“It’s fine, just go,” you reply. You’re waiting for him to leave so you can finally get rid of that monstrosity in the living room.

He smiles, thinking he got away with it. He doesn’t know it’s because you decided to do it yourself.

“I love you so much baby. I swear to you I’m doing anything you want me to do as soon as I come back,” he promises, eager and hopeful and genuine, and he cups your face gently between his too big hands and he kisses you on the forehead gently, as if you would shatter if he’d applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

You can’t help but snort. Not meanly, just… he always says that. And while it’s mostly true, it apparently doesn’t apply to that damn bookshelf. Why? Absolutely no idea. You remember one day when Clark had literally mowed the lawn instead of fixing the damn shelf. What was wrong with him? Was the shelf made of kryptonite or what?

You’re proud of yourself for not sounding petty or annoyed.

“Go save the world, big boy. The world needs you.”

So did you, but not anymore. You can do anything on your own. You don’t need stupid otherworldly powers for that.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he repeats.

“I love you too. Now go before the unthinkable happens.”

He’s gone in a flash, as if he was only waiting for your permission. There he goes, probably away for the rest of the day.

You push your sleeves back and get to work.

It starts easy enough. The shelf was already cleaned and ready to be thrown away. All it needed was a strong pair of arms, and a long ladder.

You got this.

You don’t got this.

The ladder was probably older than Clark’s home planet and it stood shakily like it had a goddamn cold, but it was tall enough and it was sturdy enough for the job. Screwdriver in hand, you started unscrewing the screws (how many times were you going to say that word?), thinking to yourself that Clark was an idiot for putting this off for so long. There’s literally nothing difficult about this – or dangerous, if you didn’t count the ladder’s strange composition, and honestly, it doesn’t even count, because if it were him doing this, he wouldn’t even have needed it in the first place.

Everything was going perfectly well. You were halfway done with the screws and you were thinking of taking a small break (totally deserved, in your humble and completely unbiased opinion), when Superkitten decided that the ladder was a pair of legs, and he started rubbing himself all over it, making it even less stable than it already was.

“Superkitten, go away!” you try telling him, but of course, Superkitten answered to no one.

He’s sharpening his claws now against the splintering wood and you suddenly have the clearest vision of your demise. Dying because your stupid (God bless his stupid little heart) cat used your ladder as a scratching post.

Everything happens so fast you barely had time to think, only act, and you’re gripping onto the shelf for dear life and next thing you know, you’re on the floor. Superkitten had fled the crime scene the moment the ladder fell and you hung onto the bookshelf.

You’re not proud of it but your last thought before the wood quite literally crushes you into oblivion is: serves Clark right.

────୨ৎ────

You’re not really sure how long you’ve been unconscious for, but when you come to your senses, the sun is barely starting to set and Superkitten is licking your face. He must have been going at it for a long while because your skin felt raw. At least someone was worried about you, though, if the low whining coming from your cat was anything to go by.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you tell him, trying to reassure him. You try to lift a hand to pet him but pure agony blocks you from moving.

Now that you think about it, your chest hurts and you have a hard time breathing with the broken pieces of wood littered your body like a blanket. A painful, not warm at all, not soft blanket. If you have to have a not soft blanket, you would rather have Clark draped all over you again.

Clark. Ugh. This is all his fault. If he’d fixed the shelf when you’d told him to, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

You hope you haven’t broken any ribs. You need your ribs for baking.

Superkitten’s whining has gotten louder now, probably scared because you’re awake but you’re not moving, and your heart breaks a little. You didn’t mean to worry him.

Summoning all of your strength, you push the wood off of you (you want to scream but you don’t because Clark would definitely hear that and you really, really don’t want him to see you in this situation).

“There,” you breathe out to no one but yourself, your arms falling limp to your side, weak from the strain. You can finally breathe again, at the cost of your arms.

It takes you a longer time to move again. Thankfully you don’t think your ribs are broken (you’re not a professional but you’re pretty sure the pain would be more unbearable than this) but they’re definitely bruised. You feel like a giant bruise, honestly. You guess there won’t be any sexy times with Clark any time soon. You scoff at the thought. Why are you thinking about that? Besides, Clark definitely doesn’t deserve any sexy time for being the world’s most unreliable boyfriend. Bruised ribs or not.

You want to throw everything away but you’re not sure you’d be able to bend down, so first you make your way, slowly and painstakingly, to the bathroom where you first swallow half of a pill of Clark’s heavy duty painkillers (probably a bad idea, but you have a very good reason for being stupid, and you’re not going to waste it — you love bad decisions, especially when you’re not responsible for them) and then check the reach of the damage.

Gingerly, you lift your shirt up.

One giant bruise. You literally became a Smurf.

Thirty minutes later, the painkiller has fully kicked in and you decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence. Honestly, you should be mad at Clark for gatekeeping these painkillers when you have period cramps. He’s had these all this time and he never even offered once? Rude. Cruel. Blatant abuse.

Is it normal that your heartbeat is so fast? And that you feel kind of delirious? Probably. You just got crushed half to death, so it would make sense that your body’s in a state of shock.

Superkitten hasn’t left your side ever since you woke up on the floor, and it tugs at your heartstrings. He’s obviously shaken.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you whisper to him, scratching his cheeks with both hands. “Mommy’s not gonna do that ever again, I promise. That was really stupid of her, wasn’t it? No, you’re right. Daddy’s the stupid one. This is all his fault.”

He meowed, which was all the confirmation you needed.

“Let’s go to sleep,” you whisper to him.

You change out of your clothes to put on your favorite sweater (Clark’s old college shirt) because even if you’re still a little pissed at him, you’re still hopelessly in love with him, even if he doesn’t deserve it (lie), and you curl up in his side of the bed, body wrapped around a purring Superkitten, wishing Clark was here right now.

────୨ৎ────

“The shelf is gone,” Clark says, a little dumbly.

“What are you talking about?” you reply.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you don’t really want to talk about what happened (the bruises are agonising and you don’t dare take more of Clark’s painkillers after you spent the entire night with your knees on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl as you emptied your entire stomach — bile and intestines), and quite frankly, you just want to mess with him a little bit.

“You know, the bookshelf! The one in our living room?”

You look at him, feigning concern, and you touch his forehead with the back of your palm, hiding the wince as the movement pulls your muscles. “Are you sure you didn’t take a nasty hit to the head, baby?”

He huffs, looking adorably indignant, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.

He’d come back a couple of hours ago while you were still asleep, and he’d joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms like you were his favorite bouquet, holding you until you woke up. Then, he spent close to an hour just kissing every inch of your face and neck. When he tried to pull your shirt away, you stopped him with a hand to his face without a word, because you knew Clark would stop without a word. Even in your half asleep state and the numbing pain you’d remembered he couldn’t see you underneath your shirt.

And now you’re fully awake, and he hasn’t stopped following you, pestering you about the shelf. I’ll fix it now for you baby, he says, blissfully unaware and earnest in his desire to do things right by you.

But there’s no bookshelf anymore. It’s gone, and he seems to have a hard time understanding it, because his very core can’t compute the fact that you may be lying to him.

“Where’s the shelf, baby?” he asks, whining. “What happened to it?”

“There’s no shelf, Clark,” you say, as if you’re talking to a baby that’s prone to hysterics.

“Yeah, there’s no shelf now, but there was one! Remember? The shelf I was supposed to take down but then every time I tried to, something came up?”

That irked you. “Oh so now you remember,” you say, and it might have been a mistake because he wasn’t supposed to know you felt as strongly about it as you did. You were supposed to be cool and chill, and most importantly, self-reliant and independent.

His face switches almost instantly, from confused to kicked puppy. “I’m sorry baby, I really am. I was going to fix it, I swear, but then I heard—”

“I know, I know,” you reply, a little more irritated than you would normally be, and it’s partly due to the pain and partly due to the fact that he is right. You can’t get mad at him for wanting to make the world a better place. “That was a job for Superman, yadda yadda, I get it, I know, you can shut up about it now. Forget about the shelf. Forget I ever asked you to help me. I fixed it myself, so you don’t have to keep leading me on with it. Let’s just move on. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Is it possible to get addicted from just taking one half of a pill? Your head is killing you, and your ribs feel like they’re closing in on your lungs and heart, and having Clark hover around you like this, with his stupid morals and values and too pure heart only made everything worse.

Scratch addiction — was it possible to get withdrawal from just one half dose?

You take three normal painkillers. Maybe the right decision would be to go to the ER but you’re too deep into this, and you really, really don’t want Clark to find out about your ribs and have to deal with his guilt again.

You love him, you really do. But you just wish you could take a normal breath again without almost passing out from pain alone.

If he’d fixed that damn shelf months ago like you’d asked him, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You know you could have done it yourself, but he’d made you promise you wouldn’t do that, and unlike some people, you actually kept your promises. If he’d kept his, you wouldn’t be mad at the love of your life, and you wouldn’t be thinking about swallowing all of Clark’s painkillers.

You make the mistake of looking at Clark’s face, and the misery and heartbreak you see on it almost brings you to your knees. If the physical pain didn’t do you in, then his pain so clearly etched onto his angelic features certainly would.

────୨ৎ────

You love Clark but you hate his guilt. You hate the kicked puppy look on his face whenever he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he gets quieter, more overbearing, as he tries to fix things by overcompensating.

Dinner is a matter of awkward silence and grating sounds from cutlery against plates. He made dinner. He really wanted to, even if it was usually your role to make dinner. You let him because frankly, you’re over this whole thing.

The dinner is good but it tastes like ashes to your tastebuds. You keep thinking about his painkillers in the bathroom. The ones you were never supposed to take because they weren’t made for humans. You wonder if he would ever notice half of one missing. You wonder how he would react.

When you go to sleep, he tries to hug you from behind but you flinch so hard (not at him, just at the expectation of the pain that was soon to follow) that he literally makes a noise. A small, wounded, noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, you’re sorry too.

────୨ৎ────

You can’t stay mad at Clark for too long. It’s against your nature.

So when he makes dinner for the third night in a row, and buys you all of the items on your whishlist, and does a million tiny other little things that make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, and he gets down on his knees to sincerely ask for your forgiveness, and he tells you how much of an idiot he’s been, you give in. Because idiot or not, you still loved your boyfriend. So much that it sometimes hurt.

“I forgive you,” you tell him, and watching him smile is like seeing the first rays of sunshine break through dark stormy clouds after a dark season.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. More than you could ever know, even if I’m an idiot sometimes. I genuinely was going to do what you asked, I swear, but I guess I just didn’t see how important it was to you.”

He’s so sweet, and he’s so kind, and you don’t know how you’re going to keep hiding your ribs from him without breaking his heart. It’s obvious he already feels bad enough for not taking what you ask of him seriously; he already feels bad enough that you ended up doing something he was supposed to do.

Knowing you got hurt, indirectly because of him, would crush him.

“I love you, Clark. And I appreciate your words,” you reply, and you try to forget about the bruises under your shirt that seem to flare up, in sync with your guilt.

“I am the luckiest man on earth and the galaxy,” he whispers against your neck. “And I was too stupid to see it. Never again, sweetheart. Never again. I don’t even have a proper excuse, other than I was being an idiot.”

His hand trails beneath your shirt. He grazes your ribs and when you shiver, he thinks it’s from pleasure.

“You’re warm,” he says.

Yeah, because my skin is tender and sore and swollen, and even your softest touch feels like fire against my skin.

“I run hot,” you reply.

“Or… maybe I make you hot,” he says, in that distinctive way of his; both confident and boyish, both suave and sheepish, like he’s still not sure whether he’s allowed to be like this around you.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m still mad at you, remember?”

And he pouts. This oversized man, who can lift buildings, who can destroy civilisations with one vision ray, who is on his knees for you, is honest to God pouting, eyes looking at you through his eyelashes, eyes downturned like you’d just told him Krypto hated me. “But you forgave me,” he says— or rather, he whines.

“Did I?” you ask, smirking despite the tender ache beneath your breasts. He always did make everything better.

“You’re so cruel to me my love. And yet, something is wrong with me because I love it.”

You brush his messy curls over his forehead, and he all but melts against your touch, and you scratch at his scalp like you do to Superkitten.

It’s not the first time that you make the comparison. Superman and Superkitten. Both a little dumb, both full of love for you.

He rests his head on your thighs and you keep playing with his hair. It’s soft and silky and it always smells nice. He always denies it but you’re ninety-nine percent sure he steals your vanilla scented shampoo. You rasp your fingernails against his scalp, and he lets out a contented sigh.

“I love you, sweetheart. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll work hard on becoming a man worthy of you.”

And there’s something wrong with this sentence, because why would the man who saves the planet on a daily basis not be worthy of you? Who even are you? But still, his words break something tender inside your chest, and your heart spills like ink on paper.

“I love you too, Clark,” you tell him, because it’s all you’re able to say before your throat closes up and your eyes sting.

I should have waited for him, you thought to yourself. I shouldn’t have tried to do it on my own, and I shouldn’t have snapped at him the way I did.

Now you hurt him, and yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Clark Kent is, by definition, a clingy man. No one would never know because on the surface, he almost looks put together — aside from his clumsiness and his fool act that stopped fooling you a long time ago.

Ever since he confessed to you and asked you out and you gave him permission, it’s like all his restraints came off. A kiss on the lips were just the tip of the iceberg. When you guys go grocery shopping, he refuses to let you hold anything, and he holds everything with one hand just so he can hold yours with his free hand.

He kisses you on your eyelids, on your nose, on your cheeks, on your forehead. Anytime, anywhere, for no reason other than he just felt like it.

He never once made you doubt his love because, as cynical as you are, even you can’t deny the love pouring off him in waves whenever he sees you.

Whenever he has to write an article, he always manages to sneak in something only you would understand. Each sentence would start with a letter that would then form a secret message for you.

I LOVE YOU

SWEETHEART

LOVELY

Clark Kent is in love with you. You know that. The world knows that, because he has no issue with showing it to the world. In fact, he has issue if he can’t show you off.

It’s Saturday morning and neither of you has work. It’s a lazy morning, with sun rays draped over your bodies like nature’s own blanket. His arm is draped over your thigh— thigh that’s draped over his own hip. Mornings with him felt like a game of Twisters in the best way possible.

You can feel him, heavy and hot, right against your crotch. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. He bucks his hips, and you’re not sure if he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Clark Kent is a clingy man, but also a relentless one. He can never get enough. Awake, asleep, his mind’s always attuned to your presence. He always wants you.

It doesn’t take you too long for your body to adjust, to react. Your hips respond in kind, and you watch as a smile unfurls on his face. He looks like the world’s largest, and most satisfied, cat in the world.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick from sleep. It’s so deep you feel like it could rumble against your chest. His hands are travellers, mapping each inch of your skin from touch alone. This, I love. This, I love too, he seems to say with his hands.

You shiver again. Pleasure and pain mingle together.

“Morning,” you reply. You’ve never been the early riser between the two of you, and mornings make you feel it.

Then, he disappears from your side, and he appears again between your legs, your thighs bracketing his head, draped over his shoulders like the world’s naughtiest cape. He’s looking at you expectantly, and heat exploses in your lower belly. He’s so big that your thighs are already stretched apart, just to accommodate him.

With one thumb, he slides your panties to the side.

Your head falls back on your pillow, and you twist and grasp the mess of his curls between your fingers.

His hands, large and safe and big and warm, are on each side of your hips, and his thumbs slide underneath your shirt. His face disappears between your legs, and your hips stutter involuntarily.

He tries to go further with his hands, but you stop him. You hold his hands in yours, and close your legs around his neck. You know he loves the feeling of you crushing him with your thighs, and you need to distract him from trying to take your shirt off, because you also know that he likes having you bare and naked, so he can play with your breasts freely. He doesn’t like being caged by your shirt.

But your bruises have gotten worse, and you can’t show him, not when he’s finally moved on and stopped feeling guilty every time your eyes meet his.

He bites the inside of your thigh when he feels that you’re not all there with him.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he demands, lips swollen and shiny. “Eyes on me.”

And what else can you do when he speaks to you like this except obey?

────୨ৎ────

“You hate me,” he pouts.

“What?” you ask, laughing in disbelief. “You just had your head between my legs and you think I hate you?”

He hasn’t even washed up yet. His lips are shiny and glossy and they smell of you.

“But you won’t let me wash you,” he explains. “You hate me, admit it, my love. You only use for my tongue and—”

You blush, and cover his — sticky — mouth with your hands. “Shut up!”

His mouth can’t move but his eyes smile for him.

“Let me shower with you, baby, please. I’m begging you,” he pleads, the moment you take your hands off his lips and you your hands against your shirt.

“No.”

“Ouch,” he pouts. “Just no? I don’t even get a reason?”

“You’ve been a bad boy,” you lie. “Bad boys don’t get to shower with me.”

He gasps. “You’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

“Not for another four weeks, no.”

This time, he just laughs, taken by surprise by the specificity of your answer. “That’s so specific, baby. Why four weeks?”

You raise one shoulder. “I just felt like it.”

It’s a lie. You said four weeks because Google said bruised ribs took six weeks to recover, and it’d already been almost two weeks. But you can’t exactly tell him that, can you?

“Fine. I guess I deserve that. But you should know I’m going to miss you terribly while you’re showering in there, all alone, without me, without anyone to scrub your back for you because you’re all alone.”

You push his face away with your hand again. He loves being manhandled by you. “I think I’ll manage, lover boy. But thank you for the concern.”

He watches you close the bathroom door like a sad puppy being left behind.

They always say things get worse before they get better, and you hope that’s the case with your ribs. The longer you look at it, the more ashamed you felt. Falling from a stupid ladder. Trying to hold onto a broken shelf. It’s no one’s fault but yours. Clark didn’t make you grab that screwdriver and climb on that ladder. He didn’t make you fall. You did. You thought that an old and unstable ladder was good enough for the job, and you tried to hold onto the shelf you’d just spent twenty minutes unscrewing from the wall to not fall.

All of this is on you. The pain, the anger, the sadness, the shame.

You don’t know why but under the shower you break into tears. The instant the hot drops of water touch your skin, it’s like a faucet is turned on. Your ribs hurt with the weight of your sobs. Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s keeping it secret from him when all you want is to be cared for by him. You don’t know. You’re being stupid, and you’re so glad Clark is too much of a gentleman to use his superheating when you’re under the shower on your own, because you’re really not sure how you would have lied your way out of that.

Only a few more weeks. Your bruising is going to disappear soon, and you would no longer have to avoid Clark anymore.

By the time you’re out of the shower, Clark is cleaned up and dressed (well, he’s shirtless, but he did put pants on), and he’s busy sliding the last chocolate chip pancake he’d made onto a pile of steaming pancakes. It’s your favorite breakfast. The jar of Nutella is already out on the table, and he’s got hot chocolate ready for you as well.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder, and you know he put it there on purpose, because you’d told him once that it made you go kind of crazy whenever he did that.

You slide on the barstool with barely a wince. You’re smiling so big your cheeks hurt.

“What’s this?” you ask him.

“Breakfast for my one and only.”

“What happened to you thinking I hated you?”

“Well, I figured if you really hated me, I had better start treating you like the princess you are.”

“Aren’t you just smart?”

He preens under the praise, and the sight of the red dusting on his cheeks makes everything else a little easier to bear.

“I hope you like the pancakes. I tried my best.”

“They look fantastic,” you reply immediately. You’re not lying. And even if they looked ugly, you wouldn’t care, because he’d made them for you, because he knew they were your favorite.

“Thank you, Clark.”

He gets closer to you and kisses you on the forehead. “Anything for you, my princess. I mean it.”

You believe him. You’ve always believed him.

You don’t know what the hell you did to deserve a man like him.

────୨ৎ────

“You okay?” he asks you a couple of days later, completely out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Your stupid heartbeat’s going to expose you if you don’t calm it right now.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s attuned to you like he’s a radio and you’re his favorite channel.

“It’s just… I saw two sheets of painkillers in the trash. Empty. I’d never seen you use that many before. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s too kind to mention your heartbeat going crazy inside your ribcage, like it’s trying to escape. It’s a wonder, you think, that it doesn’t actually hurt your ribs.

He knows. He must know about the half dose of his painkillers that you took. Knowing him, he probably checked everything in the shelves behind the bathroom mirror.

You can’t think of a lie on the spot. “My- my headaches were getting worse,” you say. You hope he doesn’t think it too suspicious, because he already knows you’re prone to headaches. It’s why you have so many painkillers in the first place. “But I’m feeling better, now. I think they’re gone for good.”

It’s true, in a way. Your rib pain is almost gone. The bruises are mostly for show, at this point.

“Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you,” he asks, gentle frown between his eyes, and it breaks your heart, to be the one to put that worry there on his beautiful face.

“Sorry… I’m sorry Clark. It wasn’t really a big deal. I’ll tell you next time, though. I promise.”

He stands up from the couch and walks over to you. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He bends down to kiss your forehead. “And I’m sorry you’ve been hurting this badly. Next time, don’t take that much painkillers, okay? I’m not telling you what to do, but they aren’t good for your health, and I’m worried about you. Come to me, and I’ll make you herbal teas and give you massages, okay?”

“Okay,” you croak out.

The guilt is going to eat you alive.

────୨ৎ────

In a way, you’re almost glad when fate decides to take reigns over your life and exposes your lie to Clark.

It happens like this: it’s Sunday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen washing the dishes you’d used to make Clark his favorite cake while he’s in the backyard doing Clark Kent stuff, and then he comes back inside through the kitchen door, and he’s smiling at you and then standing right behind you. He puts his head above yours, because you’re the perfect size for that, and then, without warning, he wraps his arms around your ribs and lifts you up in the air.

It’s supposed to be cute, it’s supposed to be romantic. He’s happy to see you, and he loves you, and he loves to have you in his arms at all times.

You’re supposed to shriek in surprise to fake struggling while giggling and asking him to (not) put you back down.

What you’re not supposed to do, however, is gasp like he’d just crushed your ribcage, and double over in pain.

The effect is immediate.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?! Did I hurt you?”

You’d never heard him this panicked, this horrified. His biggest fear had always been to accidentally hurt you, physically or mentally, and this must seem like his worst nightmare come true.

Clark puts you down immediately on the ground, and he’s turning you gently so he can look at you, eyes raking up your body up and down to check for injuries.

You try to hide your ribs with your arms but it’s useless against his x-ray vision.

You can tell just from the tightening of his jaw that he saw it. He saw what you’d been trying to hide for the past couple of weeks.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice is strangely cold and distant. It’s — terrifying. “I know it’s not me because it looks old. Weeks old. What happened?” he repeated.

You’re standing there, frozen with fear, hands still soapy and dripping water all over the floor. “It’s nothing,” you reply. It’s your first instinct. To lie and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. His voice is quiet but almost menacing. “I can see it clear as day. You’re hurt. Tell me when, why, who or what.”

He’s starting to connect the dots, you think. He’s scared of your answer as much as he’s scared of you lying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for. For hiding it from him? For not hiding it good enough from him?

“Baby, please,” he begs. His voice sounds wrecked.

“When I was taking the shelf down, our cat used the ladder as a scratching post, and it fell. I tried to hold onto the shelf but it broke under my weight. And it fell on my chest.”

He rubs a hand over his face as he starts pacing around the kitchen. “You’ve been hurting for two weeks and I had no idea,” he says. He sounds completely wrecked. “And it’s all my fault. If I’d just— why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were already feeling so guilty, I didn’t want to add on top of that. And it’s not your fault I fell and bruised my ribs. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“My emotions are mine alone to manage, okay? It’s not— God.” He stops moving, and he turns to look at you. “You shouldn’t have had to hide your pain from me just to spare me my feelings. I’m a grown man, I can take it. I can take anything you throw at me. But don’t hide from me, especially not because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, God, no, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Did you… did you go see a doctor at least?”

“No. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think about it but by the time I did, it was too late.”

“What if you’d broken a rib?” he asks.

“I didn’t. I checked myself. And it didn’t hurt as bad as it would if I’d broken a rib.”

His laugh is a mixture of disbelief and tears. “That doesn’t reassure me at all.”

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t meant to be reassuring. It’s just the truth.”

“Can I see?” he asks.

“You already did.”

“No, I need to see you. I need to be able to touch you.”

You lift up your shirt from the bottom and lift it slowly, revealing the nebula of purple and blue across your ribs, and Clark’s breath catches in his throat as he falls to his knees.

His hand hovers your skin. He doesn’t need to touch you for your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I should have known. The painkillers, refusing to let me see you change, refusing to let me undress you. The signs were all there and I was too stupid to see it.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say weakly.

“Perhaps I didn’t make you fall, but I’m the one who pushed you to do something I was supposed to do for you, on your own. I’m the one who made you feel like you had to hide it from me to spare my feelings. I’m the one who failed you.”

“I’m the one who made the decision to hide it from you.” Your voice is weak to your own ears. You can’t blink at all. You’re staring at him, on his knees for you again in two weeks. Him apologizing to you twice in two weeks.

“No— you listen to me. Not any of this is your fault. I’m the one who’s been negligent and irresponsible. I’m the one who kept breaking my promise to you. I’m the one who’s made you bear something that was never yours to handle to begin with. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. Unconsciously, I made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me. And that’s unforgivable.”

────୨ৎ────

Clark refuses to let you lift a single finger. He’s helped you lay down in bed in a way that didn’t hurt your ribs and said,

“You can bully me and refuse to listen to me for the rest of our lives all you want but only after you’re okay. For now, just — please — humor me?”

Who are you to say no?

He calls his parents, and you can hear sweet Martha’s voice right from his phone because she always speaks loudly into the phone, worried you wouldn’t be able to hear her over the distance.

“Ma, I messed up,” he says.

You tune everything out while he asks his mom what he should do. And then he’s handing the phone to you because she said she wanted to talk to you, but Clark’s reluctant because he’s worried making you talk will hurt you more but you just roll your eyes at him and snatch the phone from his hand. Nothing will stop you from talking to her. And besides, your ribs are a lot better than they were. And Martha’s not exactly going to come out of the phone just to squeeze her ribs.

It’s fine.

Martha is lovely as always and she says five times that she’ll come on down to their place anytime you wanted, and that she could make your favorite cookies, and that she and Jonathan missed the both of you, and that she hoped you will be alright soon.

She ends the call with, “Come see us once you’re alright, darling. Smallville misses you.”

And it must be in their genes because you can’t say no to her either.

Clark had been standing there the entire time, probably using his superhearing to overhear the entire conversation. He’s worried, you can see it. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and he’s rubbing his thumb across his lower lip.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks you for the hundredth time since he found out about your ribs.

“Yes. Believe me when I say it, or I’ll never tell you about my injuries from now on.”

He gasps. “You plan on having more injuries?!”

God bless his poor sweet soul.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Just… make yourself useful and come spoon me.”

His body reacts instantly — so used to obeying you — before his mind catches up with him and he jerks. “But your ribs.”

“They’re fine. As long as you don’t plan on squeezing me again.”

He took off his shirt and pants before crawling into bed next to you. He’s sulking. “I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know about your ribs, otherwise I never would have tried to lift you that way. Promise me you’ll always tell me when you’re hurt. Or even when you’re not hurt. I just need to know how you’re doing at all times.”

“Right now, I’m feeling very, very lonely because my boyfriend refuses to cuddle me.”

“Ouch, but fair.”

Your words spur him into action and soon, his arms are ever so gently wrapping around you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your ear. “And I’m sorry for failing you. But I swear to you that I’ll make it up to you, and keep making it up to you till the day I die.”

“I love you too, even if you’re crazy dramatic sometimes.”

“Lucky me,” he whispers. The worst part is that he means it. He truly feels lucky because you love him. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot. “I’m the luckiest idiot in the entire world.”

It’s not even close to the end of the day and it’s too late for a nap, but your eyes start to flutter shut anyway. All you need is Clark by your side and his arms, light as feather, around you.

“And by the way, you’re banned from ever climbing on a ladder again,” he whispers into your ear, right as you’re about to fall asleep.

Idiot.

Even after all the years in Metropolis- the bustling city life, the deadlines, the cape folded beneath his shirts- nothing compared to the quiet spread of golden fields, the warm smell of Ma’s cooking drifting out the kitchen windows, or the reliable creak of the porch step he’d grown up stepping over.

There was a calm here he couldn’t find anywhere else, a kind of peace that settled into his bones the moment he turned off the main road and saw the Kent mailbox leaning slightly in its usual way. Out in the fields, the wind moved the winter-dry grass in soft waves, the same rhythm he remembered from childhood.

It reminded him of slow mornings, of Pa’s easy laugh, of Ma humming at the stove; the kind of memories that made him feel fifteen again, not a man juggling two lives and too many responsibilities.

And maybe that was why the truck felt heavier than usual when he parked it. Why he took a moment before getting out, hands resting on the steering wheel as he exhaled.

"Take an actual break this time, man," Jimmy Olsen had told him over the phone, a sigh accompanying his words as Clark first slipped into the driver's seat. "...God knows you need it. Tell your folks I said hi, alright? And Merry Christmas."

Being home stripped everything complicated away for a little while. No city noise, no towering buildings, no emergencies waiting on the edge of his senses.

Just the farmhouse light glowing warm against the early evening sky, welcoming him back like it always had.

This year felt… especially needed.

Ma had mentioned something about the neighbours from the next farm over coming by for Christmas dinner, and Clark tried his best to remember who exactly lived there now. He hadn’t been home enough lately- it had been years, in fact- racking him with a contrition that pricked hard at his conscience, sharp and constant.

He'd been there just enough to wave politely across a fence line, or carry in a bag of feed for the father next door when he’d pulled something in his back three springs ago.

Small moments, brief visits; never long enough to really talk, always interrupted by chores or phone calls or the constant pull of Metropolis waiting for him to hurry back. He remembered the house, though: the blood-orange barn doors that never quite closed right, the porch swing that creaked louder than his own, the tire swing still hanging from the big oak tree despite years of storms trying to tear it down. Familiar pieces of a childhood that overlapped with his more than he realised.

But he did remember, after a moment; the family. The farm. The laughter that used to drift across the property lines on summer evenings. A mother, a father, an older sister and...

You.

The thought came slowly, uncertain but pleasant, like something pulled from the far back corner of his mind. Not a face at first, just flashes of old memories: the bounce of pigtails as you chased the farm dog across the yard, the stubborn pout when you scraped your knee and insisted you didn’t need help, the way you’d cling to his hand when thunderstorms rolled across the plains.

He’d been, what, sixteen? Seventeen? Old enough to be the 'responsible one.' Old enough to drive over and watch you for a few hours whenever your parents needed a night out.

He did the math in his head while he unpacked his suitcase upstairs, folding shirts into the same dresser he’d used as a boy. If you were eight the last time he’d babysat you- the tiny girl who’d begged for piggy-back rides and refused to wear the frilly dresses your mother bought- that would make you…

Twenty-four, now.

A full-grown adult with a life he didn’t know anything about. A grown woman. Not a little kid following him around asking questions about planets and why the sky turned orange at sunset anymore.

The realisation hit him with an unexpected pang of regret.

He knew what he signed up for the day he announced to the world that Metropolis now had someone to turn to, a symbol of hope. Every mission pulled him further, every deadline gluing him to the city. The idea of coming home to Kansas as often as he used to simply wasn't feasible anymore.

Visits turned into calls. PTO had been reserved only for world-ending threats. And Smallville waited- with baited breath, Ma & Pa sick with worry, for his return.

He’d missed everything. Not just your life- though that felt strangely heavy- but pieces of everyone’s life back home. The kind of small, ordinary milestones that didn’t make headlines but mattered far more than the ones that did.

Birthdays, harvest seasons, Pa teaching the neighbour boys how to fix a cracked fence post when Clark had promised them he would some day. He remembered Ma mentioning your high school graduation over the phone, her voice warm and proud, and he’d been in Metropolis that night chasing a story that never even made it to print. He hadn’t even seen the new barn your family rebuilt after the storm five years ago- only heard about it in passing.

For a while, the shame had been eating Clark alive. He wasn't totally clueless, he knew; his life had become divided between the city that needed him and the home that raised him. He felt responsible every time Ma told him she was “fine, sweetheart, just fine”, even when he could hear the tiredness in her voice before she brightened it for his sake. Shame came towards him like a bullet when he thought of Pa's health scare last year, the heart attack that made Clark wish he'd been there for even half the quiet moments he hadn't been.

Guilt layered over guilt, years of it, a weight he didn’t often let himself feel but always carried.

And now, there was the added sting of realising he didn’t know you anymore. The little girl who used to fall asleep on his chest during thunderstorms had grown up; moved on, without him ever noticing. Without him being around. Without him even thinking to ask.

It hit him unexpectedly. It hurt to know that life had continued here; blossomed here, while he had only skimmed the surface of it from afar.

He smiled faintly at the memory of you despite himself.

Clark pieced the full picture together in his head: a sweet little thing who'd promised to keep his secret from both of your families at the time, on the basis that Clark would fly you across the fields at night just so you could feel what it was like to be him. The giggle that fell from you when he pretended you were slipping; a laugh that sounded nowhere near scared, or doubtful, of the very man you trusted so much.

That stubborn spark in your eye. That fearlessness of it all.

And still, Clark wasn’t prepared.

He wasn’t even close to prepared.

Because that little girl was you- but she wasn’t the one who showed up to Christmas dinner.

The knock came just as Ma pulled the ham from the oven, the warm, savoury smell filling the entire kitchen in a way that made the farmhouse feel impossibly safe and lived-in. Pa's old holiday radio hummed softly on the counter, a crackling carol drifting between the clatter of serving dishes.

Ma wiped her hands on her apron, cheeks rosy from the heat, and shot Clark a smile that made him feel ten years younger.

“Could you get that, sweetheart?” she asked, already busy arranging place settings with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d hosted this dinner for decades.

Pa, who’d been tending to the fire in the living room, glanced over his shoulder with a soft grunt of agreement. "Go on, son. Before your ma tries to answer it herself with oven mitts still on."

Clark nodded, smoothing his palms down the front of his flannel as he walked through the living room. He could hear laughter outside- muffled through the door, familiar in a distant way- and he felt that small blossoming of warmth that always came with people dropping in.

Holiday cheer. Community. The simple things he barely had time for in Metropolis.

He adjusted his glasses out of habit, settling into the easy, polite rhythm he always used this time of year. The one he’d used a hundred times for neighbours and holiday visitors. A warm smile, a gentle greeting, a wave inside out of the cold.

The old door gave its usual groan as it swung open, warm light spilling out onto the porch and brushing over boots dusted with snow. Clark’s welcoming smile was already half-formed, ready to match whoever stood there with a holiday greeting.

Then, he froze.

His breath caught somewhere in his throat- not painfully, just suddenly, like the world had paused mid–winter breeze.

Because it wasn’t just another friendly face, vague yet familiar, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. In fact, it wasn’t one face at all- it was several.

Your family filled the porch in a wave of bundled scarves, winter coats, and cheerful chatter. The familiar chorus of “Merry Christmas!” and “Well, look at you, Clark!” and “Haven’t seen you in ages, son!” hit him all at once. Your father clapped him on the back so heartily Clark almost pretended it hurt. Your mother pulled him into a quick hug before he could react, exclaiming about how tall he still was, as if he’d grown another foot since she’d last seen him.

It was warm, noisy, full of love and laughter; the kind he’d missed more than he’d realised.

But through the commotion, through the hands and greetings and laughter, he caught a glimpse of you.

You stepped around your father, your coat already half-unbuttoned from the cold. No dramatic entrance, no spotlight. Just a soft, knowing smile aimed directly at him, like you were in on some secret he hadn't even known he was keeping.

No pigtails. No rosy cheeks and chapped lips and a wide, toothy grin that he'd recognise anywhere.

No; now, your hair fell in careful waves, shining with the kind of polish that only comes after girlhood slips into something older. A faint blush warmed your cheeks, smoothing over the innocence that used to live there, and your smile- gentler, guarded- wore the gravity of growing up.

"Hi, Clark," you said gently, your voice smooth but not loud enough to compete with your family’s greetings. It slipped through the noise anyway, finding him with impossible precision as you stood on your tiptoes and gave him a small hug.

He opened his mouth to respond, arms successfully tightening around your waist- but your mother swooped in with another exclamation, pulling his attention away. When he looked back, you were already moving past him into the house with practiced ease.

Ma called from the kitchen, "Oh, darling, you’re here! Could you help me set the last of the dishes?"

"Of course, Mrs. Kent," you replied warmly, already shrugging off your coat and stepping toward the dining table like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Everyone filtered inside- laughter, boots stomping snow from their soles, coats being tugged off. Pa rose from the fire to join in on the greetings, but Clark’s eyes stayed on you for one suspended, lingering moment.

His throat didn’t work for a whole second. His eyes traced you; every movement you made, every slight tilt of your head.

He knew better than anyone what happened when someone grew up out of sight. Time moved on, people changed, and before you knew it, the little quirks you remembered had shifted into something entirely new.

People drifted, voices deepened, laughter lost that particular childish lilt. He’d seen it happen countless times with the people in his life; friends, cousins, classmates. He thought he was prepared.

But this- you- were different. Standing there, calm, poised, beautiful in a way that made the memories of the tiny, mischievous girl he’d once known feel impossibly far away.

Like he hadn’t just missed a few years; he’d missed an entire lifetime.

Every scraped knee, every test you passed and milestones you achieved, every quiet question whispered in the dark- he’d been gone for all of it. And now, just by looking at you, he was painfully reminded of just how much he had missed.

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, amusement shimmering in your eyes like Christmas lights. You looked him up and down; fleeting, but obvious. And Clark wanted to move, to walk over and join in on the catch-up you were having with his mother, but he just couldn't.

Your eyes darted away as quickly as they'd turned, glossed lips parting to answer one of Ma's questions. You'd turned away from him ever so slightly, hoping he hadn't seen the look on your face; the way you just couldn't tear your gaze away from the man before you.

Clark absolutely noticed.

Even if he hadn’t caught the subtle way your eyes lingered on him when you thought no one was looking, he could feel it anyway- the quickening of your heartbeat, the way its steady rhythm stumbled and skipped, irregular and off-kilter in a way that made him ache and tingle all at once.

He tried- really, he tried- not to. But it was difficult to ignore the way you squeezed your thighs together when you sat next to him, how goosebumps formed on your flesh whenever he leaned over you with a small, apologetic mumble and a smile that made your insides melt. He heard your steady inhales, watched your manicured hands fidget whenever he'd dip his head low and mumble something in your ear.

Frankly, it was kind of addicting.

"How's Metropolis?" you'd asked him politely, and he could tell just by the shyness of your voice that you were wearing thin. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, because if there was anybody in this room struggling to keep it together- well, Clark was convinced it was him.

"It's alright," he answered, voice rattling through you. "You've never been, have you?"

You shook your head no. He smiled.

"I'll take you with me, sometime. Show you around." he could practically hear your teeth clenching, grinding against each other in an effort to contain yourself.

And that’s how it carried through the evening. Even as the kitchen filled with the warm clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation, he couldn’t stop the thoughts of you, couldn't force himself to look away. He noticed the way your hand brushed the edge of the table as you passed the butter, the tilt of your head as you giggled at a joke Pa told.

At the dinner table, it became impossible to ignore; drinks were being poured and confidence was slowly gained. You smirked at him over the rim of your glass of apple cider, the gesture playful but deliberate. It was such a stark contrast to the face you'd had earlier, that it had Clark nearly choking on his own drink.

He noticed when your hand lingered over his as Ma passed the mashed potatoes, light but unmistakably there. The sound of your laugh- low, warm, confident now with all the fizz in your system- and it carried through him in ways the tiny giggles of your childhood never had, resonating in memories he hadn’t realised he’d held onto for years.

Every subtle glance, every movement, felt like a tether pulling him closer, even as he fought to remain composed. It was impossible to focus on the chatter around him, impossible to pretend that you were just another guest at the table.

And it was driving him insane.

Ma chatted happily with your parents, oblivious, and Clark did his best to focus on the conversation as he leant against the sink. But then you brushed past him, a hand sliding up his bicep in passing; slow and deliberate, faint as you gave his shoulder a light, almost intimate squeeze.

You breezed past like it was nothing. But he could hear you; smell the excitement coming off of your body, encased in a too-tight black dress and a pair of heels that did nothing but make your legs look irresistible.

If Clark had allowed himself to listen to his own chest, he was certain the thud of his own heartbeat would have been deafening.

Later, when most of your families had settled in the living room, you'd dropped something while clearing the table. A quiet curse fell from your lips as Clark watched you bend down to pick it up- far, far too slowly, your dress stretching with the movement- and he suddenly understood the concept of divine trials.

Because this? This was definitely one of them.

"Everything okay?" you asked softly on the way up, your eyes locking with his like you already knew exactly what you were doing.

“Fine,” Clark croaked. “Fine. Totally fine.”

You smiled sweetly, the curve of sin slathered in cherry lip gloss.

The night eventually wound down; guests stretched, talked, all of them now drifting into the living room.

Clark took a steadying breath, thinking maybe- maybe- he could pull himself together long enough to survive the rest of the evening. You'd disappeared somewhere, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to go looking for you.

He thought he could manage it, that he could settle into the familiar warmth of home without losing focus. And then Ma’s voice cut through, soft and cheerful, carrying that unmistakable undertone of gentle insistence he could never ignore.

"Clark? Would you mind grabbing our guests' coats from the hall closet? I think they’ll be heading out soon.”

"Sure, Ma," he said, trying to sound casual, like this was just another ordinary task.

It seemed simple enough. Harmless, even. Easy. But as soon as the words left his mouth, a low hum of anticipation settled in his chest; the night was almost over.

Clark stepped into the hallway, boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. He pushed the closet door open, expecting nothing more than coats and scarves.

Instead, he froze. For the second time that night.

Your fingers were trailing along the sleeves of coats like you were carefully choosing between them, your back to him. When you turned, your expression shifted from innocent surprise to something far more knowing.

"Oh-" you said softly, the surprised evident in your tone, “Clark. Hi.”

Clark’s hand stayed frozen on the doorknob. "Uh- I didn’t realise anyone was-"

You cut him off with that small, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that made his chest tighten. "Just making sure everything’s ready. Were you looking for anything?"

"Uh... coats." he said, mentally scolding himself for sounding so taken aback. Truthfully, he just couldn't focus around you; he'd barely been hanging on all night.

Which was pathetic, he knew that. Coming home for Christmas was supposed to be a reset, and now here he was, every nerve in his body a live-wire over a girl he once taught how to ride a bike.

You blinked at him, red lips pursed together in a suppressed line of amusement as he reached over, biceps flexing in the dim closet light. He scooped up about eleven different winter coats with ease, pulling back just in time to give you a sheepish smile. They hung off his forearms like towels on a rack, flattened by the sheer pressure of his muscles.

"You've gotten stronger," you said absentmindedly. Clark raised an eyebrow, skin prickling under your focused gaze.

"Come again?"

You gestured to his now-full arms, "Before, when we were younger. I'd have to help you," you stated, "Now, I don't."

It was silly, really. It wasn’t just about the coats. Not entirely. It was the nights spent sprawled out on the living room carpet over the years, a blanket around your shoulders, flipping through channels until a broadcast of Superman in Metropolis would come on. Clark- your Clark- would fill the screen, looking important and strong as he fought a brand new threat, each one bigger and scarier than the last.

Always there, lingering somewhere deep in your mind; patient, kind, someone who had no idea he’d ever been yours- even in that small, innocent way, because you weren’t old enough to understand what a crush even meant. By the time you'd come around to it, it was too late; he was gone.

But now… now, he was here, in the flesh. Standing just a few feet away, holding coats with that very puzzled look on his face; the one that had always made your stomach twist in a bundle of irreversible knots.

Your chest tightened, breath catching on nothing, and for a moment you just stared. Because suddenly, all those tiny memories didn't feel so far away anymore.

Clark blinked, breaking the spell with a tentative smile.

“You’ve grown alot, too," he stated, smiling small.

"You noticed?" you joked.

"Hard not to..." Clark said sheepishly, eyes not quite meeting yours. "...lot's changed around here."

"Guess so." you murmured.

Clark took a steadying breath, trying to focus on the task at hand as he balanced everything in both his mind and his hands.

With one final slightly awkward nod towards you, he stepped back into the hallway and made his way to the living room, past the hum of post-dinner chatter and laughter. The firelight flickered over everyone’s faces, warm and familiar, and for a moment he felt almost normal again.

He started with the nearest guest, handing over a heavy wool coat with a polite, "Here you go," and forcing a casual smile. He moved from person to person, careful not to glance at you too long, though it was nearly impossible.

You were just a few steps away, finishing up a laugh with Ma over something trivial, effortlessly charming the one woman who knew you like the back of her hand. He felt a tug in his chest, like he was being pulled toward you against his own will.

By the time he had distributed the last coat, the air around him felt too full. He exhaled softly and murmured, "Excuse me," more to himself than anyone else, and slipped out the front door.

The cold hit him immediately, crisp and sharp, but it was welcome- a small reprieve from the heat of his own thoughts.

He intended to just sit for a moment, catch his breath, let the night air clear his mind. Maybe he could pull himself together before returning to the crowd inside. But he wasn't alone; his eyes fell on your silhouette, leaning casually against the railing, one hand wrapped around a half-full glass of apple cider.

The glow of the porch light highlighted the curve of your cheek, the sparkle in your eyes, the subtle tilt of your head as you sipped.

Lord help him.

He had no time to pause, freeze, or head back inside. You could sense him just by the shift in the air.

"Hey," you said softly, a hint of amusement in your voice. "Everything okay?"

Clark’s lips twitched into a small, tight smile, trying to mask how flustered he felt. "Yeah. Just… needed some air," he admitted, taking a step forward and placing himself right next to you.

With a slight push off the railing, you steadied yourself. A light chuckle fell from your lips. "I get it," you said, raising your glass slightly, "Been a while since we've all been here. Probably a lot for you to take in."

His brow furrowed, watching the liquid swirl around your cup. "You’ve been drinking," Clark said carefully, his voice tinged with concern. Protective instinct flaring without permission.

"Three years above the legal age, Clark," you reminded him, rolling your eyes playfully. Whatever flirty bravado you'd had inside faded alongside the clearness of your mind; now, you were lighter. Less nervous, with a lot more to say to him it seemed. "You can stop looking at me like I’m still eight. I can handle a little cider."

His mouth twitched in amusement, caught off guard by the boldness in your tone and the mischief in your eyes. Even with the teasing, there was something undeniably alluring in the way you stood there, relaxed and self-assured and slightly defensive for reasons he couldn't fathom.

Is this what alcohol did to you? Admittedly, Clark was slightly relieved. He had no idea how much longer he could control himself around you if you hadn't eased up on him- just a little. He had no idea when the sweet little girl in you had ended and when this confident, sultry new woman began.

You'd always been adorable. But now, though he tried to bury the thought down deep- Clark was starting to find you irresistible.

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his racing thoughts, trying not to let the tight coil of desire in his chest show.

"I know… I just…" His voice faltered, throat dry. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

You tilted your head slightly, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips. You swilled the remaining cider in your glass lazily, watching the liquid catch the light like tiny golden stars.

The quiet of the night felt like peace, a pause between the madness of the dinner and the memories tucked away in the corners of the house. You let yourself bask in it all, in the familiar yet strange feeling of having Clark back in town. Even if it was just for the holidays.

Even if tomorrow, he was gone again. No note, no warning, no care; just the unspoken promise that he'd visit and would probably see you again soon. Just like he did all those years ago.

Clark's gaze drifted to the fields beyond you both. For a second, you watched him, allowed yourself a few seconds of to study how he'd filled out over the years.

You'd always found comfort in his arms. Especially back then, when you'd been small enough to bask in the engulfment of them. Before, they'd just been yours; a warm comfort that made even the worst days feel bearable. Now, they were everyone else's in Metropolis; covered in blue and chiselled by years and years of saving the planet and whatever else came with being Superman.

Eventually, your eyes followed suit. Your gaze raked the grassy plains, a star-filled sky watching over it. Then, with a voice so small you were certain Clark would miss it, you spoke.

"Smallville’s missed you, you know." you told him gently, words low enough that it felt like they were meant for him and just him alone.

He paused, chest tightening, and he let out a quiet breath. Your words were only slight, but they still felt like daggers against something already wounded.

Clark shook his head, gaze dropping to the wooden floor beneath his boots.

"Smallville didn't need me," he said quietly, almost as if saying it would make it true; regardless of you not having asked. He felt like he owed it to you anyway.

At the time, it had been the truth. Or at least, Clark had successfully convinced himself so. Ma and Pa, you and your family; everyone. They'd be fine without him; it was the city that ran rampant, the citizens that were under threat. At the time, he thought he knew exactly what to do- who to go to because they would have needed him the most.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

You paused, setting your glass down on the railing, eyes tracing the lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders carried that crushing weight he never seemed to be able to shake.

Then, quietly, you spoke.

"I did, Clark. I needed you."

Clark froze. His heart lurched, stuttering in a way that made the blood in his veins feel hotter, tighter, impossible to ignore. He had spent years burdened with guilt over leaving, missing moments, choosing duty over home.

And now… someone had been waiting. Someone had noticed. Someone had actually felt the absence of him in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine.

And it wasn't Ma, or Pa, or the cows he'd spent every single day tending to as a boy and even given names in his adolescence; it was you.

His gaze lifted to yours. Blue eyes blinked back at you, searching, hesitant, willing it not to be true because a joke would have hurt less than the truth.

"You…" he started, a swallow bobbing in his throat. "You needed me?"

A soft, almost shy curve pulled at your lips. "Yeah," you told him, restless hands reaching for the glass again; something to hold, to fidget with, in case the conversation got too rough and you needed a distraction.

"I knew it was silly," you bit your lip at the memory, feeling fond amusement for your past self, "But I used to wait for your truck to come back. I'd tell my Dad to leave just enough space for it on the drive, just in case. For months. And then I'd practice what to say to you, so you wouldn't leave again,"

He could feel his heart physically break. Though you carried on, and the light look on your face was so different to the shame Clark was currently feeling that it threatened to derail his reaction completely.

Then, with a small scoff of a laugh that caught him off-guard and a slight shake of your head, you confessed, "I used to have a little crush on you, you know.”

“W-What?”

"Yeah. I wasn't very subtle about it, either," you said, voice quiet, a teasing warmth in your tone. “I used to beg my parents to go out, just so you’d come around. I’d find any excuse to see you, even if I didn't even really know why. But, I did."

His chest tightened painfully, guilt and longing coiling together ruthlessly in his stomach.

"Sounds really dumb, huh?"

"It's not dumb at all," Clark frowned.

"It was. I was just a kid,"

"Not anymore." he pointed out.

You paused, only for a split second, but enough to register the sudden weight of the conversation.

Then, after taking in his words and the unmistakable look on his face, you stepped closer, slowly, deliberately.

Clark could feel the heat of your presence, the brush of your hair against his chest; fingers nudging against his own in an effort to intertwine.

Your glass sat abandoned on the railing.

You tilted your head, eyes soft, the same way they used to be whenever you were upset and he was the only person in the world who could calm you. Now, it felt like he was the one that needed soothing.

"No?" you blinked.

Clark shook his head, though hesitant. "No."

And reluctantly, you pushed up on careful tiptoes, your fingertips missing his own.

Instead, they ran up his bicep again; one long, slow stroke, as both of your arms raised to snake around his neck.

Hesitant at first, the movement so slow and subtle that it allowed him just enough time to either jump away from you, or choose to embrace it.

But Clark didn't flinch, or move back. He just let you; hands itching to respond, to answer the unspoken questions you were asking him.

By the time your fingers linked at the nape of his neck, he relaxed enough to be able to rest his forehead against yours. He kept his eyes shut, heavy. His breaths came out shallow, short, every nerve in his body alert.

"I'm sorry," his voice cracked, and his hands found their way to your waist; resting there with such a nervous grip that your stomach did a flip at the touch, "that I haven't been here."

Whether he meant it for you, or for the town he’d grown up in but left behind, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the raw ache in his words, the way years of absence and unspoken regrets pressed into every syllable.

It was the weight of missed birthdays, quiet mornings he’d never shared, and the countless little moments he’d been too far away to protect, guide, or even witness.

You swallowed. You didn't know when over the years you'd forgiven him, not exactly; but it happened around the same time you got your own first big break in a major city. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, perfect for you and what you wanted to do, in New York.

One year. But it was enough.

It was also inevitable; the way you could finally see the world through Clark's eyes, as you followed in footsteps that had once left you hollow.

"It's okay, Clark."

"I've missed a lot," he then said, pained.

You shook your head, "But you came back."

And it was then, as you packed your bags at the age of twenty-two to move out of the only place you would ever call home; that you understood the man before you far better than you ever thought you would.

“You’re here now,” you said then, the soft hum of Christmas music inside the house slowly reaching you both. "And I can't make you promise not to leave. I wouldn't want to. But-"

"I won't-"

"...A number. An email. Anything," you finished, the glint in your eye hopeful. "Just so I know you're okay."

Clark tried not to picture you as a child, perched on that windowsill you could barely reach, legs swinging as you waited for him to come home. He tried not to imagine the day you realised he wasn’t coming back- how your face must have crumpled, how you must have hated him for months, maybe even years.

Ma would have known. Pa would have known. The entirety of Smallville would have been privy to the way he left you behind; cold and heartless, a sacrifice for the life he wanted to build that simply had no room for you in it at the time.

And yet, after all of that, here you were. Kind. Beautiful. Willing to forgive someone who couldn't even begin to understand why.

It was difficult, trying to find a way to forgive himself for all the time lost. His voice came out low, a confession trapped inside of a whisper.

"I’m here now..." Clark said firmly, eyes fluttering open again to stare steadily into yours, "and I'm not going anywhere."

Your hands pressed a little closer to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the fine strands of his hair. He tilted his head slightly, breath catching as he met your gaze, searching for any hint of doubt and finding none.

"Even if you did. I'll be here."

You smiled delicately, leaning a fraction closer. You thought of all the years he'd spent buried at the back of your mind; your Clark, the sweet boy-next-door that made every date of yours feel fleeting, every boyfriend you ever had a placeholder. When your friends would talk about their dream partners and you'd nod along, agree, knowing you had your own version built from kind hands holding your own and guiding you through a life he'd left so abruptly.

Your eyes fell to his lips. Full and inviting, though pursed from all the emotion he was finally allowing himself to feel. His did the same; his blue, glassy low-lidded gaze mimicking yours.

He was waiting.

Patient as ever, not wanting to impose. A sweet, unwavering charm that he'd brought with him to the city and never- not once- thought to let go.

And for the first time in over a decade, your heart fluttered that same way it used to all those years ago; before you could even put a name to the feeling.

"Kiss me, Clark," you ordered softly, your words far more intimate now after everything, "And we can figure out the rest later."

That was all the invitation he needed.

With a slow, careful nod, Clark obeyed; closing the space between you, lips brushing yours in a tentative, testing kiss.

The world seemed to pause as he memorised the warmth of you, the soft curve of your lips, the feel of your hands against him. You felt so familiar yet so brand new at the same time; exactly what he needed, even if he didn't know it yet.

Then, as if all the years of distance, aching, and unspoken words couldn’t be contained any longer, the kiss deepened.

Your arms wrapped fully around his neck, pulling him impossibly close. The railing pressed gently into your back, the glass that had been balancing above it now lost in the bushes. Clark's hands rested on your waist as he held you steady, grounding himself in the moment; in this. With you; so unique, unlike what he remembered yet so dazzling this way.

It was everything- soft laughter, trembling breaths, the thrill of meeting one another all over again rushing through you both.

You gave your all, and so did Clark; he'd do better. Vowed to. He’d spent so long trying to protect the world that he’d almost forgotten the one he could never replace; this life, this place, and now- this.

This was real. This was steady.

And you? Wrapped in his arms, cherry lips pressed against his own, a past memory reborn in the present- you were home.

{inspo song for this fic was 10000% mary's song (oh my, my, my) by taylor swift}