the half-drunk coffee cup in your hands and swallowed hard. 

“Anyway…” Leota interrupted after a painfully long time. “Do you want to come out with us for a drink after work?”

“I’m already coming,” Adrian said. She rolled her eyes.

“Not you, dingus.”

Adrian turned to look at you, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Do you…do you want to come?”

A drink sounded so good. And an opportunity to bond with the rest of the team wouldn’t go amiss. Adrian had noticeably warmed to you in the last few minutes alone. But…

“I’ve got work to finish up. But have a drink for me,” you replied with a tight smile. It was all still too new…too fragile. If you got too close, too comfortable you were liable to fuck it all up. Adrian opened his mouth to protest but Leota hooked her arm through his and pulled him towards the door.

You started to gather your stuff when a sharp gasp and the sound of something hitting the conference room door startled you. Adrian had one hand latched onto the doorframe while Leota attempted in vain to drag him with the other.

Adrian blinked slowly behind his wire-frame glasses. 

“Why do you want to help me?”

“You know, I’ve been asking myself the same question. Why would I want to help someone who would sooner see me buried six feet in the ground?”

Adrian's brow furrowed behind his glasses. "I don't want you buried six feet in the ground."

"You sure don't act like it," you replied. He was quiet for a long moment, seeming to turn it over in his brain.

"I'll try to better," he finally said. You weren't sure what that exactly entailed but anything was better than the turmoil between you.

"Okay. Thank you."

Still, Adrian did not go. He studied you with those expressive green eyes of his, but you found you weren't sure what they were betraying. He'd never looked at you like that before.

“So you’re like…a fixer.”

Was that…awe in his tone?

“Sure. If that helps you sleep better, Vigilante,” you said drily. “Other people might call me a publicist.” 

“She’s being too nice but she means normal people, Adrian,” Leota chimed in with a smirk. “C’mon, Ade. Leave the girl to her work.”

Two hours and one ill-conceived 8pm cup of coffee later you were finally heading to your car when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to find a text from Leota. For a moment it was just a contextless photo of Adrian seemingly chugging a beer.

Then, another text. 

Leota Adebayo: Adrian wanted to make sure I sent you this picture so you know he’s having a drink for you lol You: Thank you? I think? Leota Adebayo: 🧜‍♂️ Leota Adebayo: Sorry, that was Adrian

Adrian wordlessly slammed a small plastic statue onto your desk. A small squirrel holding a tiny vintage camera. You stared at it and then slid your gaze to him. 

“You don’t have any decorations on your desk,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Does this mean I’m staying?”

“I guess I didn’t have a say the first time, which means I probably don’t have a say now, but…I think you should stay.”

“And why is that?”

“You’re good at your job even if I don’t understand it like…at all. You’re nice most of the time except when you’re telling me not to have totally normal bonding sex with people, you never leave the coffee pot empty for someone else to make it, and also…” he looked around the cubicles and then lowered his voice slightly. “You look out for me and that’s not really something people ever do. Usually I’m the one looking out. It’s…nice. To know someone has my back. Even if I wouldn’t in a million years trust you to have my back in the field. It’s like…it’s like a different kind. But still a good kind.”

“That’s the part you didn’t want people to hear?” you asked with a laugh. But Adrian did not laugh. He was alarmingly serious. He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance.

“I know I don’t really feel emotions like normal people do. But, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’m pretty sure I like you.”

You refrained from commenting on exactly how many emotions you’d see the man have in a single day, let alone the entire time you’d know him - well, he sure didn’t process them the same way as everyone else. Instead, you focused on the little victory that was being handed to you.

“Like me?”

“Yes. I think you’ve entered the friend rankings. You’re still way at the bottom, of course.”

“Of course,” you agreed.

“Like, probably still below Judomaster.”

“Uh huh.”

“Now that I think about it, you insult me way less than he does, which is definitely a point in your favor. And you’re only a normal amount of infuriating. And I’m only sometimes confused when I’m talking to you.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re also hotter than Judomaster for sure. On the flip side, I can’t trust you with a gun and that’s a real bummer,” he continued to muse. 

“I think you could trust me with a gun?” you argued. Adrian’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not saying I’d be good with a gun but I’m not gonna…you know, shoot you in the back or anything!”

Adrian paused for a long moment and then burst into laughter. It was the kind of wide, strange laughter you’d seen from a distance though you’d never been on the receiving end of it before. It warmed your heart in a, frankly, concerning manner. 

“You’re funny!” Adrian wheezed. “You’d be so dead before you ever got a chance!”

“Probably yes,” you admitted. He stopped laughing suddenly.

“Still not trusting you with a gun. So for now, you and Judomaster are tied. But, who knows, maybe you could work your way up the list.”

“Well, I’d certainly like that.”

“You would?” Adrian asked quietly.

“Of course I would. I like you too, Vigilante.”

He tells himself this quietly, as he stands in the bullpen of the Daily Planet; hands folded too neatly at his waist, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he watches you laugh at something Kurt from Marketing says.

Good one, Kurt. He thinks to himself. Maybe next time, you can tell it to someone else.

It’s harmless. It’s polite. It’s you- soft-eyed, kind-hearted, always offering warmth without realising just how devastating it is for someone like him.

And yet, Clark's jaw tightens.

The feeling crawls up his spine before he can stop it, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting somewhere between his ribs. Jealousy. The word tastes foreign. Clark prides himself on patience, on understanding, on giving people space. Ma would scold him; Pa would tut in disappointment.

Envy ain't gonna get you the lady, Clark, he'd probably sigh.

He’s Superman, for God’s sake- he saves worlds. He should not be bothered by a man in a button-down who smells faintly of copier ink and stress.

But when it comes to you, all of Clark's rationality just flies out of the window.

You sit on the edge of your desk now, fingers wrapped around a mug Clark washed this morning when you weren’t looking. He remembers drying it carefully, afraid of cracking it, afraid of breaking something that belongs to you and has the absolute honour of being brought up to your lips every day.

“Thanks for this,” you say, holding the drink up a little. You're distracted by the bullpen, eyes elsewhere, but it doesn't bother him.

Clark just shrugs, feigning casual.

“Don't mention it.”

And that's how it starts. The small things; little, useful tasks; done to make your life better, so you can glide through it with ease.

He brings you coffee when you forget. Adjusts the heat when you’re cold, much to Perry's exasperation and Jimmy's constant complaining. He even stays late to help you proofread, even when his own work is done.

You never ask; he just does. Loving you feels instinctual, like muscle memory he still doesn’t remember earning.

Clark didn’t know exactly when these feelings for you blossomed into something else, something deeper than the perfect friendship you already had. He'd tried to pinpoint it the way he did with everything else in his life. He believed that there had to be a moment, a shift; a second where something irrevocably changed.

But love hadn’t arrived like a thunderclap. It crept in quietly, through the small, ordinary spaces you left behind.

Maybe it began the night you stayed over.

It had been raining hard enough that even you couldn’t argue against it. You stood in the doorway of his apartment, apologetic and soaked through, yet insisting you were fine to go home.

He insisted harder.

Please. I'll take the couch. I have blankets, and Netflix, and that brand of hot cocoa you like. It was no trouble at all.

He lent you one of his shirts and an old pair of sweatpants, both far too big for you. Later, he pretended to read while you padded out of the bathroom, hair still damp, cheeks warm from the shower.

His shirt hung off you like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

And something in Clark's chest gave way.

He watched you curl up on the other side of his bed; safe and sleepy, trusting him without hesitation, and the realisation hit him with frightening clarity.

The want. The tenderness. The quiet, devastating truth that he was already in too deep; had already let himself fall the second you told him your name and hugged him for the very first time all those months ago.

Clark didn’t sleep much that night.

Which, of course, brings him to now.

The Daily Planet has dressed itself up for the holidays; tinsel taped crookedly to desks, paper snowflakes in the windows, and an alarming number of mistletoe sprigs hanging in doorways. Perry huffs through the fake snow, though he has yet to tell anyone to get rid of it.

Interns are everywhere- far more than usual. Overexcited and under-supervised, they dart between desks with arms full of garland, arguing about ornament placement instead of doing anything resembling actual work.

On the other side of the room, someone nearly trips over a string of lights stretched far too low across the aisle. Laughter echoes where typing should be.

Normally, Clark wouldn’t give it much thought. By default, mess is easy for him to tune out. Noise expectedly fades into the background when you’ve spent a lifetime listening for disasters.

But you- invested, bafflingly so- watch them.

You lean back in your chair, chin propped on your hand, eyes bright with amusement as two fresh graduates debate on whether the break room needs a second wreath.

A soft laugh falls from your lips when one of them knocks over a stack of folders in their enthusiasm, quick to hop up and help them gather the mess.

“S-Sorry,” they stutter.

“You’re alright,” you say kindly back, “These have a place yet?”

They shake their head, but you’re already smiling, straightening your posture as you follow after them; ready to help whether they want it or not.

To you, they aren’t annoying. They aren’t disruptive.

They’re Metropolis' festive spirit personified.

In the kitchenette, a small group huddle around the counter, arguing in hushed but excited voices over something decidedly unimportant. You wander over without hesitation, peering into the mess of ribbon, mugs, and candy canes scattered across the surface.

Someone explains- too fast, too enthusiastic- that they’re trying to make the hot chocolate station more Christmassy.

“Sounds fun.” you beam.

You listen like it matters. Because it probably does, to you.

You offer suggestions, hands already moving, tying bows where they can’t quite manage it, straightening things that don’t really need fixing. Coleen- a nineteen year old transfer from Gotham- laughs when you accidentally knock over a jar of marshmallows, and you drop to the floor to help her, laughing the whole time.

Clark watches from a distance. His chest grows warm, a tender buzz curling beneath his ribs.

He can't stop looking at you; won't stop, because for the past few months, this exact feeling of complete and utter longing has been at the forefront of his mind.

He’s thrown himself into mountains, into snow so cold it empties his head. He’s lapped the earth again and again, burning himself down to exhaustion. And still, you’re there- his first thought, his last act of restraint.

It's useless. He feels useless, because what good are all these feelings when he can't even articulate them in front of you?

When you finally step back, satisfied, the interns thank you like you’ve saved Christmas itself. You laugh it off, brushing sugar from your fingers as you turn toward the bullpen again.

And that’s when you step beneath it.

One of the mistletoe sprigs dangles in the entrance to the kitchenette, green and unmistakable; a taunt to the man in the glasses and super-suit beneath his shirt watching you from desks away.

He knows what it is. A strange, earthly custom, Kara calls it, though Clark remembers it dearly from Christmases as a young boy back at the farm.

He remembers Ma and Pa; Pa pulling Ma in for a soft cuddle, lips slow to press against hers. Most kids wouldn't dare linger their gaze. Clark, on the other hand, always found it quite sweet.

“When you meet the one you want, son,” Pa would say then, cheerful eyes glistening, “This'll be second nature. No need for the sprig in the doorway. You won't want to wait.”

For a split second, Clark's distracted by the memories, the vague scent of pine and Ma's homemade mince pies. But his eyes stay on you, and beneath the mistletoe in the doorway, you freeze.

Because your walkway is no longer clear, and Clark’s view of you is obscured by a body he unfortunately knows far too well.

Scott from Field Research leans just a little too close. Clad in a black baseball cap and sunglasses, one arm leans against the door and another one rests on his hip.

His grin is easy, eyes flicking upward toward the mistletoe.

Clark’s body reacts before his mind does, every instinct sharpening at once. It’s ridiculous, he knows. There’s no threat here. Just a man standing too near someone he cares about far more than he’s willing to admit out loud.

Still, his body shifts; weight already tipping forward, heart thudding as if he’s bracing for impact.

“Well,” Scott says lightly, nodding upward, “would you look at that,”

You roll your eyes in a way that’s both polite and playful, “Good afternoon to you too, Scott.”

“Gonna make me ask for it?”

“Nothing to ask for.” you shoot back. He remains unfazed.

“Pretty sure mistletoe means a kiss.”

“Pretty sure you’ll lose your job if you try anything,” although your tone is joking, there’s a serious cut to your voice that makes Clark sit up even straighter.

“Then make it easy for me.”

“Hm,” your eyebrow raises, and even from where he watches, Clark can sense your growing frustration; adding to his own in the process. “Looks like someone’s hoping for a little holiday magic.”

Scott laughs, a little too loud, and waggles his eyebrows. “Maybe I am. Don’t tell me a pretty little single thing like you doesn’t want a kiss this Christmas.”

Clark’s chest tightens so suddenly he almost forgets to breathe.

His stomach twists, heat rising, hands clenching at his sides. Again, his body refuses to work alongside his mind, and he finds himself kicking his chair out from under the desk and standing up.

Slow, head-ducked strides come your way as he fiddles with a random paper from last month. The pages are worn, thumbed, the ink no longer fresh. But it's the only thing anchoring him to the current situation.

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, but the mischief in your eyes is sharp.

“Who said I was single?”

Clark freezes mid-step, every nerve in his body suddenly electric.

Panic claws at him, twisting his thoughts into knots, memories of every night spent with you in the most innocent, platonic ways striking his nervous system like lightning.

He stops walking. Almost turns around.

Last he knew, you were single. You hadn’t gone on a single date since you two became friends- you'd always told him you didn't have time. Men weren't worth it, especially not the ones that typically approached you.

So where was all of this coming from?

Scott blinks, confused. “Wait… what?”

Clark can hear his own heart like there's a megaphone pressed against it. His walk is completely frozen; he can’t move, can’t think, can’t stop the sudden, almost painful surge of shock and surprise that shoots up his spine.

He makes a mental note to interrogate you about this later. Maybe, when you're at his apartment again, wearing his Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt and sitting bare-legged on his couch.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Do I know him? It’s not Kurt from Marketing, is it? Please tell me it's not Kurt from Marketing, or literally anyone else I know.

Finally, Clark lifts his eyes. It's unwilling, and reality hits him like a wave.

He doesn't know how long he's been stood there, or how much time has passed since Scott came at you with a smirk so smug and a request so ridiculous- but it can't have been a short while.

Because right now, in this very moment- you’re looking straight at him.

Not Scott. Not anyone else. Your eyes are trained on Clark, and your expression is desperate and pleading, soft but urgent- like you’re silently begging him to understand what you're asking for without uttering a single word.

And he starts to understand. Sort of. Slowly.

Very slowly.

Your hand drifts subtly in his direction, a gentle nudge that makes Clark's chest ache in a way he never thought possible.

Scott, standing a step away, blinks in confusion. His eyebrows lift, sharp and puzzled, as he glances back and forth between the two of you.

The smile he’s been wearing falters just slightly, unsure now.

“Kent?” he frowns.

Clark’s world narrows to you. Every other sound, every other movement, fades away.

He sees the tiny curve of your lips, the hopeful tilt of your head, the way your eyes search his like you’re looking for permission.

And then it clicks. Fully. The fog in front of his eyes clears and he swallows back a triumphant Oh!

You mean him.

You are telling Scott Miller from Field Research that you have a boyfriend, and that your boyfriend is him.

Clark Joseph Kent.

Clark, who is currently looking at you with eyes so wide and a mouth so dry, he considers grabbing Lois' overly-sweet Americano from her desk and chugging it straight.

The realisation is almost too much. Relief floods him, warmth blooms throughout his chest, and for a moment- Clark can barely stand the ache of wanting. He’s never wanted something so badly, and at the same time, has never felt so guilty for playing into something so untrue.

But he has to. He can't fight it; his DNA simply isn't coded to go against anything you want, ever. Even if he can barely breathe as he registers Scott’s baffled stare, still waiting for clarification.

You nod at Scott’s words as Clark manages a tiny smile; soft enough to be mistaken for smitten, knowing enough to let you know that he’d heard, and was more than willing to go along with it.

“That’s right,” you say confidently, side-stepping Scott and making a bee-line to Clark’s desk.

He watches the way your hips sway, as upbeat as the relieved smile on your face.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

And somehow, that’s how it starts.

You don't expect it, but it happens; whenever Scott is around, Clark slips into boyfriend mode with startling ease. A hand at the small of your back. Standing a little closer than necessary. Offering you his jacket without a second thought; calling you his in front of anyone who will listen.

It feels natural. Alarmingly so.

At first, it serves a purpose. It has a reason. Nothing is done without an excuse, and his arms are always quick to drop when it’s over.

He tells himself it’s just to keep you safe from mistletoe warriors; to make things less awkward for you as a friend.

But then comes that feeling again; the nagging, aching twist of envy that fills him with dread every time he sees you laughing with someone else; the unprovoked jab at his pride when another man's gaze lingers on you for too long.

“If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were jealous,” you'd joked once, after Steve Lombard winked at you and Clark had tensed so hard, the fountain pen in his hand snapped.

He frowned, hating the word and everything it meant as he threw the pen away and reached for another, “Just looking out for you.”

Regardless, he kept at it. Protecting you. If Superman could save the world, then Clark believed the least he could do was save you from entitled assholes in the workplace.

But then, without a word of warning- it turned into something else entirely.

He starts bringing you lunch and sitting beside you instead of across. Walking you home with his hand brushing yours, fingertips almost touching until they’re linked. Memorising the way you take your tea and making it without asking; one sugar, splash of milk if it's black.

Fixing things in your apartment that don’t truly need fixing, just so he can be there, just so he can show you he’s more than someone you can hide behind.

“Thanks, Clark.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

Sometimes, there’s no Scott. No mistletoe. No reason at all.

And still, Clark does it.

He doesn’t even realise how far he’s slipped until he catches the way you look back at him- soft, thoughtful, like he’s something steady and familiar as you brush his curls back and let your palm rest on the nape of his neck. You look at him reverently, in the same way you'd stare at something that was yours.

And you don’t know what to think.

You notice the little things first. The doors that are held open for you, always a little longer than necessary, as if making sure you’re safe. When he's on the phone to Ma and she asks him how his girl is, and Clark doesn't correct her. Ever.

Just mumbles, She's alright, Ma. Work's been busy. But we're alright. The quiet softness in his voice when he says your name, the way it lingers on your ears, making your heart stutter.

You revel in the way he finally starts to accept his possessive nature; how being jealous is now a priviledge and no longer a sin. You catch yourself leaning toward him sometimes, unconsciously, like gravity itself is pulling you closer.

And when Clark’s lips brush lightly against yours as he moves to kiss your cheek, they linger just long enough to make you ache.

You try not to think about it. You tell yourself he’s just being careful, considerate, protective- the friend you’ve always depended on. Yet every small touch sends something fluttering in your chest.

Your thoughts keep drifting to him; to the curve of his shoulders, the gentle strength in his hands, how he watches you when he thinks you don’t notice.

“Any plans tonight, Kent?” Perry had asked him once. And you caught it out of the corner of your eye; his goofy little smile, all pearly-white teeth and tender and sweet.

“Taking my girl out to dinner.”

And yet, Clark doesn’t notice- or if he does, he doesn’t dial it back.

The lines between you blur. People stop questioning you both, and Scott has yet to even look you in the eye since that day under the sprig.

You find yourself stealing glances, hoping Clark won’t see the way your own gaze lingers; the soft look on your face that you can’t hide when he does something small for you, something precious.

Most nights, you begin to dream of him; letting him wrap you up in the make-believe of it all. You imagine tracing the ridges of his face with your fingers, brushing your thumb against his skin the way he brushes against yours, wanting him to know without words just how much you’ve been falling for him.

You try to push it down, remind yourself he’s just being kind.

But when he’s near, when his hand finds yours and doesn’t leave, when his eyes hold yours for one heartbeat too long- you can’t.

Because truthfully, you don’t mind it, any of it; your stomach flips, your heart races, your body becomes giddy at the mere thought of him- and still, you crave it.

And then there’s the day he’s sitting across from you; broad hand gently cupping your jaw, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. It's a movie night in, some cult classic neither of you have been paying attention to playing on his flat screen.

Months and months of pretending, of calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend to take yourselves off the Planet's dating radar- have led to this.

You can’t breathe for a moment, trapped in the quiet intensity of him. There's a magnetic pull that has existed between you both for far too long, now amplified by the meagre space between you.

His eyes, trained on your lips, make your own pulse stutter.

You’ve dreamt about this moment in secret; imagining the softness, the warmth, the inevitability of it all.

“I don’t think I can pretend anymore.” Clark says then, voice low, quiet, and it reverberates inside your chest before the words even reach your ears.

“This...” he swallows, “this is real for me.”

You feel it. You understand immediately. Because you’ve been waiting for this too, aching for it, longing for him the same way he’s longed for you all along.

“Me too.” you whisper, a plea amidst the silence. And the grin that stretches across his face is magical, gradual- something flung straight out of a fairytale picture book.

So when Clark leans down, slow and careful, pressing his lips softly against yours- of course, you don’t push him away. You melt instead, your body falling into him; into the love that's waited beneath the surface for you for months.

Patient. Steady. Clark.

And in that moment, when he feels your lips curve into a smile against his own, your heartbeart pressed against his chest in a rhythm he wants to memorise; Clark can't help but think that maybe- just maybe- jealousy isn't so bad after all.

“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.

You cry out in shock, instinctively flinging your arms up in front of your face. When you lower them, your open-plan living room is carpeted in crystal shards of glass, and your beloved floor-to-ceiling windows are gone, the iron frames now twisted, jagged bars, a persistent breeze whipping through the new, gaping hole where they used to be.

“What the fuck?” You mutter to yourself, heart trembling, still slumped on the floor where the shockwave dropped you. This was exactly the kind of thing that your parents had been worried would happen when you moved to Metropolis.

As you clamber unsteadily to your feet, a blue and red figure swoops into the gap that used to be your window. “Are you alright?” A deep, clear voice calls out, and you find yourself staring at Superman - the Superman - hovering just outside with a genuine look of concern.

“I - uh, I think so?” You haven’t really registered what’s happened yet, but you don’t feel any immediate pain, and you’re standing up okay.

His eyes dance over you, worry still creasing his brow, but just as he opens his mouth to speak you both hear the creaking cry of whatever giant monster has caused this damage, Superman twisting around to get a better look.

When he turns back to you, you wave your hand at him, your voice stronger now. “Go, go. I’m fine.”

He nods once, then zooms off towards the kaiju.

Shaking your head as much in astonishment as to clear the ringing in your ears, you assess yourself again for damage - a few cuts, surprisingly nothing too bad - then tiptoe over the debris to get a broom. Operating largely on autopilot, you sweep the shards into piles, keeping one eye on the skyline to watch the fight in case it comes closer again. When the floor is mostly clear, you fetch your first-aid kit and sink onto your couch - now on the other side of the room to where it was before - to check your cuts for splinters of glass.

By the time you’re convinced your wounds are clear, a final discordant wail signals that Superman has finished the fight, the monster thrashing gently as it’s carried off somewhere safer. Thankful that it won’t be coming back to destroy the rest of your home, you pack up your things and stand, only to be interrupted again by Superman, clearing his throat as he dangles in the air outside the hole that used to be your window.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Oh. Hi.” It’s surreal seeing Superman up close, but you’ve already maxed out your shock capacity for the day.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I - yeah, sure. Not too bad.”

“You look a little banged up,” the hero flies into your apartment, landing gently on the floor. “I can take you to a hospital, if you’d like?”

“Oh, that’s fine.” You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s just superficial, I’ll be alright.”

Superman steps closer, pointing at your forehead, his voice soft. “What about that?”

Frowning, you raise your hand to where he indicated, surprised when your fingers come away with a sticky coating of blood. “Oh.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” He asks, approaching you carefully.

“I don’t think it’s deep.” You answer, poking at your face, amazed you’re not feeling any pain. “Head injuries just bleed a lot.”

“They can also be serious.” Superman adds, with the authority of someone who’s seen a lot of wounded people.

“I think it’s fine.” You tell him casually, brandishing your first aid kit. “I have butterfly bandages in here, that’ll probably do.”

Superman watches as you root through the kit, managing to extract the steri-strips with your non-bloodied hand.

“May I?” He asks, reaching towards you.

You jolt back, giving Superman a startled look; surely he doesn’t personally patch up everyone who gets hurt when he has something to fight?

“Oh gosh, of course.” He mumbles, suddenly sounding a lot more human, glancing around then heading to your largely undamaged kitchen area and pointing at the sink. “Can I…?”

You nod, still not sure what’s happening. The sight of Superman in your kitchen, his red cloak swaying as he thoroughly washes his hands in your sink is making you think maybe you do have a brain injury.

He uses a nearby dish towel to dry off, then approaches you again, 

“Okay,” he takes an antiseptic wipe from you and guides you to sit down, kneeling next to you and gently cleaning the cut on your forehead, wincing in empathy and apologising as he does.

You blink at him, still very confused and focusing only on holding still.

“You’re doing really well,” he tells you with a reassuring smile, picking up your hand and using the wipe to clean the last of your blood off your fingertips. “Now step two.”

He frowns in concentration as he opens the bandages and delicately applies them to your skin. “There, all done. I think you’re right about it not being too bad; it’s not deep and there’s no contusion. Just be sure to keep it clean and dry until it’s healed. Now, did you hit your head at all? Any dizziness, or confusion?”

“Only about,” you gesture at him, “all this. Is personal medical follow-up part of your regular hero duties?”

A natural smile spreads across Superman's face as he stands. “Well, usually people are quite happy to just go to the hospital. Everyone on the ground is being checked out by paramedics right now.”

“What about everyone else in the building? Are you going to go door-to-door checking on my neighbours?”

“Actually, there’s no need to - your apartment was the only one hit.”

You gawp at him. “Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so. At least that means there’s likely no structural damage to the building.”

You groan. “Well, at least there’s that.”

He chuckles, the sound low and resonant. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. And thank you, by the way. For this,” you gesture at your forehead, “And for making sure I didn’t get squished by that thing.”

“No need to thank me, ma’am,” Superman’s professional voice is back as he straightens up, hands on his hips., “It’s my pleasure to keep the residents of Metropolis as un-squished as possible.”

You laugh, starting to feel more normal, if shaken, as he heads back the way he came in. “Do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?” He asks, turning before he takes off. 

“Yes, don’t worry.”

“Good. Would you like me to take you there?”

“Like - by flying?”

Dimples emerge as he smiles again. “I can fly you, or I can take you downstairs and get you a cab. Depends on your tolerance for heights, although I suppose living up here, that’s probably not a problem for you.”

“True.” You’re aware living on the 17th floor isn’t for everyone - and it was another thing your parents weren’t happy about. “And as tempting as it is, I should check who has room for me before being literally dropped on someone’s doorstep.”

“I understand. Although I can assure you, ma’am, I wouldn’t drop you.” One last smile and Superman speeds off into the night, leaving you alone as the shock wears off and your injuries start to sting.

—

A week later, you’re back in your apartment, desperate for a proper night’s sleep in your own bed after crashing on your friend’s couch. Luckily your building, like every other high rise in Metropolis, has metahuman incident damage insurance, but even so it’ll be a while until it’s fully fixed. For now, you’ve tidied and rearranged, and if it wasn’t for the fluttering blue tarp where your window used to be, you could believe everything was back to normal.

When you start awake in the middle of the night, at first you think it’s just that you’re a lighter sleeper than before, jumpy since your living room got burst open by a kaiju - then you hear the unmistakable sound of tinkling glass. Grabbing the baseball bat you’ve kept handy for this reason, you creep out of the bedroom. You hadn’t thought anyone would be able to break in through the broken window given how high up it was, but when you enter the room you can make out a shadowy silhouette through the plastic.

Adrenaline pumping, you grip the bat tighter, holding your breath and moving as quietly as you can, before ripping the tarp open to surprise the intruder.

You’ve clearly managed it, because the man outside your window yelps right in your face, startling you enough to scream back, which makes him shout again, triggering the same again from you - until you recognise both the man and that he’s not climbed up here; he flew.

“Superman!? What the fuck?”

“Are you going to hit me?” He asks, staring at the baseball bat with alarm.

“No!” You don’t lower it, the tarp still flapping between you.

“What’s the bat for then!?”

“I was going to threaten to hit you!”

“Well, you’re doing that!”

You ignore his comment. “Why are you here?”

“I thought it would be empty!”

“Wh- that’s not an answer!” You yell. “And don’t you have superhearing? Didn’t you know I was here?”

“I wasn’t concentrating! I heard something but I thought it was one of the other apartments or-” he stops mid-sentence.

“Or?”

“Rats.”

You growl in annoyance.

He sighs. “Okay, yes, I’m sorry, I was out of line - can I come in? To explain?”

Frowning suspiciously, you silently step back to let him come in, but keep the bat up and ready.

Superman keeps his palms raised and facing you, as if trying to show he means no harm. “I was just looking to see if I could fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Your window!” He gestures back at the tarp, as though that’s obvious.

You’re incredulous. “Seriously? Is growing glass one of your powers now?”

“No, but I have laser eyes. I thought I could melt the beams, maybe fuse them back together. That’s the part that takes time, getting replacement glass is easy.”

Your mouth falls open as you drop your arms, letting the baseball bat swing by your side. “You came here in the middle of the night to see if you could speed up my window being fixed?”

Superman shrugs. “It would have looked weird if I was hanging around in the day time.”

“It’s weird now!”

“I just - wanted to help.” He looks genuinely dejected, and you sigh, throwing the bat onto your couch as your adrenaline ebbs away.

“Well you scared the shit out of me.”

“I am sorry about that.” He apologises.

“I believe you,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face, “I was just looking forward to my first uninterrupted night’s sleep in a week. And, again, this can’t be something you do for every damaged apartment in the city? You’d never do anything else. Although clearly you don’t sleep.”

“I do sleep, actually.”

“Me too, when possible.”

He winces. “Sorry again. But you can’t actually be back in here already? You can’t live somewhere with a missing wall.”

“I can and I will,” you tell him tiredly, crossing your arms defensively.

“But it’s not secure.”

“It’s not going to fall down. Like you said, there’s no structural damage, the insurance company confirmed it. And it’s not like it’s winter, it’s not cold.” You suddenly realise you’re standing in front of Superman wearing only skimpy pyjamas, but pride stops you reaching for a coverup. “The only risk is someone breaking in, which I thought was nearly impossible, and if they try - that’s what the bat is for.”

“They won’t need to break in, there’s a giant hole in the wall!” He points out.

“Now you’re just being pedantic.”

“I don’t like you staying here.”

“Objection noted. Now you can go.”

Superman huffs, his shoulders dropping. You can see him trying to think of another argument, but recognising your determined expression, he trudges back to the tarp. “I’m going to check in on you until the window’s fixed.” He tells you.

“You really don’t need to.”

“I do.”

You roll your eyes. “As long as it’s not the middle of the night next time.”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face, and he straightens into a more recognisable Superman pose. “Yes ma’am. Goodnight. Sleep well.” With that he steps out into the sky, leaving you open-mouthed.

—

The next evening as you’re chopping vegetables for dinner, there’s a suspicious rustle from the tarp, and a now familiar voice calls out. “Knock knock!”

You approach the window and pull back the sheeting. “You again.”

“Me again.” He confirms, eyes dropping to the knife in your hand. “And you with a weapon again.”

You shake your head, waving the knife as you return to the kitchen counter. “Unless you’re an ingredient in my stir-fry, this is not a threat to you.”

“It smells good,” Superman follows you, looking around as if checking for threats.

“Thanks.” You study him while his eyes are elsewhere. He said he’d return, but you don’t really understand why he’s back - although it’s an interesting quirk to your day, if nothing else. “Do you want some? Wait, do you eat?”

“I don’t need to,” he leans against the counter, watching you slice up spring onions, “But I like to.”

“Makes sense.”

He smiles. “How was your day?”

“No threats to my safety you need to be aware of.” You answer flippantly. “How was yours?”

“Good. Saved a dog that fell in the river out by Hobb’s Bay.”

“Can’t dogs swim?”

“Well, yes, but there are currents.”

“And probably a lot of chemicals up there.” You muse. “Wait, you washed before coming over here right? I don’t want toxic river ooze in my dinner.”

“I assure you, I am thoroughly disinfected.” He grins.

“Glad to hear it,” you brush off your hands and turn your full attention to Superman. “Well, duty done, you’ve checked that I’m safe and I am.”

A look flashes across his face at superspeed before you can read it and he straightens up with a nod. “Good. Yes. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ma’am.”

He whizzes out of your apartment before you can say another word.

—

Every night over the next week, some time between you getting home from work and turning in for bed, Superman stops by. Each time it seems like he’s happy to chat, even trying a little of your cooking if he’s there at the right time, but you’re constantly aware that he’s a man with a heavy sense of responsibility, so you always try to cut his visits short and send him on his way as quickly and politely as you can.

One evening - the first after a weekend night where you were out and he didn’t see you - you greet him covered in the explosive remnants of a blender malfunction. Trying and failing to hide his smile at the state you’re in, he insists on taking over with the cooking while you shower and change.

When you return, you work together side by side for a while, until a question burbles up in your mind that you’ve so far avoided asking, and you pause what you’re doing to stare at him. “What is this?”

He smiles brightly at you. “Well, this one is pasta, and you said this one-”

“No, this.” You gesture between you. “You stopping by to chat and help make dinner. Blender mishaps aren’t exactly the usual kind of emergency you deal with. I don’t get it.”

Superman’s face falls. “I’m - keeping an eye on you.” He turns to stir the pan, focussing on it intently and not meeting your eyes.

A boom in the distance echoes across the city, and you’re almost sure you see relief flash across his face before he makes his apologies and flies off to deal with it, leaving you behind more confused than ever.

—

As you step into the street to go to work the next morning, you’re startled by an unknown voice calling your name.

“Hi,” a slight woman with long dark hair rushes up to you, “you’re the person in 1705 right? The apartment that got damaged in the incident a couple weeks ago?”

“Uh - who are you?” You ask, not stopping.

“I’m Lois Lane, I’m a reporter at the Daily Planet.” Lois holds out her hand and you shake it as she falls into step with you. “Your building has metahuman incident damage insurance, right?”

“Yes,” you answer cautiously.

“But it’s still not fixed two weeks later?”

“Well, they -” you gesture back up to the patch of blue on the otherwise gleaming glass facade of the building.

“Hung up a sheet of plastic?” Lois finishes for you.

You grimace. “Yeah.”

“But I bet the claim was processed and accepted, right?”

You stop walking. “Yeah.”

Lois nods. “I’m writing a piece about mismanagement, corruption and embezzlement in the metahuman insurance industry. I’d love to hear about your experience.”

“This won’t affect my claim will it? I don’t want to piss off the insurance company, I can’t afford to fix it myself.”

“You’ll be entirely anonymous, and I can disguise the details so it’s not clear it’s you. I just need people to go on the record. And you’d be really helping future claimants - some people lose a lot more than just a window - you could be preventing families being needlessly homeless for months, sometimes more.”

“Okay.” You agree to an interview. The Daily Planet building isn’t far from your office, so you arrange to come by on your lunch break.

When you arrive, you’re given a visitor's pass and ushered straight to Lois’s desk, where she greets you enthusiastically and runs you through the consent forms. You can’t help but notice the messy haired guy at the desk opposite hers - who also seems to be sneaking glances at you through his thick-framed glasses.

“Who’s that?” You whisper to Lois, trying to be subtle as you indicate the other reporter.

She follows your head tilt. “Oh, that’s just Clark. So, which company is your building insured with?”

After a solid 45 minutes of rapid fire, in-depth questions, you’re exhausted and pretty hungry, but so sure that Lois is onto something that you’re glad you agreed to go on the record for her. However, the pause in questions is only because she can’t find a specific document she wants.

“Jimmy,” she calls out to the desk behind her, “did you move the file I had here?”

“No,” Jimmy answers, spinning around to face her, “I’m not interested in your boring insurance article.”

“There’s nothing boring about exposing shady business practices.”

“It could have been moved to the back, I think Steve was ‘tidying up’ around here earlier.”

“Damn it.” Lois sighs, getting up. “Sorry, I’ve just got to find this.”

“No problem.” You tell her, glad that the squeak of her chair just about hides the rumbling of your stomach. You check the clock on the wall, realising that you’re not going to have time to pick something up on your way back to work, and wishing you’d had breakfast that morning.

“Hi,” you turn at the deep voice to see Clark giving you a hesitant wave.

You smile back. “Hi.”

He scoots over to you on his chair. “Lois can be pretty intense, huh.”

“Yeah,” you agree. Clark’s even cuter up close, those glasses framing deep blue eyes, dimples popping up in his cheeks when he smiles. “She seems like a good reporter.”

“She is.” he tells you. “But she can get a bit obsessive about her stories - she might have forgotten that you’re here on your lunch break, right?”

You nod.

“Will you be able to get something after this? Or have you already eaten?”

“No and no.” You tell him honestly. “But it’s fine, this is clearly worth it.”

Clark raises a finger, “Or,” he spins back to his desk and grabs a paper bag, pushing back over to you with it. “You can have this. You’re not allergic to peanuts, are you?”

“No,” you smile, “but I’m not taking your lunch.”

“It’s fine,” he opens the bag and peers into it. “I’ve already eaten half. It’s just PB&J, and there was an apple in there too so it’s a bit squashed.” He passes it to you with one hand, pushing up his glasses with the other.

You start to refuse again, but your stomach grumbles loudly again, drowning out your words. Clark chuckles. “See, your body agrees with me.”

You laugh as well, accepting the bag. “Well, thank you.”

“And,” he holds up another finger, pedalling his chair back to his desk before hopping up - making you notice how tall he is - and nearly colliding with another reporter crossing the newsroom. A string of apologies leave him as he ducks and dodges across the floor, returning with a smile and a donut wrapped in a napkin.

“You should have time to eat this before Lois gets back.” He tells you, pressing it into your hand. “You probably need the sugar for her last burst of questions.” He grins, and your heart melts a little.

“Thank you,” you bite into the donut, a powdered ring that has smudges of multiple different colours of icing around it. “Do you get a box of these in the office every day?” You ask, wanting an excuse to keep him here talking to you.

“Not everyday. Sometimes someone’ll bring them in.” He pushes his glasses up again, and points at the coloured streaks on the donut. “You can tell I brought these in because I dropped them a couple times and they got a bit all over each other.”

Your smile widens. “Well, I love it. A little bit of everything is my favourite kind of donut.”

You see Lois coming back, and quickly finish eating, wiping your hands and fingers with the napkin and balling it up. Before you can find a trash can, Clark takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours in a way that feels warmly familiar.

“You better not be poaching my interviewee, Kent.” Lois tells him as she sits back down, document found.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms Lane.” He grins at you a last time and heads back to his desk.

Lois notices the starry-eyed way you watch him sit down and run a hand through his dark curls, somehow messing them up even more. “Hey, I’m serious about him poaching you.” She says, drawing your attention back to her. “He’s always getting exclusive interviews with Superman, so he gets given a lot of the metahuman stories, but this is my baby.”

“Sure, of course.” You say, focusing back on her questions.

When you’re done, you practically have to run to get back to work, and still arrive a bit late. You’re grateful for the half lunch Clark gave you, and can’t help thinking of his hands making the slightly flattened sandwich as you eat it. He stays on your mind for the rest of the day, a dreamy expression spreading across your face every time you think of him.

The reporter’s dimpled smile is still lingering in your thoughts when Superman visits that evening.

“As you can see, I’m still uninvaded.” You tell him, grinning. You’d thought Superman might be a bit off - or not stop by at all - after the strange way his visit yesterday had ended, but he seems fine, and you’re more good-humoured than normal after meeting Clark. “How was your day?”

“Good. Surprising.” Superman tells you. “How about you?”

“Also good. Very good.” You move to the kitchen to start on dinner, almost a routine now when your nightly visitor arrives. “I ended up going to the Daily Planet, this reporter Lois Lane wanted to interview me about the window not being fixed.” You point at it with the cucumber you’ve just taken out of the fridge. “Apparently it’s a whole big thing with the insurance companies delaying repairs on purpose.”

“A hole big thing?” Superman smirks cheesily, nodding at the tarp he’s just flown through.

You groan and throw a tomato at him, which he catches before it can hit him, passing it back to you with an easy smile.

“Anyway, when her article gets published it might mean things get fixed faster and you don’t have to feel so guilty and keep checking in on people. But, more excitingly - I met the best guy today.” You beam at Superman. “He’s a reporter too, at the Daily Planet, and oh my god he might be the cutest guy I have ever met. He’s so sweet and kind too, I didn’t have time to get lunch, and he noticed that even though he’d literally never even spoken to me before, so he gave me his lunch and a donut.”

Superman’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he goes very still - which you don’t notice, continuing to babble about Clark as you start chopping salad.

“And he’s so clumsy, it’s adorable, it’s like that thing in rom-coms where the woman’s always falling over? I never got why that would be attractive before, I thought it was just trying to make the hot actress seem relatable, but with him it’s like yes, please fall over and I’ll be the hero who catches you. Although he’s so tall, I probably wouldn’t be able to catch him, he’d just squash me, but oh god,” you almost growl, “what I would give to be squashed under him.”

“Oh, gosh.” Superman’s clearly taken aback.

You laugh guiltily. “Sorry, probably a bit of an overshare. Can’t believe I made Superman blush. But seriously, this guy. I feel like a teenager again, I haven’t crushed this hard on someone since - maybe ever? And perhaps it’s just been too long for me, but damn, I would climb Clark Kent like a tree.”

“Golly. Oh wow. Well.” Superman’s blinking rapidly, looking a little uncomfortable now. “I should go.”

“No, no, wait, sorry, I will stop now.” You laugh, then pause your food preparation, eyes widening in realisation. “Wait - you know him! Lois said he interviews you. What’s he like? He’s a good guy, right?”

“He’s nice, yeah.”

You gasp, a thought occurring to you. “Do you know if he’s single? Into women?”

Superman nods hesitantly. “Yes, he is. I think.”

“Could you - maybe - give him my number? I should have given it to him earlier but it was all a bit of a rush. And I was going to call Lois and see if she could pass it on to him, but it seemed a bit forward maybe, I don’t want him to know how crazy I am about him already.”

“No, of course not.”

“But since you stopped by anyway, maybe you could just - give him my number next time you see him? Please?”

Superman hesitates before agreeing with a quick nod. “Okay, yes. Since you feel so strongly about him.”

“Well, obviously don’t tell him that.” You roll your eyes with a grin as you scramble about for a pen and scrap of paper.

Superman swallows. “No, no. Obviously.”

“And none of the stuff about being squashed under him, or crushing like a teenager, or - any of it. Just, you know, I’m coolly intrigued. Interested in getting to know him more.”

“Coolly intrigued, got it.”

“Actually, tell him I want to take him out for lunch, to pay him back for giving me his today.” You hold out the piece of paper to Superman, then hesitate. “Wait - do you even have pockets in that?”

“I - well, I have-” He gestures vaguely to himself.

You wrinkle your nose. “Are you going to put it in your underpants?”

“They’re not underpants!” He exclaims. “They’re over, they’re over the rest of - and they’re trunks, I - just, never mind, I’ll put it in my belt.”

“Thank you, Superman.” You give him your sweetest smile.

“You’re welcome.” He tucks the piece of paper carefully into his yellow belt with a sigh. “Clark Kent is a very lucky man.”

“But he doesn’t know it yet.” You wag a finger at Superman. “I’m classy.”

“Yes you are.” Superman takes off without another word.

You’re delighted to get a call from Clark the next day, and you arrange to meet for lunch on Saturday. The few days until the weekend drag even more than usual, but when you’re finally on your way to meet, nerves bubble up inside you. It’s been a while since you had a date you were this excited about, and while Clark seems kind and friendly, he’s also a big-shot reporter for the most widely read and respected newspaper in the city - not to mention so attractive you hadn’t been able to stop your thoughts drifting to his blue eyes, curly hair and dimpled smile all week.

Thankfully, Clark immediately puts you at ease. He’s already seated when you arrive, and as you walk in his face lights up and he gives you a goofy wave so enthusiastic he sends his water glass flying. He’s still trying to mop up water and apologising profusely to everyone around when you reach him, and the combination of his clean-up attempts and awkward move to greet you result in him almost headbutting you. The earnest string of sorrys are still spilling from him as you sit down, smiling.

“Nervous?” You ask.

“A little.” He gives you a wonky grin, pushing his glasses up. “How could you tell?”

You laugh. “Just a hunch. And I’m a little nervous too.”

The rest of the meal goes much more smoothly, conversation flowing easily and your feelings growing steadily. You’re starting to feel grateful for the broken window that led to you meeting him - and having a way, via Superman, to contact him.

You insist on paying, as you’d suggested on the phone, to thank him for the sandwich he gave you earlier in the week, but Clark’s having none of it. However, in his rush to beat you to the card machine, he whips his card out of his wallet so strongly that it shoots into the air, sailing over the other tables and bouncing off the wall on the other side of the restaurant. The mortified look he gives you cracks you up, but you still manage to settle the bill while he rushes over to retrieve it.

“Since that lunch was worth significantly more than half a PB&J,” Clark says as he holds the door for you, “I think I owe you dessert. And we happen to be just one block from the park, where I know for a fact there’s a stand with the best ice cream in the city. If you’re free, that is?”

“The best ice cream in the city?” You tease, delighted to continue the date. “That’s a bold claim, Kent. I think I’ll have to see if you’re right.”

Turns out the frozen treat is perhaps the most delicious you’ve tasted - although whether that’s because of the ice cream itself or the man buying it for you is unclear. You’re fairly sure Clark’s having as good a time as you are, and you continue strolling through the park together long after you’ve finished your desserts.

When you pass by the old movie theatre, you point out the classics they’re currently showing.

“Which do you like better,” you ask, “Some Like It Hot or His Girl Friday?”

Clark tilts his head. “I’ve actually never seen His Girl Friday.”

“What? But you’re a journalist!”

He laughs. “I don’t think it’s on the recommended reading list at MU. But you’re right, it’s a terrible oversight on my part.”

“One which you’d like to correct?” You suggest, seeing there’s a screening of it starting soon.

Clark beams at you. “Oh, definitely. The sooner the better.”

You settle into your seats, popcorn nestled between you. You keep one hand free, open on your shared arm rest, and when Clark’s fingers nudge against yours before slowly intertwining, it’s suddenly a lot harder to focus on the movie.

Unfortunately, barely half an hour in, Clark fidgets in his seat and squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right back.” He whispers, sneaking out of the theatre in a comical hunch to avoid blocking anyone else’s view. You’re confused and a little saddened that he returns only ten minutes before the end of the movie.

He turns to you the second it’s over. “I’m so, so sorry. Something came up - a work thing - I wish I could have stayed, but I had to deal with it.” There's clear remorse in his eyes, and he’s looking even more rumpled than he had earlier, making you think he’d rushed back to you as fast as he could.

“That’s okay,” you tell him, “I know you have a demanding job. I guess news never really takes a break, huh?”

“Not really,” he smiles at you gratefully, playing with the edge of the empty popcorn bucket as you get up to leave. “And I understand if you want to leave things here, but - if you’d like - maybe I could make it up to you by buying you a drink, and you tell me what I missed in the movie?”

“I’d like that.” you answer honestly. “And you don’t need to feel too bad - I’ve had a lot worse behaviour on a first date than someone stepping out to deal with a work crisis.”

“That’s concerning.”

You fill Clark in on the rest of the plot as you make your way to the riverside bar he wants to take you to. When you reach the water you stop short, awed by the soft red glow of a beautiful sunset sparkling over the West River.

“Oh wow.”

“Here,” Clark puts a careful hand on your lower back and guides you to a wide viewpoint, and the two of you press up against the railing to watch the sun sink below the Metropolis skyline.

Clark notices immediately when a gust of wind makes you shiver. While you have a light jacket on, he only has a flannel over his t-shirt, but he starts pulling off the top layer for you regardless.

You stop him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’ll do much. And you’ll freeze.”

Clark shrugs, “I run warm.”

“Well then,” you step in as close as you can. “You can be my windbreak.”

Smiling, Clark positions himself behind you, his arms either side of yours on the railing, tucking you against him to keep you warm.

A glow steals through you that has nothing to do with body heat, and you lean back into him, closing your eyes to bask in the perfection of the moment.

“Times like these I love living in Metropolis.” You tell him.

“Really?” You feel him smile against your cheek. “Because it looks like you’ve got your eyes shut.”

You open them with a guilty smile. “It’s not just the view.”

“No,” Clark gently kisses your cheek, sending sparks zipping through you, “but it is beautiful.”

You turn your face toward him to see him gazing at you adoringly through his glasses, his messy hair, broad shoulders and dimples limned by the last light of the sun. Your eyes drop to the curve of his mouth as his eyes trace the same path on you, and you raise up to him just as he leans down, the two of you pulled magnetically together.

Your lips meet in a first, tender kiss that lingers just long enough. You part for a second, only to press back in like waves on a beach, neither of you wanting to fully pull away. Clark smiles as he withdraws from you with a quick, soft third kiss, before settling himself behind you, his cheek resting against your head, arms tighter around you now.

The bliss that washes over you is unlike anything you’ve felt before.

You stay like that until the sun disappears behind the horizon, lights flickering on across the city, and make your way to the bar under the gentle glow of twilight and streetlights.

One drink turns into two, turns into you realising you’re hungry again, and ducking out of the bar to settle in a cosy restaurant a little further into the city.

Everything you eat tastes like the best you’ve ever had, and enticing tingles shoot through you every time your fingers tangle with Clark’s over the table. Utterly caught up in each other, you don’t realise how late it’s got until the staff politely let you know they’re closing up and you need to leave.

Clark apologises earnestly for keeping them, adding some extra bills to the tip for the inconvenience, but the knowing smiles the owner gives you makes you think they don’t mind too much.

Ever the gentleman, Clark asks to walk you home, and comes into your building, right up to your door. You wouldn’t normally sleep with someone on the first date, but today has been so perfect, and you’re so head over heels already, that a part of you desperately wants to invite him in. But you know Clark well enough now that you expect the politely old-fashioned reporter would say no if you offered, so you turn reluctantly to end the evening.

“I had an amazing time.”

He smiles back at you, glasses sliding down his nose. “Me too. And I’m sorry again about having to run off.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure him, “everything else more than made up for it.”

“Can I see you again?” He asks.

“Yes please.”

He grins goofily, one side of his mouth lifting before the other. “I’ll call you?”

You nod eagerly, eyes dropping to his lips.

Reading your hint, he steps closer, hand lifting to your face, fingers curling along your jaw and his thumb stroking your cheek as he ducks his head towards you.

The kiss is gentle again, but you tease his lips with your tongue as you slide your arms around him, and he groans softly. His other hand grips your hip as he delicately tugs on your lower lip, before pulling back with a sigh to rest his forehead against yours.

“Goodnight,” he says, voice husky, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to your lips.

“Goodnight,” you breathe back, repeating the action to him.

He stares into your eyes a moment longer before reluctantly stepping back, his mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Sleep well.” He adds softly, bobbing his head shyly as you unlock your door and step through.

“You too,” you tell him before you close it behind you.

Inside your apartment you let out a deep sigh and lean against the door, your eyes drifting shut as you relive the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hands holding you. You step forward slowly, calmly for a few beats, waiting long enough for Clark to have made it to the elevator, before flinging yourself onto the couch with a delighted squeal - unaware that Clark, with his superhearing, smiles widely as he hears you.

You’re so giddy from your day-long date that you don’t even notice there’s no visit from Superman that night.

—

When he swoops into your apartment the following evening, you’re still mooning over Clark, your face hurting from grinning to yourself all day.

You greet him in delight, and immediately thank him again for passing on your number. “We went out yesterday, and it was amazing.” You’re practically bouncing. “Maybe the best date ever? And he’s already called to set up the next one.”

“Hmm.” Superman walks past you to inspect your food prep. “What are you making?”

“Just avocado and eggs.”

“Breakfast for dinner.” He mutters.

“So, Clark.” Superman startles as you dart in front of him, beaming. “It was perfect, one of those dates that just keeps going because you never want it to end. At least I didn’t, and-”

Superman holds a hand up to stop you. “I don’t want to hear about your date with Clark.”

“Oh,” you’re taken aback. “Sorry, I - why not?”

“It’s just,” he shrugs, “not my business.”

You frown. Something else is going on here. “Wait,” your eyebrows lift as a thought occurs to you, “do you date?”

Superman freezes, his strong jaw locked, eyes flickering towards and away from you, and you know you’re onto something. “Sure, I date.” He says faux-casually, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, I’m busy, but - if I meet the right person.”

“And you’re fine to date - humans?”

“Yes, I date humans.” You can’t tell if he’s exasperated or amused. Maybe both. “How personal are these questions going to get?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask anything anatomical.” You answer with a smirk, being very careful to keep your eyes away from his red trunks. “So - you like Clark?”

“Sure, I-” he stops as your meaning hits him. “What!? I don’t like Clark! That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s okay!” You assure him. “I mean, it makes perfect sense. He’s great, and it explains why you were kind of weird about me going on about him the other day, and why you don’t want to hear about our date. And why he’s the only reporter you give interviews to!”

Superman splutters incoherently, shaking his head. “That is not-”

“It’s fine! I’m guessing he’s not into guys, otherwise why would he say no? Unless it’s an ethics thing, with him reporting on you.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Listen,” you approach Superman and take his hands, looking into his worried eyes. “I won’t talk to you about Clark any more. And I really, really, appreciate you giving him my number when you must have felt a bit conflicted about it. You’re obviously a really good guy - if all the hero stuff wasn’t proof enough - and you will totally meet the right person for you one day. I’m sure of it.”

Superman stares at you openmouthed, no idea what to say to that.

—

After work a few days later, you meet Clark at the Metropolis Aquarium - a place you’d realised on your first date that neither of you had ever been to. You stroll around in the blue light, Clark shyly taking your hand and neither of you letting go for the rest of the visit. After a quick dinner at a nearby taco truck, Clark walks you home again, and although he politely declines your offer to come in, your goodbye kiss ends up as a heated make-out session against your front door, your hands tangling in his dark hair, his glasses steamed up and even more askew than normal.

He calls you as soon as he gets home to arrange the next date for Saturday.

Clark’s planned this one - a picnic in the park. He meets you at a deli with a picnic basket bumping against his side and a blanket tucked under his arm. You pick out the food you’ll share together and walk hand in hand to Centennial Park. The day seems almost too perfect - dappled sunlight on the path, a gentle breeze blowing as you set up. You lean against Clark and occasionally feed each other in a way you suspect but don’t care is cheesily insufferable to anyone watching.

Unfortunately, the perfection doesn’t last - you’ve not even finished the food when the wind picks up, blowing ominously dark clouds overhead.

“Is it going to rain?” You wonder aloud.

Clark scrunches his nose as he peers up at the sky. “The forecast said it wouldn’t.”

The words have barely left his mouth when a heavy drop lands on his glasses. You look at each. “Uh oh.”

You scramble to pack everything up as the late summer rain pelts down - Clark tries valiantly to protect you from the downpour, but you’re both drenched within minutes. Laughing and squealing, the two of you race for the shelter of a nearby gazebo.

You catch your breath once you’re under cover, shaking off the excess water as best you can.

“Golly.” Clark’s back is turned as he wipes his glasses clean, and when he turns around, you suck in a breath.

His white t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to every part of what you are now very aware is his amazingly muscular torso. Maybe it’s his general bumbling, clumsy demeanour, geeky intellectualism, or just that he’s never mentioned going to the gym, but you hadn’t expected him to be built like this.

“I’m sorry about this.” He starts, unaware that your rapid breaths aren’t from the sprint over. “I swear the forec-”

“I’m not sorry,” you interrupt, practically flinging yourself at him.

Despite his surprise, Clark responds instantly, wrapping his arms around you as you press against him and returning your kiss with an equal ferocity. You gasp into his mouth, sliding a hand under his shirt to feel the ridges and lines of his stomach. His moan is just audible above the pounding rain, and you can feel his need as he walks you back to press you against the strut of the gazebo, his hands sliding down your body, lifting you so you match his height.

Just as you’re wrapping your legs around him, a loud wolf-whistle makes Clark pull back - the next gazebo over is full of other people escaping the rain, who whoop and cheer at the two of you - some even applaud.

Chastened, Clark sets you down, the tips of his ears turning red.

“Sorry,” you say on a gasp, aware that your actions don’t really fit with Clark’s more reserved sensibilities.

The knowing smile he gives you is so hot you’re surprised you don’t start steaming where you stand. “I don’t think you are.”

You gulp, goosebumps erupting over your skin that have nothing to do with the turn in the weather. Clark’s eyes trail over you, taking in how your own clothes stick to your body, looking like he’s fully aware you’re not just wet from the rain.

He pulls you to him, but just to wrap you in his arms, making you grumble into his chest. He simply chuckles, giving a cheery wave to the people still watching from the other gazebo.

After twenty minutes of thunderous rain you’re starting to shiver despite Clark’s warmth, and the picnic blanket he’s swaddled you both in.

“I don’t think it’s going to stop any time soon.” You point out.

“No.” Clark agrees, his mouth pursed with worry. “My apartment’s not too far. We can change into something dry there - are you okay to make a run for it?”

You nod. “Let’s do it.”

By the time you make it to Clark’s you’re completely drenched again, the two of you dripping a trail all the way from the lobby into his apartment. You hover by the door, not wanting to make a mess in his surprisingly neat and tidy home. Clark, however, only takes off his shoes before disappearing inside, returning moments later with an empty laundry basket and a stack of clean clothes that he carefully holds away from his wet body.

“The bathroom’s through there,” he points with the hand holding the basket, “you can take a shower to warm up and then put these on. If you drop your wet things in here I’ll wash and dry them for you.”

“Don’t you need a shower too?” You ask coyly. “You could join me.”

Clark takes a deep breath, and you hear a creak from the basket as he unconsciously squeezes the handle tight. “I want to,” his voice is husky, “but you should just get warm.”

“You sure?” You can’t help trying again, certain you’ve never wanted someone so much. “I think you’d help me warm up.”

The groan that emerges from him doesn’t help tamp down your feelings. “Believe me, I would love to, but I…I -”

Seeing his struggle for words you stop him with a smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything. I don’t want to rush you.”

Clark nods, his expression a mixture of gratefulness and regret.

Following Clark’s instructions you take a warm shower, revelling in the simple intimacy of using his products, trying and failing to not imagine him in here, naked. When you’re finished, and dressed in comfy sweats that smell like him, Clark takes his turn in the bathroom, then when you’re both clean and dry you spend the rest of the afternoon curled into his side in front of the TV, alternating between chats and steamy kisses that never go quite as far as you - and Clark from what you can feel against you - would like.

Other than your dates with Clark, the rest of your life continues as normal - the hole in your wall remains unfixed and Superman still drops by most nights, although his visits have been getting shorter, and you sense that your relationship with Clark is causing him some inner turmoil. You’ve told him he doesn’t need to keep stopping by, but unless you’re spending the evening with Clark, he always shows up.

One cloudy Tuesday, you’ve had the day from hell at work, and arrive home late enough that you hear Superman’s usual polite request to come in the second you’re through the door. You shout a yes, shut the door behind you, then drop your bag where you stand, head straight for your couch and faceplant onto it.

You hear Superman’s amused voice above you. “Bad day?”

Facedown and prone, you mumble something unintelligible into the cushions.

“What was that?”

You roll onto your side with a world-weary sigh. “I had the worst day. Work is horrible, I hate it. And I hate everyone.”

“Do you?” Superman cocks his head, one dimple appearing as he half-smiles at you indulgently.

“No.” You pout. “But today I do.”

“Can I help?”

“Not really,” you rub your hands over your face, “but thanks.”

Superman watches you for a moment longer, arms crossed. “You should call Clark.”

You drop your arms and stare up at Superman. “Why would I do that?”

“Because he’s your boyfriend.” He answers, like it’s obvious. “He can look after you.”

You sit up with a groan. “First of all, he’s not my boyfriend - we’ve barely known each other for two weeks and only gone on three dates, I can’t call him that yet. Second, I’m not exposing him to all-” you flap your hands at yourself, “-this.”

Superman frowns. “All what?”

“This! Me exhausted and needy and grumpy. I’m still trying to impress him. He has to think I’m cool, and fun and stuff.”

“I think he knows you’re cool and fun and stuff,” Superman tells you, “and I think he cares about you, and would want to make you feel better when you’re exhausted and grumpy, and be there for you when you’re needy.”

“And I think you have an idealised vision of what early relationships are like.”

“Call him.”

“Nope,” you slump back down and curl into a ball. “I’ve got through bad days on my own before, lying here and crying until it’s over, and I’ll do it again.”

“It’s endearing that you’re so stubborn about suffering alone, but call Clark! I know he’d want to be here for you.”

You’re face down again, so Superman can’t hear whatever you grumble in return. He sighs, exasperated, and a moment later you hear his footsteps walking away, the tarp flapping as he zooms off.

You’re unsure how much later it is when there’s a knock at the door. You ignore it until the third, equally polite knock, and frown as you lever yourself off the couch to answer it. When you open the door, there’s a slightly battered bunch of flowers and a sympathetically smiling Clark just behind them.

“Hi.” He passes you the flowers. “I heard you were having a tough day. Can I come in?”

“Uh,” you look down at yourself, clothes dishevelled and mascara smudged around your eyes, “I’m not really…”

“You look beautiful,” he kisses you, “and also like you might need a hug.”

His words crack something open in you, and you nod, afraid you’ll start crying if you speak. He steps over the threshold, nudging the door closed behind him, and wraps you in his arms.

You enjoy the embrace for a long moment, then mumble into his shoulder. “Did Superman call you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not cool of him.”

“You’re not glad he did, now that I’m here?”

“No. I told him not to,” you pull back to look at Clark, “You’re being lovely, but I didn’t want to be a mess in front of you yet.”

“That’s silly.” Clark tells you, kissing the tip of your nose. “I like all of you. The messy you and the cool, fun, tidy you.”

You give him a watery smile. “I like all of you too, Clark.”

Falling back into the hug, you don’t notice the conflicted, guilty expression clouding Clark’s eyes.

—

Superman gracefully accepts your telling off the next night, and you two clear the air.

“I like that you’re not intimidated by me.” He comments.

“Why would I be intimidated by you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, maybe because I'm potentially the most powerful being on the planet?”

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but you are wearing big red underpants-”

“They’re trunks! And they’re not under, they’re literally on the outside, they’re outerwear!”

Laughing, you stop his protests. “That’s only part of it. Also - I trust you. You’re so…good. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. You wouldn’t even hurt a fly’s feelings.”

“You think flies have feelings?”

“What I mean is, why would I be intimidated by someone who I’m certain won’t hurt me? Abilities don’t make someone intimidating, intentions do.”

“Hmm.” His expression is thoughtful, then turns teasing. “Is that why you’re scared of spiders?”

You point at him threateningly. “That spider was very big.”

“It wasn’t big-”

“It was massive!”

“It was this big.” Superman holds his fingers up, barely an inch apart.

“It was this big!” You both hands up, more than a foot apart, making Superman laugh. “And it had a weapon!”

“It did not have a weapon! Spiders in Metropolis are entirely harmless to humans.”

“Well, I think that one was carrying a knife.”

“It did not have a knife.” He smirks.

“It was a concealed knife.”

“Gosh. Well, in that case it was good that I was here then - to protect you from the knife-wielding spider.”

“Exactly.”

Superman’s laughter fades away and he gives you a long, measured look before walking towards you. “You don’t think I could be intimidating? If I wanted to be?”

“I-” Your words die on your tongue as Superman stands so close you can feel his breath, tilting his chin up and standing tall in a way that makes you very aware of his powerful height and build.

His voice deepens. “I can be intimidating.”

Something about his actions makes your skin heat, a heartbeat pulsing below your naval as your lips part on a shaky breath.

Superman’s eyebrow twitches and a sly smile spreads across his lips, “Interesting.”

“No, no.” You recover, shaking your head. “Not interesting. Not at all.”

“Is that reaction something I should let Clark know about? A hint, maybe, about your preferences?”

“No no no.” You put both hands on his chest and push, walking him backwards as he laughs. “Out the window with you.”

You can still hear him laughing after he lets you shove him out into the night.

—

Two weeks later, you’re cutting through the rush hour crowds as you walk the few blocks from your office to the Daily Planet building to meet Clark for another date. The two of you are spending almost every available moment together, and you’re so used to his erratic timekeeping that you’ve become a familiar face to the rest of the staff, often waiting in the lobby or the newsroom for Clark to reappear from whatever story he’s run off to chase.

Nino the security guard cheerfully waves you in with a wink, but this time, you don’t even have to step out of the revolving door before you see Clark barreling towards you with a puppyish smile. He squeezes into the same section you’re in, bumping noses as he kisses you hello, and seems to not notice the irritated grumbles of the other commuters as the nearly clogged door shudders to a slow shuffle.

The mechanism just about survives, and you’re both laughing by the time you spill out onto the sidewalk, Clark dropping his satchel but managing to keep a hold on you.

His coworkers emerge from the building in a much more orderly way.

“We take full credit for Clark being on time for you today,” Jimmy tells you, “even he can’t miss the monthly staff meeting.”

“He has before,” Lois adds drily.

“I always try to make it.” Clark objects.

“Clark’s just a time optimist,” you defend him, tucking into his side as closely as if you’re still stuck in the revolving door.

Lois rolls her eyes, despite her smile. “I’m not sure Perry sees that as a positive trait.”

The screech of brakes interrupts the chatter, and you all turn toward the road to see two men approach, hands concealed and hoods pulled low over their eyes.

“You’re Clark Kent?” One asks aggressively. “The reporter?”

Everyone else is instantly on edge, and you notice Nino approaching warily to see what’s happening, but Clark’s manners never fail him.

“Yes, I am.” He tells them pleasantly. “Can I help you with anything?”

“The one who always does interviews with Superman?” The other man asks.

A prickle of unease races over you. The others group closer to Clark protectively, and even he seems to sense the danger, putting an arm in front of you to carefully push you behind him.

“That’s me.” He answers evenly, wrinkling his nose to keep his glasses in place.

“I can handle this,” Nino announces, stepping forward.

“No, no, Nino, that’s fine.” Clark says, trying to dismiss the guard. 

The first man reaches out to grab him, and without thinking, you jump in front of Clark.

Your body is moving faster than your brain, but you ignore Clark trying to tug you back.

“Clark’s just a reporter,” you tell the men, “he doesn’t actually know Superman. If that’s who you’re after you should talk to me, I’m friends with him.”

“What are you doing?” Clark hisses, trying to pull you behind him, but you stand your ground.

“Superman comes to my apartment every night.” You tell the strangers.

The men glance at each other, making a quick decision, then one shrugs and they grab for you instead.

“No!” Clark’s cry is strangled, and he tries to keep a tight hold on you, but you wriggle free.

“Go, call him,” you whisper, shoving him away from you as hard as you can.

Shock and hurt are visible on his face, but before Clark can do anything, Jimmy, Nino and Lois grab hold of him to stop him pursuing you, and you’re almost pulled off your feet as the attackers drag you away and bundle you into a windowless van.

The door slams as it slides shut, and a second later the engine starts with a roar, but before you even make it to the end of the block, there’s a crashing sound and the van stops instantly, the back jolting up into the air as though a heavy impact has slammed into the front of it. You hear the men shout out in panic, and you’re drenched in sudden daylight as the whole side door is ripped away. The next thing you know, you’re in Superman’s arms, flying away into the sky.

You’ve barely had time to marvel at the speed of your rescue when Superman lands on a rooftop, gently setting you down on your feet. He takes a few steps back, clenching his jaw. You notice his hair is more dishevelled than you’ve ever seen it, and he’s looking at you in a way he never has before.

“What were you thinking?!” He bursts out.

You blink rapidly. “What?” You’re astonished - Superman’s almost shouting at you.

“You put yourself in danger! You could have been hurt!”

“I was protecting Clark!” You protest.

He’s just about holding himself in check, but it’s clear Superman’s angry. “You don’t need to protect him!”

“I couldn’t just stand there!”

“Why not? That’s exactly what you should have done.”

“Why not?!” You’re fuming now, yelling back at him. “Because I care about him! I can’t let anything happen to him!”

“And I can’t let anything happen to you!” You’re staggered by the sheer force of Superman’s emotion, but you recover enough to keep arguing.

“And you didn’t! Clark knows how to contact you, I don’t - it would have taken you longer to get to him. This made sense!”

“No, it didn’t! It will never make sense for you to put yourself at risk!”

“I barely was!” You shout back, exasperated. “I was there for all of 30 seconds before you got to me. I’m fine! How long would it have taken for you to even know Clark was in trouble?”

“I-” Superman huffs, pacing back and forth like there’s more he wants to say but can’t. You watch in silence, not understanding what’s going on with him. Eventually he stills, shoulders slumping, breathing in a way that sounds startling like he’s on the verge of tears. He gathers himself and walks back to you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding exhausted and surprisingly vulnerable. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“That’s okay.” You tell him quietly.

“I just - I was scared.” He admits, his voice breaking. “I care about you. I’m not mad at you.”

Something swells inside you at his words, but you ignore it and give him a small smile. “It seems like you’re a little mad at me.”

He smiles back sadly. “I’m not. I’m mad at myself.”

“Why?” You ask, baffled.

Superman hesitates, shaking his head. “I had to make a quick decision and I knew instantly that I made the wrong one.”

You frown. “What do you mean? Was there something else you should have been dealing with instead of getting me?”

“No, no.” He insists. His eyes drop to the ground and he adds softly, almost to himself, “I shouldn’t have let you go.”

There’s silence as you try to figure out what he means. Before you can ask, he takes a deep breath and straightens into his Superman stance. “You’ve been through a lot. I’m taking you home.”

He scoops you up into his arms, and you cling to his neck as he takes off into the sky.

To your surprise, instead of taking you back to your place, Superman flies you to Clark’s, drifting in through the window like he’s done it a million times, and depositing you carefully on the couch.

“I need to call Clark, let him know I’m okay.” You look around as though your bag, knocked off in the earlier struggle, will suddenly appear next to you.

“He knows.” Superman’s voice is strained, and he’s pacing back and forth like he can’t keep still.

“And that I’m here?”

Superman nods. “He knows.”

You frown. “Did you tell him you’d bring me here? How could you have had time to?”

He finally stills, looking at you with such a tortured expression that you immediately get to your feet and approach him.

“Are you alright?” You ask gently.

He huffs out a noise that’s almost a laugh. “You just got abducted, and you want to know if I’m alright?”

“Well to be honest, I seem to be dealing with it a lot better than you.” You try your best to catch his eye, but he’s avoiding your gaze. “Seriously, what’s wrong? You go through stuff like this every day.”

“Not like this.” He answers softly. “Not with you. And-” he sighs, seeming to make a decision, and straightens up, finally looking at you head on. “I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you a while ago - or, I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, or - felt like I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“Okay.” You’ve never seen Superman so rattled and unsure before.

“I - gosh. I don’t know how to say this.” He looks at you like you might give him a clue, chewing on the inside of his cheek, but you have no idea what’s going on.

“Maybe it’s easier to show you,” he mumbles, dashing out of the room at superspeed. When he returns seconds later, he’s wearing Clark’s clothes.

“What the-” you gape at him. There’s something very odd about seeing Superman in anything other than his red and blue suit, and something else tingling on the edges of your awareness that you can’t quite grasp.

“Maybe you should sit down.” Superman takes your arms and manoeuvres you back to the couch.

“You’re in Clark’s clothes.” You announce unnecessarily.

“I’m in my clothes.” Superman corrects.

“What? You share clothes with Clark?” You can’t comprehend what might be going on.

“We’re the same.” Superman answers simply. Then he takes Clark’s glasses out of a pocket and puts them on.

You feel a dizzying adjustment, like an image appearing out of nothing in a magic eye photo, and Clark is standing in front of you, looking at you with the same hesitant concern Superman was showing.

“Clark! What - wait what -” your mouth drops open even further. “You and Superman share a body?!”

He looks taken aback. “Share a - no. Well, sort of.”

“What is going on,” you mutter to yourself, wondering vaguely if you’re having a stroke.

“I’m Superman.” Clark announces clearly. “Clark is Superman. And Superman is Clark.”

You gawp at him as he takes the glasses off again, and something clunks into place in your mind. The man standing in front of you - he’s Clark. And he’s Superman.

“What the fuck! How did I not see this before?”

“It’s the glasses.” Clark/Superman explains apologetically. “They’re hypno-glasses. They stop people recognising me as Superman.”

“So you don’t really need glasses?”

A smile twitches at his lips at your question. “Not for seeing, no.”

“But,” you shake your head, trying to reconcile the two men you know as one, “Clark’s so clumsy. And Superman can literally fly. What’s - is that fake? The Clark bit?”

“No,” he assures you. “Nothing about me is fake. When I’m not being Superman I have to hide my strength, and sometimes I don’t get it quite right.”

“So when you’re home - this your home, wow, this is where Superman lives - you’re not clumsy?”

“Well, I still have to be careful around the furniture. But probably less clumsy, yes.”

“And you don’t wear the glasses?”

“I don’t wear the glasses.”

You’re still trying to get your head around it all. “And what should I call you?”

“Clark.” He answers. “Superman’s like a job title.”

“So it’s like code-switching.” You’re starting, just a little bit, to understand. “Like Clark’s one version of you, and Superman’s the other. They both show and hide different parts of you.”

Clark tilts his head. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“So why does Clark wear the disguise?”

“You think Superman should wear glasses?”

“Not glasses, but like - a mask or something. It’s what the other metahumans do.”

“I want Superman to be approachable,” Clark explains, adding with a half-smile, “same reason for the trunks.”

You actually laugh at this, starting to feel a bit less freaked out.

“And masks can scare people. They can seem like you’ve got something to hide.”

“But you do.”

“No. I have something to protect.” His eyes soften.

You nod slowly. “Your family.” Clark’s talked to you about Ma and Pa Kent, and his love for them has shone through in every word.

“And now you.”

There’s a silence as you stare at him in awe, drinking in the enormity of those three words.

“That’s why you were so upset today. I didn’t need to protect you, because you wouldn’t have been in danger.”

He nods, sadly. “But you were. And I can’t have you being connected to Superman - it puts you at risk.”

“Still, it’s not like you could have saved yourself. If they’d taken you, they could have worked out that you’re Superman.”

“I would have figured something out. Anything would have been better than them hurting you.”

There’s a pause as you take in the information.

“Is there anything else you want to ask?” Clark prompts. “And it doesn’t have to be right away-”

“If this hadn’t happened, were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes.” This answer is firm and instant, and he crosses over to you, kneeling in front of you. “I was going to tell you when your window was fixed. I waited because I wanted to be able to keep checking in on you, and I couldn’t do that if you reacted badly. And I have to be careful who I tell. Besides you, the Justice Gang are the only people in Metropolis who know who I am.”

You believe him. “That’s a lot to trust me with. You’ve only known me six weeks, I could be a secret supervillain or something.”

Clark smiles. “I don’t think you are.”

“I could be though.”

“You could be,” he smiles at you so fondly you swear you feel your heart swell, “I guess I’m willing to take that risk. For you.”

You smile back at him dreamily, all the pieces of the last month and a half falling into place. “That’s why Superman didn’t want to hear about my dates with Clark.”

He nods. “It wouldn’t have been right. You might have been telling me things you wouldn’t want me to know.”

“I thought you had a crush on yourself!”

“Yeah, I thought that was an odd conclusion to jump to.” He muses. “Why not just think I had a crush on you? You’d obviously picked up on something before that.”

“Because I’m not going to assume Superman is into me!” You’re incredulous, then realise. “Oh my god, Superman’s into me.”

Clark smiles. “Very into you.”

“Wait - when I’d had a shitty day and Superman told me to call Clark - you said Clark was my boyfriend. You said you were my boyfriend.”

Clark shifts uncomfortably. “And you said it was too soon for that, and I respect that-”

You lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Did you want to be my boyfriend? Even back then?”

Delighted that you’re touching him, accepting him, Clark moves closer, his hands resting on your waist. “Yes. I’d really like to be your boyfriend. If that’s what you want? Even now?”

You beam at him so widely your nose crinkles. “Yes please.” You lean in to kiss him, then pull back with a start, horrified at a memory flashing into your mind. “Oh god. I said the horniest things to you about you. When I asked you to give you my number.”

Clark tries and fails to suppress a smirk. “You did.”

You groan. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“No,” he smiles, “I was already crazy about you.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Clark brushes a hand adoringly over your cheek. “I liked you when we first met. Then I really fell for you when you threatened me with a baseball bat.”

“Threatened to threaten you.” You correct.

“And every day since then I’ve liked you more.” His eyes are shining with affection. “Even before you met me as Clark, I was trying to figure out how I could ask you out. After your window was fixed.”

“Wow,” you breathe, leaning forward again to kiss him.

Clark bites back a small noise of frustration as you pull back again at the last second.

“Is this why you won’t sleep with me?” Your voice is a little louder than you intended. “We’ve been dating a month now and I know you know how much I want you.”

“It wouldn’t have been right!” He objects. “Not when you didn’t know everything. What if you’d spent the night with me as Clark and then you see Superman the next day and have no idea that he knows you like that.”

You pout. “Okay yes, that makes sense, and yes you were doing the right thing. But does this mean you already want to?”

Clark’s eyes darken deliciously. “Yes, I want to. I think you know I do.”

You smile slyly, sliding to the edge of the seat and parting your legs, lifting them over Clark’s where he’s crouched in front of you and locking them around his hips as you lean forward to finally kiss him.

His arms tighten around you as you slip your tongue into his mouth, filled with a rush of affection and lust for your bumbling, good-hearted superhero boyfriend.

“Are you sure,” he pants out between kisses, “you don’t - want to wait? Take in - what I’ve told you?”

You twine your fingers in his thick hair, rolling your hips against the hard bulge in his pants as you grin wickedly at him. “No, I don’t.”

Clark groans, easily picking you up and heading for the bedroom. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

Epilogue

Your window is finally being fixed, and you need to be out of your apartment for a few days while it’s being worked on. Clark happily offered for you to stay at his, and while you’re both still managing to go to work - and for him, be Superman - you spend almost every other moment wrapped up in each other in bed, and on the couch, and all over the rest of his apartment.

As a lazy evening bleeds into night, the two of you are lying in bed, naked and spent after multiple sessions pulling pleasure from each other’s bodies, with just one pancake break to refuel.

“You know,” you look up at Clark from where you’re lying in his arms, “I think I’m going to miss Superman dropping in on me every night.”

“You are?” Clark smiles at you indulgently. “Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s nice to not have to buzz you in,” you say thoughtfully, pressing soft kisses to his chest and arms, “and the costume’s pretty sexy.”

“It’s not a costume, it’s an outfit.”

“Even the underpants are growing on me.”

Clark growls playfully as he rolls on top of you. “The trunks.” He corrects.

“The trunks,” you accept, humming in delight as he trails kisses down your neck, “I mean, they kind of draw the eye.”

He pulls back, indignant. “They do not ‘draw the eye’.”

“Clark, they’re bright red.”

He pouts adorably, and you laugh, before trailing your fingers down his muscled torso. “And I mean, it’s clear that what’s under them is pretty impressive.”

Clark presses his body onto yours, sinking you into the mattress, trying to look annoyed despite the smile he can’t suppress. “I’m pretty sure it’s only you who’s looking there. I’m starting to think you’re a sex-crazed maniac.”

You gasp in fake outrage.

“Which I like about you.” He adds smoothly, leaning in to part your lips with his, your tongues tangling together.

As you pull back for air, you wrap your legs around his hips and flip him onto his back, sitting up on top of him in a way that makes him groan, his hands gripping your thighs.

You grin at him lasciviously. “And you know, as much as I love you as you, there is something really hot about having Superman underneath me like this.” You frown when you notice how Clark has stilled, his mouth slightly open, eyes softened with wonder. “What?”

His voice is reverent. “You love me.”

You clap your hands to your mouth in horror, as if you can force the words back in - you’ve felt it for a while, but you’ve not said that to each other yet, and it just slipped out. But as Clark sits up, one arm sliding around your waist and the other dancing up your spine, he’s beaming like he’s won the lottery. He kisses the back of each of your hands, then holds your gaze, his deep blue eyes swimming with emotion.

Your leg was bouncing a little uncontrollably as you shifted in your chair for the third time in the last two minutes. 

Your palms were a little sweaty, even though you’d wiped them on your jeans twice now. Your heart was also beating a little faster than it usually is, and your face felt like you were standing directly in front of the sun. And yet you also felt a little chilly.

In other words; you were nervous. 

You hadn’t felt this nervous since your very first job interview, which was quite a long time ago. But your nerves were justified since you were interviewing Superman for the very first, and hopefully not last, time in a few minutes. He’s only ever been willing to partake in interviews done by Clark for some unknown reason, but when you ran into some trouble a few days ago and he had to step in, you threw caution to the wind and asked for an interview when he was free to do so, after thanking him for helping you, of course. 

You were fully prepared to hear no and a kind excuse as to why he couldn’t, but Superman surprised you and agreed to do an interview later in the week.

Clark hadn’t been at work that day, so you couldn’t even rub it in his face right away that you finally scored an interview with Superman, but when you went over to his place later that night, you weren’t the slightest bit humble about it. He just laughed and congratulated you, then asked how you managed to get an interview, and you had to tell him about your mistake of taking a back alleyway to work instead of the normal route. 

Your excuse was that you like seeing different parts of the city, and it was always good to know different routes to get to certain places, but that just launched a full on lecture from your boyfriend that ended with him reminding you not to go into alleyways that are very much the definition of sketchy. 

How he managed to turn your triumph into a lecture about keeping yourself safe, you didn’t know, but it was just another thing that was so Clark, you couldn’t even be mad at it. 

You and Clark have been dating for just over half a year now, and it was refreshing to be with someone you actually connect with and have a lot in common with. He is kind, sweet, caring, protective and funny, and it was definitely a plus that he was very easy on the eyes. 

He is very attractive.

Clark is the first guy you’ve been with that wears glasses, and you found him unbelievably attractive in them, but you weren’t sure how serious his loss of eyesight actually is. You assumed he was pretty damn blind since he didn’t take his glasses off for anything. 

He wore them all day long. You can’t think of a single time where you saw him without them in the six and a half months you’ve been with him. He keeps them on in the shower - well, at least the showers you have with him, he keeps them on during sex, even when they were sliding down his nose from the sweat building up on his skin, and when you were pretty sure they were fogged up to the point where he couldn’t even see out of them. 

It was a little odd, but you just brushed it off, feeling a little bad for him since it seemed as though he literally couldn’t see shit without his glasses on. 

You decided to have the interview be on the roof of The Daily Planet building, which is where Superman ended up taking you when you found yourself cornered in that alleyway with two very angry looking men standing in front of you. It was easy for both of you, since he could simply fly up there, and you could simply take the elevator, then the stairs, then go right back down to start writing all about the interview. 

The sun was beginning to set in the sky, casting a pretty golden hue across the rooftop as you braced your hands on the ledge. The interview was set for later in the day, in the early evening since it would be nearing the end of your work day, and it gave him a little more movement room in case something happened during the afternoon or morning. 

You were nervous, of course, but you were also very excited, because you would be the only other person after Clark who had been given the opportunity to interview Superman. 

Leaning over a bit, you looked down at the street below, several stories between you and the sidewalk down there. It was still so busy out, despite the average person’s work day ending soon, and the faint noise of traffic was a welcoming distraction as you waited for him to arrive. 

Interviews never usually last too long, and you definitely didn’t want to take up too much of his time, so you already had all your questions planned out, as well as a few you were curious about that didn’t really have anything to do with the article you were writing. How often did the chance to interview the world’s hero come around? Of course you had a couple questions you were dying to know the answers to. 

You propped your elbow up on the ledge then placed your chin on your palm, letting out a slow, heavy breath in an attempt to calm your nerves. “Excuse me, ma’am,” you heard a voice from behind you, and it was so familiar, despite you only speaking to Superman once before. “You aren’t planning on having me save you again before we start this interview, are you?”

When you turned your head and looked over at him, you felt your nerves calm down a bit. It was weird. Superman was a stranger, and yet you felt completely comfortable around him, even more so now than you did a few days ago since there was no looming threat hanging over you. 

He was standing a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, under his cape, and he was so tall, his head was blocking the sun from your eyes entirely. A soft grin was on his lips, his eyes one of the kindest pairs you’d ever seen, and his hair was perfectly styled, even though the small bit of dirt on his chin told you that he’d been saving the world yet again just before this. 

You didn’t answer him right away, and his smile faltered a little as he swayed on his feet a bit. “Can you get away from the ledge?” he asked instead of repeating his earlier question, which came off much more playful than this one did. “Please?”

A heat took over your face as you looked over the ledge again, then quickly shook your head. “Oh, no, I wasn’t…” you trailed off, then forced out a laugh as you took a step away from the ledge and toward him. “Sorry. I got a little nervous while I was waiting. I wasn’t going to…you know, jump or anything like that.” 

Superman’s smile returned fully at that, and he nodded as you moved to stand in front of him. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,”

You gave him a smile of your own as you looked up at him, and he was even taller up close like this. His frame towered over yours, but there was also a sense of familiarity about it, like you’ve craned your neck exactly like this many times before to be able to look into his eyes. 

His eyes were really pretty, and it was probably because they were the exact same shade as Clark’s. You were sure if you looked at him long enough, you’d get lost in his eyes in the same way you get lost in Clark’s. 

You had to clear your throat to be able to speak clearly, and you gestured behind him to where the chairs were. “Thank you for agreeing to do this with me,” you said as you sat down, trying to discreetly wipe your hands for hopefully the final time. “I was beginning to think you had sworn exclusivity to Clark.”

Superman let out a short laugh as he shook his head, sitting down on the chair across from yours. “Well, when the person interviewing me is as pretty as you, it’s kind of hard to say no,” he said, and you froze for a few seconds as you processed what he said. 

He just called you pretty. Superman just called you pretty. You knew he was known for his kindness and friendly personality, but you were not expecting him to say that to you before you even had the chance to pull out your notes. 

“Oh,” you blinked a few times as you shifted in your seat, a flattered smile forming on your lips as you tried to think of what you could possibly say to that. It wasn’t like he full on flirted with you or was trying to fluster you, he just gave you a compliment. “Well, that’s really nice. Thank you.”

That works, right?

You broke eye contact as you reached down beside you and grabbed your notes out of your bag, suddenly feeling nervous again as you flipped through your book. 

Needing to clear your throat again before speaking, you give him a kind smile as you sit up straight and turn on the recorder. “So,” you started, feeling the familiar tingle of nerves return to your body. “Superman. First off, I want to thank you for taking the time to sit down with me. I know you probably don’t have a lot of time to spare these days.”

He smiled at you, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Thank you for having me,” he said as he clasped his hands together, and your eyes instinctively focused on them for a few seconds. They were big and would definitely cover your whole entire face if he were to touch you, and they looked so familiar. 

Did all men’s hands look like that? Your exes hands were definitely bigger than yours, but not nearly as big as Clark’s, or Superman’s for that matter.

When you looked back up at his face, you saw a faint smirk on his lips, and he clearly saw the way you were staring at his hands. You were blushing now and felt flustered as you tried to get your thoughts together so you didn’t make a complete ass of yourself in front of the world’s hero. “So, um,” you mumbled, looking down at the list of questions and notes you have in your notebook. “Looking at you now, it’s clear you just got finished saving the world yet again. What was it this time? A fire breathing dragon? Or a fifty foot tall giant?”

Superman laughed and shook his head, his hand coming up to rub at his chin and smooth out his hair, as if he was trying to make sure he looked presentable because of your words. It was unnecessary, because he looked great, but he seemed to be keen on having a good appearance in front of you for some reason. “No, nothing like that,” he said, dropping his hand back down once he was satisfied with his appearance again. “It was a lot more tame. The fourth line flooded. I’m sure you heard all about that though.” 

You titled your head, your expression blanking for a few seconds as you took in his words. “I did not, actually,” you said, then cursed inside your head, because that meant all the other lines would be backed up until the city got a maintenance team down there to fix whatever had been damaged, and that would probably take weeks. 

It was a bad day to be one of the people who took the subway. 

“That’s unfortunate. I’ll probably need to find another way home later,” you mumbled, then shook your head as you looked down to decide the first real question you wanted to ask him. 

Before you could though, he piped up with another…friendly remark. “Oh, if you need help getting home, I’d be more than happy to assist you. You know how anxious people get when the subway goes down. I wouldn’t want you to have to go through that. You know, having to deal with agitated people, especially with how hard you work and all,” 

You kept your head down but flickered your gaze upwards, unsure of how to respond to that. Was that another attempt at flirting? Or were you reading too much into it? There was no way Superman was shooting his shot with you. 

But that was the second thing he’s said to you that’s made you question if he was or not. You were usually pretty good at reading people, and while Superman was a little more reserved, he was giving off the vibes Clark was when he was trying to work up the nerve to ask you out. 

You lifted your head, your eyes shifting to the recorder that was on the arm of the chair between yours and his. “Um,” you spoke up, leaning towards him as if you were trying to share a secret with him in a crowded room, but it was just you and him up here. “I don't know if Clark mentioned it, I thought he might’ve, but he and I are together. Like, we’re serious and everything.”

You hoped you weren’t reading too much into it, because this would end up being super embarrassing for you. How humiliating it would be if you mistook his friendliness as him trying to flirt with you. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to look at him ever again. 

When Superman’s brows raised, but he didn’t say anything, you shifted a little and sat back up straight. 

“I just thought you should know that,” you added, smoothing down the pages on your lap. 

He nodded and gave you a thumbs up. “Understood,” he said. “He didn’t mention that, but I can understand why he’d want to keep you all to himself.” His smile grew at that, and now you were almost positive he was flirting with you. 

Or he just called you ugly. One or the other. 

You gave him a look of disbelief as you shook your head, your mood quickly shifting south as you took a breath to compose yourself. Your mind went back to the night you told Clark that you’d be interviewing Superman, and how he told you to not be surprised if Superman tries to flirt with you. He said that no guy, not even a meta-human like Superman, could resist you because of how gorgeous you are, and to remind the man that you’re very much taken. 

That night you’d laughed and rolled your eyes, but now you weren’t laughing. It felt like Clark had somehow predicted this. Or he manifested it. Or jinxed it. Either way, this was all his fault, and you felt right to blame him for it, even though he wasn’t even here. 

“Can we get back to the interview?” you asked, your voice coming out a little more stern than you meant for it to, and it had Superman nodding quickly and sitting up straight, his smile fading as a serious expression took over his face. 

“Of course,” he answered, gesturing to your notes. “Please, ask away.” 

You pressed your lips together as you nodded, fighting the urge to move away from him, because this was not going how you thought it would. Like at all. 

“Okay,” you mumbled, rolling your shoulders as you willed yourself to relax. He seemed to be backing off, so there was no reason to continue to feel pissed about how things were playing out. He seemed to be civil again, so you decided to be civil as well. “I was hoping to talk a bit about your earlier life. Like, how you discovered your ability to help people and do good in the world. Was it something you knew right away? Or did it come to you over time? Anything you’re able to share would be great, but no pressure at all-”

“You really are pretty, you know that?” he cut you off, and you felt your earlier irritation come back in full swing. 

You slumped back against the chair, your eyes wide and your lips parted in disbelief. “Seriously?” 

He held his hands up in defense, his eyes shooting to the ground. “Sorry. I’m sorry, but you can’t deny how gorgeous you are,” he defended himself, but also only made things worse as he gestured at you. “You have to know that by now, right? Or is Clark not doing a good job at reminding you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s none of your business,” you said, even though you yourself had asked him a personal question only seconds before. But that was because that’s how this was supposed to go. Why you were suddenly the one being questioned, you had no idea, but you wanted to put an end to it. “I’m the one interviewing you, remember? I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions here.” 

Superman nodded slowly, and he almost looked guilty as he stayed silent for a few seconds. Then he met your eyes again, “That wasn’t a yes, by the way,” he noted, “So that leads me to believe he’s not doing a very good job at reminding you.”

You threw your hands up in defeat, reaching over to stop the recorder from capturing any more of this nonsense. What a waste of fucking time. 

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, shoving the recorder back into your bag. How Clark ever managed to get a single answer out of this guy was beyond you. You didn’t want to think it was because he’s a guy and you’re a girl, but you had some serious doubts that Superman was flirting with Clark during the interviews he had with him. Unlike your failed attempt just now, Clark actually managed to get somewhere whenever he interviewed Superman. 

You stood up from the chair and shoved your notes into your bag as well, feeling the way your face was heating up with how angry you’d gotten in such a short time period. “I can’t believe what a waste of time this was,” you huffed, slinging your bag onto your shoulder. “I can’t believe I was looking forward to this…this mess, and now I have to figure out another story to write by the end of the week, all thanks to you.”

Superman stood up as well, towering over you once again. “So I shouldn’t expect a second interview any time soon?” 

You scoffed as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Not from me,” you muttered, your evening thoroughly ruined. You never expected the guy who saves the world nearly every single day to be such a…a guy. A stereotypical guy who only sees girls as one thing. 

Maybe you were being too harsh to compare him to all the fuckboy’s you’d met in your lifetime, but that was just what he reminded you of right now. You didn’t even want to listen back to the recording, because you knew it was full of useless information and flirting and you’d probably want to crawl out of your skin if you heard him say those things to you twice. 

You really lucked out with Clark, because he’s never once made you feel like that. He leaves you cute and sweet voicemails or voice notes over text, and you could happily listen to those for the rest of your life. 

When you turned around, Superman was closer to you now, giving you a kinder smile. It had you narrowing your eyes as you crossed your arms. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

His broad shoulders lifted just once, and that was the only answer you were given to your question, because he changed the topic before it could even begin. “I’m sorry this didn’t go the way you wanted it to,” he said, and he sounded so genuine. So much like how he sounded the first time you spoke to him, and how he comes across on the news or in Clark’s articles. “My intention wasn’t to upset you in any way, and I apologize if I did.” 

You weren’t sure how much you believed his words, because in your opinion, he worked a little too hard in his attempt to upset you. And yet you still appreciated his apology. “Thanks, I guess,” 

He held out his hand to you in a way that felt like he was trying to clear the air and end this on a peaceful note. “I wish you luck with your article,” he said as you took a few steps towards him and reached for his hand. 

It was a lot bigger than yours and encased your entire hand, which was a little distracting as you let out a huff. “Yeah, I’m sure you do,” you muttered looking down at the way his fingers wrapped around yours, and it felt familiar. Like this was something you felt on a damn near daily basis, and you furrowed your brows as he stepped closer to you. “That’s so weird. This feels so-”

You were cut off when you glanced up and only briefly saw that your face was a mere few centimetres from his before his lips brushed against yours in a kiss that was also familiar, but it caught you so off guard, you couldn’t even process the fact that you know you’ve felt those lips before. 

Had you given him the wrong idea? Made him somehow believe you’d leave Clark for him? Is this what he was expecting when you asked for an interview? Did he assume you’d be okay with it just because he’s Superman? There were too many questions, and you didn’t want the answers.

You were mad. You were offended. You felt used.

It was as if you’d been burned, the way you pulled back so fast and looked up at him in shock. Your lips parted, a string of curse words and insults ready to be thrown in his face, but you discovered you were rendered speechless. 

You were now 100% convinced you hadn’t been reading too much into this. Superman just fucking kissed you. After you told him you were very much with his…his, what, his friend? Is that what Clark was to him? Probably not after this. 

Did he really think he could kiss you and you wouldn’t go straight to your boyfriend? You knew Clark would be upset, and he’d probably even go as far as to write a very negative article about the man who the world looks up to. You were very excited to help him write that. 

You pushed against his chest, but he stayed completely still and sturdy, and you scoffed as you ran your hand down your face. You were mad, your shoulders were tensed up and your face felt like someone had poured scorching water directly onto it. Your breathing was uneven and you had the urge to punch him square in his face, but you were somehow able to hold back. 

He probably would’ve caught your arm mid-swing anyway.

Turning away from him, you wrapped your fingers around the strap of your bag, needing to hold onto something to refrain from throwing yourself at him. You’d end up hurting yourself more than you could ever hurt him. “You know, most girls would’ve probably slapped you right now, and I still very much want to, but you wouldn’t even feel it, would you?”

Despite him literally kissing you thirty seconds ago without a care in the world, Superman now looked a little guilty as he kept his hands by his sides. The nerve of this guy. The fucking nerve. 

You shook your head and began walking towards the door, but before you could open it, you swung around to look at him one last time. “If I were you, I would prepare myself for a very angry, very negative article written about you. And, actually, thank you for the interview, because now I can use it towards said article,” 

His shoulders dropped and an unimpressed look formed on his face. “Come on,” he mumbled. “Really?”

You nodded and reached for the door handle. “Uh huh,” you confirmed, then swung the door open and began the descent down to where your co-workers were eagerly awaiting your return from interviewing The Superman. 

What a joke. 

You were still pissed off when you stepped off the elevators and headed straight to your desk. Jimmy was typing away on his computer when you briskly walked past him, making him do a double take. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to be in such a mood after being so excited about this interview. “Hey,” he called out to you. “How was the-”

“Horrible,” you answered as you closed your laptop and stuffed it into your bag. “It went horrible, Jimmy, thanks so much for asking.”

His eyes were slightly wide as his fingers paused on the keyboard. “Oh,”

“Yeah. Oh,” you muttered, grabbing your water bottle from off your desk. “And no, I didn’t get the chance to ask him if he has any solutions for clingy ex-girlfriends, because he was too busy flirting with me the entire time.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed as a comically confused expression took over his face - one you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t so livid. “The hell…”

You put your bag back on your shoulder before walking past him again. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Superman is a fucking asshole. That’s all any of you need to know,” you said, pointing to Lois, who had been trying to subtly listen to you without making it obvious, but of course you noticed it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Once you were back on the elevator and heading to the ground floor, you tried to calm yourself down. You were heading straight to Clark’s place, because as angry as you are, you were also feeling extremely guilty. 

Another guy had kissed you. You’d been head over heels for Clark since the day you met him, and he’s been nothing but perfect and kind and faithful, and you let another guy get too close to you. 

You had tears in your eyes as you stepped out into the lobby and headed straight for the revolving door that would take you outside. Instead of heading towards the nearest subway station, you began walking in the direction of Clark’s apartment. 

He lived kind of close to the Daily Planet building, which is why you always called him out on being late for work damn near everyday. 

When you got to his apartment complex, your tears were rolling down your face as you kept your head down and walked onto the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. You were terrified that Clark would be mad at you, that he’d somehow find a way to put the blame on you. 

It was crazy, because Clark was the sweetest, most kindest man - person - you’d ever met in your entire life. 

But the guilt was quickly eating you up from the inside, and you were full on crying by the time you reached his door. Normally, you’d just walk in because he usually keeps it unlocked when he’s home - something you told him to stop doing since it was very easy for a random person to walk into his place - but this time you knocked quickly, your hand shaking as you lowered it back down to your side. 

The door swung open seconds later, and you were met with your boyfriend’s achingly handsome face, and his breathtakingly beautiful smile. The sight of him had your lip trembling and more tears gathering in your eyes, and as soon as his smile faded, you were in his arms. 

Clark held you against his chest right there in the doorway, one big hand coming up to cradle the back of your head protectively. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against his body as you cried, and you were already starting to feel better now that you were with him, in his arms. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, turning his head and brushing a series of soft kisses along your temple. “What happened, baby?”

The softness of his voice had you burying your face in his neck, your tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt. His scent consumed you, and you wanted to surround yourself with all the things that made up the perfect man in front of you, the one who has your whole heart in the palm of his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, clinging onto him and fisting his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Clark.”

His fingers tangled in your hair, and he dipped his head down to press a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw. “Why? What happened?” he asked, his grip on you tightening a bit. “Was it the interview?”

You sniffled, then pulled back and looked out into the hallway before pushing him into his apartment and closing the door behind you. Your face was undoubtedly red as you reached for his hands and held them in a death grip. “You were right. Like, you were spot on. Superman flirted with me, like, the entire time, which was actually only a small amount of time since I stopped the interview really quickly once I realized what was happening,”

Clark’s expression softened as he laced his fingers with yours, and he sighed, “Baby,”

“No, no, I swear, I stopped it. I ended the interview, I don’t know, maybe five minutes after it started,” you insisted, squeezing his hands. “I told him I was with you and that you and I are together, and then I started leaving and he wanted to, I don’t know, leave off on a good note or something, and he shook my hand and then he kissed me.”

You were rambling now and the expression on Clark’s face was unreadable, making you feel even more panicked. 

“He kissed me, I didn’t kiss him back, I swear. I was literally going to slap him in the face, but it probably would’ve been useless,” you said, watching as he stepped away from you, making your arms go limp at your sides. “But I still feel guilty about it, and I needed to tell you. I’m so sorry, Clark. I swear, I didn’t want any of that to happen. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

But he didn’t look mad. He didn’t look upset at all. There was a small smile on his lips as he took another step away from you so he was standing in the middle of his living room. 

Your brows were furrowed in confusion as you let the straps of your bag slip off your shoulder and onto the floor next to the chair. “Why are you looking at me like that? Why do you look so happy?” you whispered, your voice a little hoarse as you watched him raise his hand. 

He reached for his glasses, and you were standing there feeling completely powerless as he pulled them off. Your tired eyes were suddenly wide open, and your gaze flickered all over his face, then up to his hair - which was styled the exact same way Superman’s was half an hour ago. 

Your lips parted but no words came out as you processed what exactly you were looking at, and when he pointed to his left, your eyes instantly followed in the direction of his hand, and you saw the suit and cape that Superman is only ever seen in draped over the armrest. 

How you failed to notice either of those things when you came in, you didn’t know. 

A choked gasp left your lips, and you felt lightheaded and dizzy as your tears stopped rolling down your face. “You-” you stuttered, pointing at the suit as if it was some big discovery to the both of you, when in reality, Clark was the one wearing it on that rooftop. “Are you…you’re…” 

You were once again rendered speechless for the second time in under an hour, and your head was beginning to hurt as you looked between him and the suit and the glasses in his hand. 

Then you felt annoyed all over again, and your gaze hardened as you moved towards him. “Are you fucking serious,” you asked, your voice raising as you pushed on his shoulders, but he was as still and as sturdy as he was after he kissed you earlier. “You’re-are you fucking kidding me?”

Clark dropped his glasses in favor of wrapping his hands around your wrists, halting the weak shoves you were giving him. And he was laughing. He was fucking laughing. 

“What is so funny?” you muttered, pushing on his hands, but his grip was tight. 

He laughed again, and shook his head. “I’m not laughing,”

“Yes, you are,”

He released your hands and held up his own in surrender. “Okay, I am, but only because you’re making me laugh,”

You squinted up at him, shaking your head as you gestured wildly with your hands. “How? How am I making you laugh? I’m fucking confused because you just told me that you’re Superman without actually telling me you’re Superman, and you’re laughing at me when not even five seconds ago, I was crying my eyes out because I thought I accidentally cheated on you with…with you,”

Saying it out loud, it sounded completely ridiculous, and if the situation was slightly different, you were sure you’d be laughing at it too. 

Clark gave you a sheepish look. “I’m sorry,” he offered, and you let out a scoff of disbelief as you shook your head and turned around. You weren’t planning on leaving, but he thought you were as he quickly followed you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pulling your body against his. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, don’t leave me, okay? I’m sorry.” 

Your tears were drying on your face, but he still tried to blindly wipe them away with his hands, and it forced a laugh out of you as you pulled away from him and turned around to face him once again. You looked him up and down, taking in his height that matched Superman’s perfectly, and his eyes that were the exact same shade as Superman’s, and his lopsided smile that was the same one Superman had given you before the interview started. 

You shook your head as you reached up and ran your fingers through your hair. “I don’t know what to say,” you sniffled, still in a state of disbelief at how this whole ordeal turned out. “I can’t believe you’re Superman.”

Clark’s smile was softer now as he reached up and wiped away your remaining tears properly, his thumbs stroking along your skin like second nature. “I’m sorry. I knew I needed to tell you soon because things have gotten so serious between us, and I love you. You deserved to know, but I didn’t know how to do it,”

You gave him an unimpressed look as you leaned into the gentle caress of his hands. “So you thought making me cry was the best way to go about it?”

He shook his head, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “I didn’t think you’d cry,” he promised. “The idea came to me when I helped you in that alleyway a few days ago. I thought it would’ve clicked sooner than it did, and I was going to tell you during the interview, but you shut it down so fast, I never got the chance to.” 

“Yeah, because you were being a creep,” you pointed out with a laugh as he pulled you back into his arms.

“Clearly Superman needs to step his game up, huh?” he mumbled and you laughed again, pressing your face against his chest. “He’s got as much game as I do apparently.”

You shook your head, propping your chin on his chest so you were looking up at him. “Your game is good. You got me, remember?” 

Clark smiled down at you and nodded, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I did.”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling mentally drained as the weight of everything that happened in such a short amount of time weighed down on you.

You felt a lot better now, even if you are still a little pissed about the way he decided to tell you. The way Superman was talking to you suddenly made so much sense now, and you were sure you would be able to laugh about this more within the next few days. He was so forward, so sure of himself, and you knew that if you’d let yourself kiss him back, you would’ve realized that he was your boyfriend.

Maybe the plan wasn’t all that crazy.

No, it definitely was. What the hell was wrong with him?

You looked over at the suit again before burying your face in his chest. “I can’t believe you did that to me,” you mumbled. “I thought I messed this up.”

Clark hummed, holding you against his body like you were meant to be there. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I feel so bad about it. You looked so pretty, and you still do. You’re gorgeous. And trust me, if anyone was to mess this up, it’d be me. Look at today as an example.” 

You huffed, wrapping your arms around his middle. “You didn’t mess this up either,” you said, then looked up at him again. “But don’t do that to me again. And there better not be any more secrets between us, or I’ll leave your ass so fast.”

Clark’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “There aren’t any more secrets. I promise,” he said, his hands settling on your hips as he leaned down, and you met him halfway in a kiss that felt the same as the one on the rooftop did, but you had no plans on pulling away first this time. He broke the kiss but kept his face close to yours as his lips curved upwards in a smug smile. “I’m sorry the interview was a bust, but I promise I’ll give you a much better one if you were to give me a second chance.”

You laughed and tipped your head back. “Oh, no. I’m never interviewing you ever again,” you stated, then remembered the last thing you said to yours and Clark’s co-workers. You pursed your lips as you shrunk a bit in his hold. “Um, by the way, you might need to do some damage control with Jimmy…and Lois.”

Clark gave you a confused look. “Why?”

You shrugged, “Because Superman pissed me off, and I wasn’t about to let our dear friends believe he was this super nice and kind guy the media says he is,”

He tilted his head and groaned, “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, leaning up to kiss him again. “Next time come up with a nicer way to tell me your deepest, darkest secret.” 

Clark rolled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “I guess I deserve that,”

“Oh, you do,” you agreed, draping your own arms around his shoulders as you took in every inch of his face. His glasses-free face. “I got to say, I thought you were hot with the glasses, but now that they’re off? Damn, Clark. You’re sexy as hell.”

That had his smug grin coming back as he pulled you flush against him. “Yeah?” he murmured, and you nodded as you hummed. “Well that’s good to hear, since I won’t need to wear them when it’s just you and me, you know, since you’re now aware you’re dating Superman. I guess my plan was a good idea after all.”

You rolled your eyes. “You would find the good in what you did,”

Clark smiled in agreement, then he was kissing you again, but much deeper than before.

-

“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”

“Well, aren't you smart?”

“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”

Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”

Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”

“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”

Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”

“So there’s this girl—”

“Here we go again.”

“—which is totally your type.”

“You said that last time.”

“But this time I mean it.”

“You said that the time before last time.”

“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”

“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”

Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.

Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.

Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”

Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”

“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”

That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.

It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.

They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.

“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”

In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”

If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.

As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”

Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”

Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”

That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.

In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.

The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:

Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.

Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, claiming they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.

Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.

Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.

Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.

Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.

Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.

Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.

The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?

Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I can always create you a Hinge account—”

“We’re definitely not doing that.”

Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”

Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”

Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”

Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”

“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”

A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”

“Well—”

“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”

Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”

“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”

“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.

Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.

“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”

“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.

Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”

“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.

Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”

Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.

Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.

While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.

You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.

Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—

“Clark?”

His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Golly.

He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.

You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”

Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.

Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.

“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”

Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”

He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”

“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.

A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?

Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.

“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”

“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”

“You’re right. They look good together.”

“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”

“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”

His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”

“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”

“I’m no better. Want proof?”

“Go on.”

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

You lift your brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”

“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.

“And lie to you? Never.”

“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”

“… Which is?”

“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”

You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.

Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”

He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”

At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.

Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”

“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.

“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”

His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”

“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”

That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”

You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”

His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”

You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”

“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”

“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”

In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?

“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”

There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.

It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.

You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”

He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.

But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?

Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.

Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.

He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”

His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”

“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.

“I manage just fine.”

“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”

Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.

His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”

While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:

You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.

He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.

As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.

When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.

The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.

“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”

His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”

A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.

He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.

“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.

The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”

“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”

You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.

You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.

God, he’s already in so deep.

You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”

You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.

He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.

Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”

You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”

Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.

“I need all the details!”

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”

Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”

Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.

“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”

“I will not be silenced.”

“You’re gross.”

“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.

Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”

“Did you kiss?”

“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.

“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”

A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”

“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.

He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”

Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.

“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”

Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.

“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”

“In my defense, she did it first.”

“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”

Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.

He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.

Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”

Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:

I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.

Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”

He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”

Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.

Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?

The typing dots appear right after.

You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?

Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.

You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.

Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.

You: Your eyes do work wonders.

Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.

You: But is your memory always this good?

Clark: Only on important occasions.

Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.

Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.

He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.

He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.

It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?

As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.

I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.

Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.

You’re kind of boring, you’re relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.

All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.

The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.

You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.

“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.

“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”

“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”

He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.

“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”

It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.

About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.

The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.

Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.

Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.

He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.

What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.

His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.

He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.

From then on, it all happens in slow motion.

Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.

The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.

Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.

There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.

And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.

Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.

The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.

All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.

He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.

In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.

Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.

He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.

His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.

Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.

Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.

He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.

From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”

Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.

“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”

“Well, I most certainly am.”

“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”

On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”

His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.

Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”

Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”

“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”

“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”

Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”

Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”

After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.

But then—

“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”

“You mean Jimmy told you.”

Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”

Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”

You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.

Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.

“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”

“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”

That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”

“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”

Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.

He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?

“What—I don’t—You’re here?”

“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”

Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”

“I was getting something for myself as well.”

“But—”

You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”

That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”

Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”

You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.

“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”

You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”

Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—

“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.

“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”

He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.

You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.

You: Hello?

You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.

You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?

You: I’m trusting my instinct.

All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.

There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.

Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.

Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.

“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”

You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”

“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”

Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.

How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?

That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.

A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.

Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.

The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.

His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.

“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.

Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.

Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.

He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”

For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.

Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.

“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”

This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.

Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.

He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.

But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.

At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.

He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.

That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.

His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”

“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Are you nervous?”

He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”

“You’re finally getting laid!”

Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”

“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, do the math, dude!”

“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”

“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”

“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”

The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.

His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.

He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.

Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.

Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.

When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.

His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.

“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.

You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.

His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.

“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.

You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”

“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.

You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”

Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.

“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.

“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.

Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”

“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.

You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”

Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”

“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”

Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?

“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”

You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”

“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”

Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”

“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”

You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”

Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”

You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”

His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not roasting you for free!”

“I’m literally asking you to!”

“Clark—”

“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.

Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”

He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.

Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”

You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.

“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”

He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.

“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.

It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.

You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.

You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.

His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.

“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”

This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?

He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.

Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.

“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”

He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”

“You mean the library scene?”

“Yeah.”

“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”

“I had no idea there was a movie.”

“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”

There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.

Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.

“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.

His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.

Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.

As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.

Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.

Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.

He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.

The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.

His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.

He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.

He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.

The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—

Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.

His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”

Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”

“What if it’s important?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“But what if it is?”

Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.

Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.

In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.

You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”

Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.

He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”

“Clark, it’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”

“I actually feel flattered.”

Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.

Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”

“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”

“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”

That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.

There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”

“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”

“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”

He snorts. “Gosh, no.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Trust me, it isn’t.”

“You could want to explore other connections.”

“Are we on Love Island?”

“You get what I’m trying to say.”

In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”

What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.

The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.

You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.

You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.

You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(

Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.

Clark: At least let me cook for you.

You: Nooooooo!!!

You: I don’t want you to get sick.

He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.

Clark: I won’t stay for too long.

Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.

That should be enough to soften you.

You: Alright…

When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.

The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.

Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.

“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”

Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”

You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”

“Turns out I’m the exception.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.

“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.

Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.

Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.

“You never take them off?”

“Take what off?”

You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”

Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”

“Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”

“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”

“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”

Another minute passes without you uttering a word.

But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”

“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”

Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”

He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”

“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”

“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”

“Want to call it a day?”

“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”

Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.

By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.

Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.

“Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”

He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?

“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”

Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”

His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”

He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”

You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.

“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.

He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

His first loss shouldn’t look like this.

As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.

All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.

Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.

He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.

The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.

All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.

Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.

“Is he dead?”

“He can’t die, you dummy.”

“My dad said he could beat him up.”

A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”

Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.

It’s a school uniform.

He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.

“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”

Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.

“But Miss—”

“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”

Oh, God. It’s definitely you.

He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.

From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.

The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…

“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”

When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.

The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.

The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.

Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.

“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”

Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.

The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.

Another ordinary day in Metropolis.

He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.

He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.

“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”

“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.

“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”

That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”

“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”

If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”

You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”

It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.

He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.

When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.

You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?

Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.

“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.

Right. The party.

Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”

The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.

The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”

Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”

“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”

Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”

She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.

For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.

He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.

Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”

It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.

Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.

But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.

Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.

The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.

When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.

And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.

It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.

At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”

Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”

He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.

The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—

But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.

Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.

“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.

With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.

He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.

He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.

He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”

“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”

He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—

Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.

Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”

Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”

Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”

“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.

He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”

Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”

“I’m not—”

“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.

You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”

“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.

“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”

Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.

Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”

“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”

“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”

“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.

“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”

A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.

At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”

Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”

“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”

“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”

“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”

As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”

Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.

The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”

You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”

“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”

10…

“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”

9…

He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”

8…

He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.

7…

You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”

6…

“—over Superman?”

5…

“Clark, will you please look at me?”

4…

He does, but stays silent.

3…

“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”

2…

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”

1…

The look on your face is beyond devastating.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!

The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.

When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.

Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.

Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”

“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”

Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.

“Wait!” he shouts.

You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.

“Let me walk you.”

It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.

You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”

“Please, let me.”

“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”

He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”

You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.