Cathy🤍

Clark can only stare at the flimsy drywall, taking a heavy gulp in an attempt not to just…look. "They're…passionate?" He points out, questioning, only to be met with a withered glare.

"No woman would ever make those noises for a man unless they're being paid to." You refute.

"I…see." Clark clears his throat, holding a loose finger up to point at the offending noise. "Do you think it's a…"

"Hooker? Yes. Great one by the sounds of it."

"Right. I didn't realise there was a baseline." His statement hangs in the air, heavy with his genuine and innocent observation.

"In what sense?" You pry, the noises from across turning far less interesting now.

"Uh. I don't know. The louder a lady is when…you know. The better the intercourse is?" Clark looks up to the ceiling thoughtfully. Shaking his needless curiosity away.

"You're thinking about something."

The broad-shouldered man jolts, turning to face you in the wake of your blunt statement. "I…I'm not sure what you mean."

"You've got that look on your face," you say simply. Then, playfully whip your sleep mask at him — it lands against his chest with a thud, a mocking noise as his heart rate picks up. "Spill."

"I — gee," Clark relents with a sigh, slowly standing up, albeit unsteadily, before plopping onto the bed next to you. The motion sends the mattress dipping low under his heavy weight, forcing you to slide closer to him.

"It's not so much a thought…but an observation."

When he turns to you, your gaze is already on him. All wide and curious. His head snaps away from your innocent stare, "when you and I…are intimate."

He continues after a beat, "you're sort of…loud," then, his hand comes up to loosely point to himself, "so... that means you feel good. With me."

The words land as a brief shock to you. Not at the implication, but that Clark had actually formed that specific thought just from an off-handed comment.

Your answer came in the form of a gentle swat to his hand, paired with a shy, honest look, "…don't do that. Makes you look dorky."

Clark's lips break out into an easy smile, his head bowed to chase your eyeline. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm thinking about now?"

"Not interested." Your rejection comes swiftly, punctuated with a dramatic slump onto the comforter. Though the quirk at the corner of your lips gives your actual thoughts away.

"Oh, come on," Clark's voice drops to that familiar, negotiating lilt. The bed dips further, with his elbows secured over the pillow you hid your face in. His warmth behind you inched closer. "Ask me."

You look over your shoulder suspiciously, "hurry up before I change my mind."

His lips curl into a wide, dimpled smile.

.

.

.

'Let's see how honest you can be without making a single sound.'

It was a stupid, impulsive challenge thrown out there. One that was potentially dangerous to their cover. Possibly — no, completely unnecessary for two people who were only in a motel room to stake out an elusive contact.

The logic was hard to fight. It was a bet to be quiet. So the pact was formed in the wake of the soft rustle of sheets, the gentle hold of Clark's palm at the base of your lower back. You bit down on your lip hard at a tug that forced you flush against Clark's chest, with your thighs draped over his thicker ones. Instinctively, you arch into him.

His gaze tracked your movements, intently raking over your twitching thighs. Clark's head lowers, his lips searching for a spot — a spot he knew would incite a shiver from you. The kiss beneath your ears did just that, squirming helplessly to the mercy of his teasing touches.

A whimpered sound choked on the way out of your lips as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your bottoms, a whisper of the fibres gracing the heavy, hot air in the room. His warm, bigger palms still at the outside of your thighs, urging your hips upward.

"You're doing a really good job," he comments, reverence felt in the manner his nose still chased the curve of your jaw.

The springs of the motel bed squeaked at the shift, adding your sweats to the pile that was Clark's makeshift bed on the carpeted floors. He doesn't make it easy for you in the slightest. His mouth finds purchase on the column or your throat, and toward your pulse.

"Mm'tryin' to keep — ugh — quiet!" Your voice is barely above a rasp, trying to nudge his face away in a weak attempt, "don't…"

Your soft whine was the very first crack in your resolve, in your promise to keep quiet. It only seemed to spur Clark on even more, his mouth clumsily finding yours, catching the corner of your lips before they slot just right.

The quiet room filled itself with the urgent, wet smacks of your combined desperation, whimpers that spilt into each other's throats. Clark's free hand slid up your ribs, his thumbs skirting beneath the curve of your breasts. Deliberately, his thumbnail rake over where your nipples slowly hardened.

"Ah!"

The sound spills from your lips before you can stop it, and you turn to bury your face in the pillow. "Nnh. Not bein'…fair." You mutter, petulantly, with your face squirmed into softness.

He laughs suddenly, warm against your pulse.

"Who said anything about being fair?" Clark's nips at your earlobes, placing open-mouthed kisses unabashedly despite your squirming.

You writhe beneath him, frustrated. With a determined tug, you pull him down more. In a soft tone, barely there, you whisper his name into the shell of his ears. It'd run louder than any whine or moan you'd given in an ode to your pleasure.

The reaction was instantaneous. His rigid body, which was once intent on teasing grinds, melted into you. The hard lines of his erection stiffened in a demanding manner, urging you to spill all your little whimpers into his ears.

"Just…like that." He pleads, eyes fluttering shut when your tongue drags past the shell, probing into the soft curve.

"Clark…Clark. Clark."

Each whispered whine of his name threatened to unravel him entirely. Clark's deftly shucking his trousers off just enough to free his aching cock, resting the hefty weight of it on your bare cunt, soaking with arousal that he pulled from you painstakingly.

"You…You have to be actually quiet. Okay?"

You nod sharply, steadying your hold onto his biceps.

Clark's careful.

At first.

Easing his thick, hard cock into your eager walls was the easy part. Especially with how easily you opened up for him, sucking him in — begging for more.

But then he snaps his hips into you. His length disappears deep into your belly, making you feel so fucking full and overwhelmed at the same time that you squeal.

Clark's palm spans over the lower half of your mouth. Muffling the ends of your whine. "Oh, sweetheart —" he coos, his voice cracked in remorse. You blink up at him, hazily and uncoordinated, looking at him like he'd given you blue balls.

"You can't — …" Clark shakes his head slowly. His hold is unrelenting over your soft lips. "Breathe through your nose. Okay? Trust me."

Your stifled whimpers are efficiently muted by the warm press of his palm, subjecting you to the controlled thrust of his hips. Each one met with the creaky protests of the mattress. Clark's breath comes out gradually ragged against your neck, the sweat from his skin mingling with your own.

It seemed to be doing something to him on a chemical level. Feeling the warm vibration of your needy grunts into his nerve endings, paired with the rhythmic pulse of your cunt that was the only other indicator of how turned on you were.

Clark's eyes are scewed shut, as though every one of his senses were attuned to the noises. To the sounds of your arousal, to the ones of the sticky, hot connection below. Your cunt clenched around his length, harder with each stroke of his thick thip in your twitching walls.

His head pulls back in time to meet your fucked out gaze as he's met with the telltale signs of your oncoming release, "shit. I'm — please." He manages, pulling his palm away from your reddened lips, where a slight string of your drool clings to him.

He brings his dampened palm down to your clit, rubbing you in idle circles.

"Ngh! Clark!" You squeak, digging your nails into the taut muscles of his arms. That gave you the tip you needed before your body arches off the bed, into him, in a quivering intensity, coming hard around his cock.

Clark follows suit, his own body seizing, shuddering gutturally as he takes on the wave of pulses from your walls, filling your belly with his hot, potent cum.

You lift your head up, only barely, lips chasing the warmth of his pulse, blissed out in an undeniable wash of addicting pleasure that the man above you pulled from you successfully.

It's short-lived, though. Especially when an insistent, loud bang resounds from the walls above both of you.

The sunset at the Daily Planet fell lazily. The sun, low and orange, slipped through the tall windows and painted the desks in a warm golden hue that slowly faded away. The newsroom was quiet; only the constant tapping of keyboards and the occasional sigh broke the calm. There was no breaking news, and the day’s pace waned with the light.

Clark was working on his article for the next day’s edition, a calm piece that allowed him to take unhurried sips of his coffee, push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and occasionally distract himself by glancing at his cellphone, lying inactive on his desk.

“Olsen,” Lois’s voice sounded behind him, carrying that tone she used when she was about to share some gossip with Jimmy.

“It can’t be. The agent came again,” Jimmy said, though his tone was expectant, as if he knew that was only the prelude to something more.

That comment did something to Clark. His fingers trembled slightly, slid uncontrollably over the keyboard, and suddenly, in the middle of a perfectly constructed paragraph, the letters “kjoshnfd” appeared. His cheeks flushed instantly, and he lifted his gaze toward the entrance.

There you were. Greeting Perry with a cordial but brief, professional smile. You were wearing impeccably tailored trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt, the top two buttons undone. Elegant, with your shirt tucked neatly into your pants, your hair pulled back with only your fringe falling to one side, and your detective badge hanging from your neck. You crossed your arms naturally as you spoke with the editor-in-chief.

“Honestly, I’d go crazy too if I were dating her,” Lois commented in a low voice, but clear enough for Jimmy and Clark to turn their heads, surprised. “What? Come on, Olsen, look at her. That outfit looks incredible on her. Damn it, Clark, you’re so lucky,” Lois added, shaking her head with a half-smile.

Clark looked at you again and couldn’t help but smile, completely smitten. He nodded slowly, almost to himself. Of course he was lucky. Incredibly lucky. Having you by his side, being able to kiss you, hold you, having helped you that one time with your “accumulated stress” that ended with him at your apartment… and staying forever. It was an official relationship, even though there had never been a need to shout it from the rooftops. There was no need for a banner either, because Clark, without meaning to, made it obvious. With your gaze fixed on him from a distance, and him smiling and lifting his hand to wave shyly at you. Or when he arrived as Superman, paused for a moment in front of you, and murmured just for your ears, “Officer, I’ll see you tonight,” before rising into the sky. Words only you heard, leaving you struggling to keep a straight face. Or when he showed up at the precinct with a bouquet of roses, dressed in his office suit, a bag with two burgers and two sodas.

Yes, deep down, Clark wanted everyone to know you were his. That he was deeply in love. Perhaps, without realizing it, he had already proven it time and time again.

“And the idiot knows perfectly well what he has,” Jimmy murmured, making Lois laugh softly.

You visited the Planet from time to time, usually at Perry’s request—he needed information on cases that were already public or wanted someone from the newsroom to interview you. You only gave the necessary details. Sometimes, Perry asked about his old friend, your father, and you greeted the rest of the staff with discreet courtesy.

When your gaze drifted toward the group—Jimmy and Lois, who were watching you with knowing smiles—they pretended to drop something and immediately turned back to their screens, feigning absolute concentration. Then you looked at Clark. You lowered your head slightly in a calm greeting and gave him a small, flat, professional smile. He, on the other hand, did the complete opposite: his smile spread fully, showing those dimples you liked so much, and he waved at you, his hand moving with an endearing shyness.

From his seat, with his enhanced senses, he could hear the beat of your heart. Steady. Constant. Neither rushed nor weak. Perfect. He rested his elbow on the desk, propped his chin on his hand, and kept watching you as a memory from that very morning came to mind: you, curled up against his chest, murmuring half-asleep, “We don’t have to go to work today…” while holding him tightly. He laughed, and you, your voice thick with sleep, added, “Citizens must understand that even heroes… and police officers… need a day off.” If everyone could see you like that, with the vulnerability you allowed only him to witness, they would wonder if you were really the same person. But you were. It was just that with him, you weren’t on guard. With him, you let go. You rested. And that was the greatest gift Clark Kent could ever receive.

When you finished with Perry, Clark watched out of the corner of his eye as you stood up and Perry said goodbye with a firm handshake. In a quick movement, Clark turned back to his screen, pretending to be deeply focused on his article. He loved this little ritual he believed was secret, though the truth was that you knew it perfectly well. You knew because you saw the spark of excitement in his eyes before he looked away, because you felt him follow each of your steps, because you sensed how his heart recognized your presence even before you were by his side. And, of course, because that dimple that formed when he smiled—the one he insisted was almost invisible—was, to you, as clear as daylight.

“Good afternoon, Lane, Olsen,” you said, approaching their desks and shaking each of their hands with cordial firmness.

Lois and Jimmy smiled, a little flustered by your direct presence. “Good afternoon,” they replied almost in unison, and you, with a slight nod, gently rested your hand on Clark’s arm.

“Can I steal a bit of your time?” you asked, your voice lower, meant only for him.

Clark looked up, and a warm blush climbed from his neck to his cheeks. “Yes… of course,” he replied immediately, almost tripping over his words.

You nodded and then briefly glanced at Lois and Jimmy. “See you later.”

“See you later! Come back anytime,” Jimmy said enthusiastically, while Lois gave you a knowing smile.

Clark stood up and walked with you toward the entrance, now far from curious ears. Once alone, he looked at you and let out a theatrical sigh, though his smile betrayed the game. “Should I be jealous? Because even Lois seems to have a little crush on you,” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You turned toward him, and there it was: the loose, genuine laughter you only let out in his company, the softness that relaxed every feature of your face, transforming your professional expression into something intimate and warm.

“And who wouldn’t?” you replied, playing along. He nodded, the blush on his cheeks becoming more noticeable. “Are you staying late today?” you asked then, your voice dropping even lower, your eyes taking on that tenderness you reserved exclusively for him.

He smiled, understanding the real question behind the words. “Do you want your boyfriend to stay with you?” he murmured, stepping a little closer.

You nodded, never breaking eye contact. “Alright,” he said, his voice turning into a whisper. “I’ll stop by your office and we’ll go home together.” He raised his hand and, with an infinitely tender gesture, tucked that rebellious strand of your fringe behind your ear, his fingers brushing softly against your skin.

“Alright. I have to go now. There’s a new case, and I want to finish the paperwork on time,” you said, briefly returning to your official tone before adding with a knowing smile, “But of course, I must attend to my responsibilities first. Fulfill my duty to the citizens.”

You both smiled as you remembered your own words from that morning, now turned into a private joke. “See you,” Clark said.

He leaned in to place a brief, sweet kiss on your lips. But you stopped him, your hands rising to gently lace around his neck, taking advantage of the privacy the corner offered. The kiss lingered a moment longer, soft and promising. When you pulled away, you rose onto your tiptoes and left one last fleeting kiss on the tip of his nose.

“See you,” you repeated, with that blend of promise and farewell you used only with him.

Clark stayed there, watching you walk away down the hallway, the sensation of your kisses still fresh on his skin and the echo of your laughter in his ears. For a moment, all the noise of the Planet disappeared, and there existed only the calm, joyful beat of two hearts that, though separated for a few hours, were already counting the minutes until they met again.

A coffee?

A look?

Maybe a compliment.

Everything sounded good—perfect, even—when Clark imagined Jimmy or Lois using it. For them, flirting was like breathing. A comment here, a smile there, and that was it: phone numbers, dates, returned compliments. Foolproof techniques. Simple. Easy.

But there was one tiny, enormous, overwhelming problem.

He wasn’t Jimmy. Or Lois.

He was Clark Kent. The guy who smiles at ladies carrying heavy bags, who blushes if the coffee cashier tells him “Have a nice day,” and who sometimes concentrates so hard on acting like a “normal” human that he forgets to walk through the revolving door on the first try.

And he was hopelessly, ridiculously, deeply in love with you.

How did it start? Well, for Clark, everything has a precise answer. It was November 22nd, at 11:03 in the morning. The Daily Planet newsroom buzzed with noise—everyone shouting about politics and scandals. He was picking up files, trying to go unnoticed. A report on a television distracted him (“A meteorite? Huh, interesting…”) and bam—the stack of papers went flying like a flock of white, bureaucratic pigeons.

He crouched down in panic, but soft, quick fingers were already there, catching pages midair. You.

He saw you kneeling, wearing that oversized sweater you always wear, gathering his reports as if they were treasures. “Thank you, I’m sorry, I’m a mess,” he mumbled, his large, clumsy hands brushing against yours.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you said. Your voice was clear, calm. An oasis in the chaos. You handed him the papers, neatly organized, and when you looked up at him, something happened. At that exact moment, the air conditioning sneezed loudly.

A warm gust of air crossed the room. Your bangs lifted from your forehead for a second, and a strand of your hair danced freely. To Clark, everything around you seemed to glow, as if the midday sun had decided to sneak in just to illuminate you.

You stood up with a smooth movement and handed him the papers. Your smile didn’t show your teeth—it was just a shy, warm curve of your lips—but it hit him straight in the stomach, which flipped in a very unscientific way.

“Be more careful, Clark,” you said kindly, as if reminding him to bring an umbrella. Then you picked up your own stack of documents and walked away.

He stayed there, hugging the papers like an idiot. He followed you with his eyes to your desk, next to Cat Grant’s. You sat down, pulled out those reading glasses that make you squint just a little in an adorable way, and immersed yourself in your work—so simple, so calm. Clark felt his ears burning. He looked down and whispered, so softly that no normal super-hearing (well, except his) would have caught it:

“Thank you.”

Had he seen you before? Maybe. In meetings. You were the one who nodded, who presented your report briefly and clearly, and then blended into the wall. A hidden treasure. And he, Clark Kent—the clumsiest of seekers—had found it by accident.

From that day on, he started noticing you. He learned your name. He “casually” overheard (with hearing that was absolutely not normal) that you liked reading old mystery novels, that you loved music—any song with a good rhythm—and that you hated chocolate donuts.

“It tastes fake,” you had told Cat once, and he, three cubicles away, nodded energetically to himself, completely alone.

But he didn’t dare approach you. The words got stuck. What could he say? “Hi, you saved me from disorganization—do you like meteorites?” No. Impossible.

So now, weeks later, he watched you from afar, feeling like a penguin in the desert. His mind was a battlefield:

“Jimmy would say something clever. ‘Is that mug from Krypton? Because you’re out of this world.’ No, no, that’s terrible. Lois would walk up, lean on your desk, and say something direct. ‘Your report on water pollution drove me crazy. Let’s talk.’”

Clark shuddered. If he tried leaning on a desk, he’d probably knock it over entirely—computer, mug, and possibly the entire floor’s electrical system included.

“Clark, I feel like I’m talking to a pillar,” Jimmy’s voice said, far too close to his ear. Clark blinked, pulling away from his blank screen. Jimmy followed his gaze, which had been fixed in the same direction for minutes. “You’ve been staring at Cat,” Jimmy pointed out with a mischievous grin.

Clark looked at him, confused. “Cat? No, I—”

“Or maybe,” Jimmy lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, “her friend?”

“Absolutely not!” Clark said immediately, turning away so fast his glasses tilted slightly. His cheek began to turn an alarming shade of pink.

“Damn it, Lane,” Jimmy sighed in defeat. Clark watched as Jimmy pulled thirty dollars out of his pocket and handed them to Lois, who accepted them with a triumphant gesture and a solemn nod.

“Sorry, Smallville,” Lois said without a hint of remorse as she pocketed the money. “You’re as easy to read as a front-page headline. Just go ask her if she wants to get coffee. It’s simple.”

Clark gripped the edge of his desk. “We haven’t talked. Ever, really. Since… since the flying papers.”

“Don’t worry,” Jimmy said, and before Clark could protest, Jimmy raised his voice and called out to you from across the room. “Hey! Do you have a minute?”

“What are you doing, Jimmy? No, please…” Clark murmured, clinging to his chair. But it was too late. You had already turned around, looking for the source of the voice. When Clark saw your eyes land on them, he had an irrational urge to hide behind his monitor, which made Lois let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a stifled laugh.

“Yes?” you said, walking toward the small group with curiosity.

“Hi,” Jimmy greeted you with excessive friendliness. “So, Clark here has a little problem. He can’t find the files for the Halloween traffic accident. You remember it, right? He thinks the construction company that built the bridge was involved.” Jimmy smiled, pleased with himself. It was the article Clark had been obsessively researching for weeks, so at least the excuse was believable.

“Of course,” you said, nodding. “The case where Superman appeared.” Your gaze shifted to Clark. “Is it Clark who needs the information, or is it you, Jimmy?”

Lois, watching like a hawk, instantly understood what you were thinking: you believed the flirting was coming from Jimmy. With a quick, stealthy movement, she poked Clark in the side with a pencil, nearly making him jump out of his chair.

“I—I’m the one who needs the information,” Clark said, springing to his feet. His swivel chair spun violently, and he had to grab it to keep from falling. He adjusted his glasses with clumsy fingers and looked at you, his face now completely red. “Yes. The files. For the article. It’s important.”

“Alright, they’re in the physical archives, in the basement,” you said naturally, as if you hadn’t noticed his panic. “I’ll go get them.”

“I’ll come with you! If—if I can, of course,” Clark offered, throwing a desperate look at his friends.

Lois firmly shook her head. Jimmy did the same. You’re on your own, they seemed to say.

“Well… I was hoping you would, since you’re the one who needs them,” you said with perfect logic and a kindness that completely disarmed him. “Let’s go.” And you headed toward the elevators.

Clark walked behind you like a soldier marching into battle, not saying a word. His mind was a whirlwind of rejected phrases. How have you been? (Too vague.) Do you want to get coffee? (Too direct, too soon—what if you said no?). His search history was a testament to his desperation: ‘Respectful compliments to say to a coworker,’ ‘Is it offensive to ask if someone fell from the sky?,’ ‘How to ask someone out without sounding like a robot,’ ‘Eye contact for beginners (not for superheroes)’.

When you reached the archive, you went straight to work. You knew exactly where everything was. In less than two minutes, you had the thick folder in your hands. “These are the ones, Clark,” you said, offering it to him. “Everything about the construction company is in there—inspection reports and photos.”

He nodded, taking the folder as if it were made of glass. “I’ll go back to work,” you said with a small but genuine smile, turning halfway around.

It was his chance. The One Chance. Your back was already moving away. His mouth opened, and as if it had a will of its own, only one word came out: “Thank you.”

You nodded without turning back and kept walking.

Clark squeezed the folder tightly (though not too tightly, so as not to turn it into cosmic confetti) and turned to leave, desperate. At that exact moment, you turned around too, as if you had remembered something.

Both of you spoke at the same time, your words colliding in the hallway air:

“Do you have plans today?” you asked, calm enough not to betray your nerves.

“Do you want to get coffee?” he asked, the sentence rushing out at full speed.

Both of you froze. An instant, perfectly synchronized blush spread across both of your cheeks.

“Yes,” you answered. But Clark, panicking, spoke at the same time:

“No.”

An involuntary smile escaped your lips at his confusion. He rushed to correct himself: “No, I mean—I don’t have plans! No plans at all!”

You nodded, your smile growing slightly. “And I mean yes… yes, I do want to get coffee.”

Clark nodded so vigorously his glasses slipped again. “No—yes—exactly. After work, would you like to? Today? At six? Or is that too early? Or too late?”

“Yes,” you said, softening your answer. “That’s fine. Six o’clock.”

“Alright,” he repeated, as if sealing a pact.

“Alright,” you added.

“Alright,” he repeated again, and then you let out a small laugh—a clear, warm sound that made Clark’s heart do a somersault.

“I’ll go back… to work,” you said, vaguely pointing toward the door.

“Yes. I’ll… go back too. To work. To working,” Clark said, and you nodded, finally leaving the archive. “See you!” he managed to say, but you didn’t hear him anymore. He added, in a whisper just for himself, “On our date.”

A smile so wide and bright it almost lit up the basement spread across his face. Maybe, after all, he didn’t need to copy anyone’s flirting. He just needed to be himself. Awkward, sincere, and holding a folder of files on the verge of wrinkling from happiness.

As you returned to your desk, just a few meters away, Clark—thanks to his absolutely not normal hearing—caught the conversation. Cat Grant was waiting, leaning against your desk with a weasel-like grin.

“So? You finally dared to ask Clark Kent out?” Cat asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

Clark froze in the hallway. He heard, with perfect clarity, your heart jumping and suddenly speeding up.

“Cat, please, keep it down,” you murmured, your voice caught between laughter and embarrassment.

Cat let out a playful laugh. “Honey, you’ve spent an entire month talking about how ‘sweet and clueless’ Kent is, and I didn’t know anyone shyer than him… until you showed up, sweetheart. You’re perfect for each other.”

Hidden behind a corner, Clark let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He wasn’t alone. You were nervous too. You talked about him too. An entire month.

With renewed determination (and a blush that wouldn’t fade for hours), Clark Kent walked back to his desk, feeling that maybe—just maybe—the universe wasn’t conspiring against him, but simply waiting for two shy people to take, at the same time, a small and awkward step forward.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

Clark frowned more deeply than usual, not because of the article glowing on his screen—a bland chronicle about the Christmas lights in Metropolis Square—but because of the bitter aftertaste the situation left behind. He had worked until mid-afternoon on Christmas. On Christmas. The air in the Daily Planet newsroom was heavy with an uncommon silence, broken only by the hum of the servers and the distant echo of his own disappointment.

It had all begun, as so many things did, with Lois Lane. Lois, his tenacious and sometimes reckless partner, had pushed her resistance to the limit, ignoring a flu until her body finally said “enough.” Severe dehydration. An ambulance ride. And Perry White, the editor-in-chief, going into full panic mode with the deadline looming. The festive piece had to be covered no matter what. And Clark, the most reliable man and the least capable of saying “no,” was chosen at the last minute.

But that wasn’t the real knot in his stomach. The real weight, heavier than any mountain he had ever lifted, was having left you alone at home. Again. You had promised each other that this day would be just for you. A quiet pause, without the usual trip to Smallville to see his parents, or the flight to Canada to visit yours. A simple, cozy plan, carefully crafted, now lying canceled on the kitchen table beside unused cookie cutters.

The memory of the argument from the night before returned with painful clarity. Clark didn’t argue. He almost never raised his voice. But frustration, layered like sediment over time, had finally found a crack.

It had all started around eleven at night. An anxious Jimmy Olsen had called on video, his face pale.

“Lois is in the hospital, Clark. She collapsed in the press room. Perry is furious—he needs someone to cover the morning report for the municipal Christmas event. He says it’s essential.”

From the bed, half asleep, you had tried to follow the conversation, but sleep was winning. An involuntary yawn escaped your lips.

Clark, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, tried to find a way out.

“Isn’t there anyone else, Jimmy? Cat, Steve… anyone?”

“Cat is on vacation in Bali. Steve took his whole family to the mountains, no signal. Ron has the flu too…” Jimmy listed, his tone already assuming the answer. “You’re the only option, CK. I’m sorry.”

Clark looked at you for a moment. Your expression, caught between sleep and resignation, broke his heart. He took a deep breath.

“All right. I’ll see how I can be there tomorrow.”

That sentence—“I’ll see how I can be there”—hit like a bucket of icy water. You sat up abruptly in bed, the fog of sleep instantly gone.

“What now?” you asked, your voice heavy with a bad feeling.

Clark moved closer and sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of inevitability rounding his shoulders.

“Lois is serious. They need me to cover her assignment tomorrow. It’s from eight to three. I promise I’ll be back in time for… for what we planned.”

“Again, Clark,” you whispered. It wasn’t a question; it was a lament. The exhaustion in your voice was unmistakable. “It’s not the first time. It’s eleven at night—why do they warn you now? You had asked for that day off. It was approved.”

“I know. But it’s an emergency. I’ll be back early, I promise.”

“You know that’s not the problem!” you exclaimed, unable to contain the wave of frustration anymore. “Two months ago it was the same thing on our anniversary. Your ‘week-long vacation’ turned into two days because the Planet went into crisis. And not because Metropolis needed Superman, but because you didn’t know how to set a boundary. Because you can’t say no. You didn’t even rest on your birthday, Clark. Not on mine either. They don’t value your effort—they just see that you’re always available. Always.”

Clark lowered his gaze. His fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, a gesture he made when the weight of the world—both worlds he carried—became too tangible.

“I’ll get back early,” he repeated, but the words sounded hollow, even to him.

You stayed there looking at him, disappointment dimming the light in your eyes. Without saying anything else, you turned and switched off the bedside lamp. The silence that fell between you spoke louder than any shout.

The memory faded, leaving behind a cold emptiness harsher than the office itself. The contrast was cruel: the warm, colorful itinerary you had planned—baking gingerbread houses, decorating cookies, a movie marathon, ridiculously festive sweaters—against the gray reality of his desk and the still-blinking, unfinished article on his screen.

A sudden urgency, stronger than any distress call his super-hearing could catch, propelled him forward. He took out his phone and dialed your number. The ringtone played again and again, until it dropped into the cold silence of voicemail. He tried again. A second, a third, a fourth time. Nothing. Just that judging quiet.

“She’s angry,” he thought, and the certainty weighed on his chest like lead. It wasn’t just about today. It was cumulative. He could handle you not answering after an argument, but this stillness was different. It was the echo of all the times he had arrived late—or not arrived at all—because of his duties as Superman: your birthday, that important dinner with your parents. You had always swallowed your disappointment, making excuses to others because, deep down, you understood that the city needed its hero. But there was another kind of absence, one that perhaps hurt more: that of Clark Kent, the journalist who didn’t know how to draw boundaries. On weekends, when you were finally stretched out on the couch, messages came in from Steve, from Lois, from Cat. “Clark, could you take a look at my article?” “CK, I’m lost with this extra assignment—can you help me?” And he, with a sigh, would apologize and get up. Little by little, that constant stream of small requests had built a wall between you.

Determined to break that pattern today, here and now, Clark took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and focused all his speed and mind on the article. His fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur impossible for the human eye to catch. At exactly two in the afternoon, he made one final click, saved the file, and sent it. He stood up so fast the chair spun on its own.

He went straight to Perry White’s office. The editor was absorbed in other screens, his brow furrowed.

“Boss, I’ve already sent you all the information and the complete article,” Clark announced, keeping his voice steady.

Perry barely looked up.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll check it. You can go, Kent.”

“Thank you. Merry Christmas,” Clark said, and left before Perry could add anything.

Back at his desk, he began packing his things with a new determination. Then Alicia, one of the younger reporters on the floor, approached him holding a folder and an apologetic smile.

“Clark, do you have a minute? I won’t be able to come in tomorrow, and I heard you would be here… Do you think you could take care of—?”

Clark stopped her with a raised hand, gentle but firm. The gesture felt strange, almost foreign.

“I’m sorry, Alicia. I won’t be coming in tomorrow. My day just ended,” he said, the words coming out more clearly than he expected. “And I really am sorry I can’t help, but I have to go. My… my wife is waiting for me at home.”

He saw the words land—first on Alicia, then on himself. “Wife.” The word echoed in his chest with new force. He took a few steps back, feeling an unusual warmth rise to his cheeks.

“I’m truly sorry. Goodbye,” he murmured, and nearly spun on his heels into the elevator that had just opened. His heart was racing—not from speed, but from the unprecedented act of having said “no.” He had refused to help. And, to his surprise, the world had not stopped.

On the way home, his super senses sharpened, but not to seek out crises—rather, to notice details. He passed a flower shop that was closing. The owner was putting away bouquets. On impulse, Clark stopped, knocked softly on the door, and with a smile and a quick gesture, bought the last bouquet of red roses left. Then, at a bakery that was still open, he bought the gingerbread cookies you loved so much, a few special sweets, and at a street stand, he found that snowman ornament with the striped scarf you had seen the week before and loved, but hadn’t bought because you were in a hurry.

He reached the building with his hands full and his heart in a knot. He paused in front of the apartment door, as nervous as the first day he had asked you out. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the internal storm. Then, with the key held carefully between his fingers, he opened the door.

When he stepped inside, you were coming out of the bathroom, your eyes slightly red, your face shadowed by a worry you couldn’t quite hide. Clark set the bags down on the entry table with a soft thud and lowered his gaze, eaten alive by guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he began, the words spilling out in a rushed torrent. “You’re right. Completely right. I… I should have prioritized you sooner. You already put up with so much from me, and I… I’m not fair to you. Not when you’ve given me everything, when you wait for me even if you have to go to work exhausted the next day. I’m so sorry for not listening to you, for not paying attention. You’re right—I can’t say no, and everyone seems not to notice what I do, as if it were my eternal obligation. But… I love you more than anything. More than everyone. I truly do.”

“Clark…” you called, your voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t hold back, making him lift his head.

Then he saw you. Really saw you. Your eyes were glassy, your lashes damp. You had cried. Because of him. The certainty that his negligence had caused those tears struck him like a bolt of red heat. Guilt flooded him, dense and suffocating. He set the roses aside and closed the distance between you in an instant, cupping your face in his hands with infinite tenderness, as if he were holding the most fragile glass in the world.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I won’t do it again, I swear. We’ll take a week off—whatever we need. No calls, nothing from the Planet. Did something happen? Is that why you didn’t answer my calls?” he rushed to ask, his gaze scanning your face for an answer, for a wound to heal.

You shook your head, tears welling again.

“Clark,” you stopped him, placing a hand on his chest, making him step back just enough for you to breathe, to speak. “I… God, Clark,” you said between soft sobs, a tremor running through your entire body. “I thought I was imagining it, that it was just my assumption, but… today I went to the pharmacy. And I took three tests.”

With visibly trembling hands, you pulled from behind you—from the pocket of your sweater—three small plastic sticks. You held them out to him. Three pink lines, parallel and unmistakable, glowed under the living room light.

“It seems that…” your voice broke into a sigh that was half cry, half laugh, “it seems that I’m pregnant.”

Clark froze. All the air seemed to leave the room, his body, the entire universe. The world, which always spun at supersonic speed around him, stopped in that instant. Then, a warm, brilliant tingling began to spread from his center, dissolving the knot of anxiety and guilt, replacing it with something so vast and luminous it was hard to breathe.

You watched his expression shift from absolute shock to pure disbelief, and then, like the most glorious dawn over the fields of Smallville, a smile broke across his face. A smile so wide, so unguarded and filled with pure joy, that it made you laugh through your tears.

“At last,” you whispered, the word heavy with years of quiet hopes, medical tests, and the silent doubt of whether, with his Kryptonian genes, it would even be possible.

Clark said nothing. He didn’t need to. He stepped forward and wrapped you in an embrace that was both refuge and celebration. He lifted you into his arms with superhuman gentleness, and you laughed—a clear, freeing laugh that mingled with his own gasps of happiness. Kisses rained down on you. On your lips, still wet with salty tears. On your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your forehead. Each kiss was a promise, an “I’m sorry,” a “thank you,” an “I love you,” spoken in a language only the two of you understood.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and with your foreheads touching, Clark’s phone vibrated and rang insistently on the table. The lit screen showed the name: “Daily Planet – Steve Lombard.”

You both looked at the device. The old life was calling, with its urgent and meaningless demands. Clark looked at the phone, then at you—at your shining eyes, your trembling smile—and then, for a moment, lowered his gaze to your still-flat abdomen, where the greatest miracle of all was already beating.

Without hesitation, he reached out, picked up the phone, and with a decisive movement, turned it off. The sound cut abruptly, leaving behind a sacred silence. He turned fully toward you, and you saw how all his attention—that titanic force of will usually split between saving the world and pleasing everyone—now focused entirely on you. On the two of you.

With an almost ceremonial reverence, Clark knelt in front of you. He placed his large, warm hand with infinite care over your belly, over the Christmas sweater. His blue eyes briefly lost their human focus, taking on that look of deep concentration he used to see beyond the visible.

Then his smile changed. It filled with an awe so pure, so raw, it stopped your heart.

“It’s true,” he murmured, his voice a thread of emotion. “There it is.”

“You can see it?” you asked, holding your breath.

“Very tiny, beautiful,” he said, and a single, perfect tear slipped from the corner of his eye and traced its way down his cheek. “But yes, it’s there. A heartbeat… light, but it’s there. We should go to the doctor the day after tomorrow.”

He stood and took your hands, his excitement now pure and contagious.

“Come on. We’re going to have the best Christmas of our lives. And then… then we’ll plan what the next one will be like,” he said, looking at your abdomen, “with that baby.”

You smiled, and in that moment, all the anger, frustration, and distance dissolved. They weren’t forgiven or forgotten, but transcended by something infinitely greater.

Clark focused then on the two things that mattered—the only things that truly mattered: you, and the small spark of life, the miracle growing silently inside you. A future. His future.

Nothing—not even duty to an entire planet—compared to this. He had received many gifts in his life, but this one, this was the greatest gift Christmas, destiny, or the universe had ever given him. And for the first time, Clark Kent understood with absolute clarity what he had to say “yes” to forever—and what, without any doubt, he needed to learn to say “no” to.

You walked slowly toward your home, dragging your feet across the crunching snow that covered the sidewalks. The winter air cut like blades, freezing your hands despite the gloves, and the cold seeped through the soles of your boots, numbing your toes. Your nose, red and damp from the wind, barely peeked out from the small tunnel formed by your scarf, carefully wrapped to leave only a narrow visual slit—just enough to avoid tripping over the piles of snow heaped at the corners.

It was Friday, six thirty in the evening, and the city was immersed in its festive routine, though to you it felt excessive. Streetlamps hung crowned with pine wreaths and blinking lights; shop windows glowed with golden garlands. There were mistletoes everywhere—hanging from awnings, from light poles—wreaths on every door, and inflatable Santa Clauses, reindeer, and snowmen swaying in the wind, puffed up and slightly melancholic. The Christmas season, you thought, sometimes felt more like an invasion than a celebration.

As you passed by a café, a familiar silhouette in the window made you stop for a moment. It was the Superman logo—the shield—but decorated with a Christmas hat and tiny lights around it. You couldn’t help a soft, almost nostalgic smile. Clark, you thought. He had been so busy these days: helping motorists stranded in the snow, preventing power lines from falling into the streets, assisting with small winter accidents… and then, of course, his hours at the Daily Planet. You hadn’t seen him in almost a week and three days, and his absence weighed in the air you breathed, in the silence of your own apartment.

When you reached your building, you stopped on the doormat to knock the snow off your boots, giving them firm taps against the metal. Inside, the warm air of the lobby wrapped around you like a heavy embrace, slowly easing the cold that had settled into your bones. You took the elevator, watching the steam of your breath fade against the fogged mirrors. When the doors opened on your floor, the hallway was silent, lit only by the soft glow of the wall lamps.

As you approached your door, already reaching for your keys in your pocket, you noticed something different. Not a sound, but a scent… a scent that slipped through the narrow gap beneath the door and wrapped around you before you even opened it. Hot chocolate, thick and sweet. Freshly made waffles, with that golden, crisp touch they only have when they’ve just come off the griddle. You hesitated for a second, confused, before turning the key.

When you opened the door, the warmth inside hit you along with an explosion of new details: small garlands hung over the window frame, red candles flickered on the central table, and a small Christmas tree—one that hadn’t been there that morning—glowed with blue and silver ornaments in a corner. But it wasn’t the decorations, nor even the delicious aroma, that made you stop short.It was him. Clark. With his back to you, standing at the stove, focused on flipping a waffle with a spatula. His glasses rested on the kitchen table. His posture was relaxed, domestic—so ordinary and yet so extraordinary.

You smiled, silently, and carefully placed your keys on the key holder beside the door—no longer the simple metal hook from before, but a new one, carved wood with playful little elves. Then you bent down to untie your boots, soaked with melted snow, and when you lifted your gaze to look for your usual purple slippers, you found a new pair instead: shaped like snowmen, white plush, with black buttons and a tiny knitted scarf.

A warm, calm voice filled the space from the kitchen without him even turning around.

“There were sales, love.”

He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he hadn’t flown halfway around the planet that morning or stopped an avalanche on the outskirts of the city. As if he hadn’t felt you arrive at the building, ride up the elevator, pause in front of the door… as if he hadn’t heard your heart speed up when you caught the scent of chocolate and waffles. As if he hadn’t seen you, with that vision of his that pierces walls, from the moment you left the library with books tucked under your arm and your scarf pulled up to your eyes.

You turned as you slipped off your coat, hanging it carefully on the rack by the door. The warmth of the apartment began to dissolve the last winter chill clinging to your skin. You took a few steps toward the kitchen, where he was still watching the griddle.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” you asked, your voice soft, filled with affectionate curiosity.

Clark turned fully then, and his smile was a beacon in the cozy dimness of the room. “I wanted to surprise you,” he admitted, his blue eyes gentle. “I haven’t seen my girlfriend in days, and I missed her.” He extended an arm, a silent invitation.

You stepped closer, but a splash of color caught your attention. Hanging from a hook near the fridge was an apron—but not just any apron. It was bright red, decorated with clumsy reindeer and the phrase “Merry Christmas!” in fluffy white letters. Clark followed your gaze and lowered his own, a faint blush touching his cheeks.“

There were too many deals,” he murmured, justifying himself with charming naturalness. “I bought two.” He stepped to the hook, took down a second identical apron, and after lowering the heat on the stove, walked toward you. “Here’s yours.”

When he reached you, instead of handing it over, he held it open so you could slip your head through. As your hands tied the straps behind your back, his rose to frame your face. His palms were broad and warm, a warmth that went far beyond physical temperature. He kissed you then, with a calmness that felt like an ocean of peace after your cold, hectic day. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but a deep, deliberate one, telling you—without words—how many moments he had replayed in his mind during your absence. You smiled against his lips, and he caught that smile, sharing it, letting the kiss fill with a sweet joy.

When you pulled apart, your foreheads touched. “I missed you so much,” he whispered, his breath mingling with yours, smelling of vanilla and home.

"Me too,” you admitted, the simplicity of the words carrying the full weight of empty days. You buried your face in his chest, in the soft flannel, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. His arms wrapped around you, one firm around your shoulders, the other at your waist, cradling you against him. It was an embrace that promised protection and, at the same time, perfect equality.

After a long moment, his voice sounded above your head, soft but filled with genuine concern. “How’s your PhD going? You said the final project was heavy. Have you been eating well? Isn’t it exhausting to study and work at the same time?”

He asked without letting go. Instead, he began to step backward slowly toward the stove, guiding you with him, keeping you anchored at his side with a firm arm around your waist. With his free hand, he picked up the spatula again and returned to the waffles, as if holding his girlfriend while cooking were the most natural thing in the world. He waited for your answer, his attention perfectly divided between caring for the food and caring for you.

“I’ve been eating well,” you murmured, watching the profile of his face as he focused on the waffles’ golden perfection. “It’s heavy, but if I stop working, it’ll be hard to keep this apartment.”

“That’s because you don’t want to move in with me,” he whispered, and there was a hint of theatrical offense in his tone, so subtle only you could detect it.

A smile formed on your lips, hidden against his shoulder. “I do want to,” you admitted. “But this place is close to the university and my job. And your apartment is close to the Daily Planet, too. I just have to wait six more months to finish this intense semester, and if we’re still together, then I’ll move in with you.”

Clark stopped short. The spatula froze midair. Slowly, he turned his head to look at you, his blue eyes now serious. “Why do you think we wouldn’t still be together?”

His question was direct, without a trace of humor. The hum of the appliance and the soft sizzle of butter seemed amplified in the sudden silence.

“Well… it’s six months,” you said, shrugging slightly within his embrace. “A lot can happen.”

He shook his head, a slow, definitive motion. “No.” The refusal was simple, absolute. He seemed to do a quick calculation—not with numbers, but with something deeper. Then his eyes met yours, and the certainty in them was as dazzling as sunlight on snow. “I can love you for a million years.”

The words, spoken with the same natural ease as if he’d said “we need milk,” struck you square in the chest. A warmth that had nothing to do with the stove flooded your face, leaving you completely flushed. There was no possible reply—only instinct. You clung to him more tightly, burying your burning face back into his chest, as if you could hide the shock and overflowing happiness his words had unleashed.

That was Clark. The man who loved without conditions, without the fear of the future that sometimes clouded human hearts. He loved with a freedom so pure it made his eyes shine like a child’s when faced with a wonderful gift. That same happiness carved small dimples into his cheeks when he truly smiled. Because love, for him, wasn’t complicated terrain or a game of strategy. It was simple. It was necessary. It was as vital and natural as breathing, and just as necessary to express as saying good morning. You had learned that from him. You learned that in his world, a love declared for a million years was as real and tangible as the golden waffle he now carefully placed on your plate, all while still holding you, as if he had no intention of ever letting go.

When you finished dinner and cleared the table, the stillness of the night wrapped around you. Both of you settled onto the couch, sinking into the cushions. Clark positioned himself on top of you with the instinctive gentleness he always used, his weight distributed so he wouldn’t press down on you, his head resting on your chest right over your heart. His arms wrapped around your waist with a tender possessiveness. You, beneath him, had your hands lost in his dark curls, stroking them softly. Your legs were intertwined with his, a knot of warmth and belonging. There was no sound but the faint crackle of logs in the fireplace and your synchronized breathing. The peace was thick and sweet as honey, and just as that warmth began to pull you toward sleep, you felt him lift his head.

You looked at him, your half-lidded eyes meeting his, which gleamed with a mischievous spark in the dim light.

“Do you want to make ducks?” he whispered, his deep voice soft as velvet.

You blinked, clearing the drowsiness. “I thought you didn’t like duck,” you murmured, remembering a past conversation. “Because thinking about the duck dying and then seeing it turned into a dish ruined your appetite.”

Clark nodded, acknowledging the memory, then shook his head with a small smile. “No, it’s just that… look.” He shifted slightly, the warmth of his body leaving a momentary absence. “I forgot to tell you. A few days ago I saw some teenagers buying this in a store, and I ordered it online. Because everyone does it with their partner, and I wanted to wait to do it with you.” He rose from the couch with his characteristic fluidity.

You watched him, intrigued, sitting up as you followed him with your eyes while he moved toward his backpack—the simple one he’d brought to stay all weekend. From inside, with almost reverence, he pulled out a blue plastic object. It wasn’t just anything: it was a special mold for making snowballs, but shaped unmistakably and adorably like a duck.

A wide, instant smile lit up your face. “I saw that too! It went viral online,” you said, standing and stepping closer to examine the mold. “Do you think it’ll work with this snow?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, his eyes drifting toward the balcony doors. “We can go out there. There’s enough snow piled up.”

You looked toward the balcony. Indeed, a generous, untouched layer of snow covered the railing and the floor, glowing under the streetlamp’s light. You quickly put on your coat, and Clark—though the cold couldn’t affect him—put on his matching one as well, a detail you never failed to notice.You stepped out into the icy night air, each holding your own duck mold. The cold bit your cheeks instantly, but excitement warmed everything. You stood still, watching him expectantly, the cold mold between your gloved hands.

“I saw in the tutorial that it works best with wet snow, packed tightly,” he explained, his voice forming small clouds of vapor. Both of you knelt on the white blanket. Clark set his own mold aside for a moment and, in a gesture that melted you more than any fireplace, wrapped an arm around your back and placed his large, steady hands over yours, guiding them. “Like this,” he murmured near your ear.

Focused, you filled both halves of the mold with snow, pressing carefully. He helped you close the mechanism, and then, with almost childlike anticipation, you opened it.

“Wow!” you both exclaimed in unison, discovering the perfect, crisp shape of a miniature snow duck, the details of the beak and wings clearly defined. You smiled at each other, a flash of pure, shared joy.

“And now, how do you get it out?” you whispered, afraid it might break.

Clark, with a confident smile, tapped the mold lightly with a finger, a movement so fast and precise you barely saw it. The snow duck slid out whole and perfect onto his palm. “Look, Clark,” you said in wonder, touching the cold, smooth creation with a finger.

Clark’s smile was radiant. What followed was a session of pure, simple happiness. You made almost twenty ducks—though you only made five of them. Clark, with that imperceptible speed that was uniquely his, turned the balcony into a winter pond, populating it with neatly lined snow ducks, in rows, in small groups… until the space gleamed with an adorable white army. When he finished, you turned to see his work and laughter burst from your soul, a clear, joyful sound lost in the cold night.

You looked at Clark, his figure outlined against the winter sky, his cheeks flushed from simulated cold, his eyes shining with the satisfaction of having made you smile like that. You couldn’t help it. You threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him. His lips were cold at first, but warmed instantly with the contact. The kiss tasted like snow, lingering chocolate, and something infinitely sweet that was only his. When you pulled apart, the steam of your breaths intertwined in the air, forming a single ghostly veil. Without thinking, you traced the dimple that appeared on his cheek when he smiled that special way.

“I love you,” you said, the words leaving like a warm sigh, more genuine than ever.

He nodded, his smile soft yet so deep it seemed to hold galaxies. “I love you too.”

He kissed you again, slower and deeper, and when you finally parted, you noticed something. His feet were no longer fully touching the wooden floor of the balcony. He was floating—just a centimeter, but unmistakably—lifted by the weightlessness of his overflowing happiness.

You smiled, gesturing gently with your eyes. “You’re floating, Clark. Someone could see you.”

He kept smiling, making no effort to come down. His gaze was as open and carefree as the night sky. “I wouldn’t mind,” he whispered, bringing his forehead to yours. “I wouldn’t mind if people saw me like this. With you. This is how I want them to see me always.”

His words—simple and monumental—echoed in the cold air. They weren’t a declaration to humanity, but a promise to you. And there, among the army of snow ducks and beneath stars hidden behind winter clouds, the superman floated—not out of duty, but out of pure, overflowing happiness, and only for you. Your blush, then, was not only from the cold, but from the overwhelming warmth of being, completely and forever, his home.

The sound of dawn filtering through the window made you frown, disturbing the last traces of sleep. With a small groan of annoyance, you burrowed closer against the body that surrounded you, seeking refuge in its warmth. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know who it was; every line of that torso, every curve of those arms wrapped around you, belonged to Clark. It had been a long and exhausting night of work—the kind of day that could only be endured with coffee and shared determination. He had ended up buying dinner, a cold pizza you devoured between paragraphs and edits, until finally finishing the article that had consumed you both for weeks. Maybe staying the night had been just a practical excuse, but Clark never missed the chance to be in your apartment—to share your space and your silence, to sleep beside you. For a man like him, so used to greatness and overwhelming responsibilities, it was the simple things—the brush of a bedsheet, the rhythm of your breathing—that he treasured most.

You had only been dating for a few months, a span of time that felt both eternal and fleeting. Getting there hadn’t been easy, especially for Clark. Watching him struggle against his own walls, the weight of his secrets, until the words buried in his chest finally broke free… it had been a moment of such raw vulnerability that it still moved you to remember it. You never thought he would say it first, but he did—with a hoarse voice and a sincerity that completely disarmed you. Since then, you saw each other on weekends, stealing moments after work. At the office, of course, you were strictly professional—or at least you tried to be. Though he couldn’t stop the flush from creeping up his neck whenever your eyes met by chance, or how he’d quickly look away toward his papers with a shy smile that betrayed his broken focus. His small acts of service were his particular love language: he pulled out your chair before meetings, carried the heavy boxes of files you struggled with without even flinching, held the elevator door open for you. To be fair, he’d done that long before you were anything more. “Basic values,” he’d call it, with that adorable seriousness he gave to the simplest things. And you couldn’t help but smile, every single time he reminded you.

But you never hid it. There was no announcement, no formal declaration to your colleagues. You both simply assumed, with quiet confidence, that the world around you already saw it—that your connection was so evident and tangible it needed no explanation.

A beam of morning light slipped through the blinds, and Clark felt your face bury deeper into his chest, trying in vain to block out the new day. “Good morning,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, feeling the way you clung to him.

“Mmm…” was all you managed to say, as the heaviness in your limbs pulled you back toward unconsciousness. He smiled, a soft, tender expression as he looked at you—so small, so vulnerable—curled within the circle of his arms.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” he whispered, making a small motion to get up.

You tightened your hold instead, refusing to surrender your territory. “But you’re my personal pillow,” you grumbled, your voice muffled against his shirt. “Without you, I can’t sleep.”

The confession—so sleepy, so sincere—pulled a quiet laugh from him, warm and deep, vibrating through his chest straight into your heart. He didn’t move. Instead, his arms closed more firmly around you, cradling you. Clark had spoiled you in these few months. His arms had become your refuge, his soft kisses on your temple your morning blessing, the silly game of his fingers intertwining with yours on the couch your favorite ritual. This wasn’t a whirlwind of wild passion or constant sex; no, Clark was a different kind of love. He was calm. He was safety. He was the softness with which he treated every moment, every gesture, every word—and in that tranquility, your heart found its own quiet happiness.

But of course, he was fast. Not only did you know that Clark was your boyfriend—he was also Superman. To any outsider, you probably looked like a woman cheating with two men at once. But reality couldn’t be more different. Clark had decided to tell you his secret one quiet afternoon, his hands trembling, his eyes filled with genuine fear of losing you. Your reaction, however, wasn’t panic—it was immediate support. You teased him a little, joking about how his clumsy “coffee accidents” now made perfect sense, and then, cupping his face in your hands, you told him with a calm smile, “Your secret is mine now. And it’s as safe with me as you are.”

Clark, noticing you’d fallen back into deep sleep, slipped away with a speed so silent that even the air around you barely stirred. In the blink of an eye, he placed his own pillow—quickly covered with his sleep shirt so it would retain his warmth and scent—to replace his presence. It was a strange but effective substitute, and you instinctively clung to it, unaware. You didn’t realize he was gone until the irresistible smell of freshly brewed coffee and crispy waffles pulled you from sleep. You reached out, seeking the body that wasn’t there, and blinked your eyes open. Again. Clark had done it again. Still, a smile of pure comfort curved your lips. Never in your life had you felt so loved and cared for.

You got up, and a glance at the clock on the nightstand confirmed it was exactly seven in the morning—just enough time to get ready and head to work unhurried, yet on schedule.

Before leaving the room, you got dressed. That’s when you noticed Clark was already in his office suit. Of course—he’d planned it. A few weeks earlier, he’d started leaving clothes at your apartment with the perfect excuse: “If I stay over, I’ll have clean clothes and can go to work looking formal,” he’d said with a mischievous smile that betrayed his true intentions. But you loved the idea of having his clothes hanging next to yours, seeing his neatly pressed shirts in your closet—it was exquisite. A little piece of him woven into your everyday life. Once you were ready, hair brushed, you left the bedroom.

“Good morning again, sleepyhead,” Clark said, sensing your presence behind him without needing to turn around. His broad back, wrapped in a perfectly ironed shirt, faced the stove.

“You abandoned me,” you complained, in a mock-offended tone as you leaned against the kitchen doorway.

He turned then. His suit was already in place, his tie perfectly knotted, but he’d left his glasses on the counter. That was one of the unspoken rules since it all began: around you, he didn’t need to hide. And you loved seeing his eyes without the barrier of glass—the purest, sincerest, most loving gaze anyone could give you.

“It’s seven fifteen,” he said, pointing the spatula toward the clock on the wall, a gesture both practical and sweet. “If I’d slept in with you, we wouldn’t have had time for breakfast. And you need energy for the morning.” You nodded, recognizing the logic in his words. “Sit and try this,” he encouraged, placing before you a plate of golden, perfect waffles before sitting across from you, ready to share those precious minutes before the world claimed you both again.

When you finished breakfast, you grabbed your bag, and the two of you left the apartment together. The city morning was already in full swing, and you melted into the flow of pedestrians. You walked beside him, fighting the temptation to intertwine your fingers with his, but both of you kept your composure. You were already in professional mode—a small act that, deep down, Clark found deeply amusing. He enjoyed it, sometimes even laughing internally, at how formal and ceremonious you treated him in public, like just another colleague—knowing that only hours before, you’d been whispering his name between the sheets. It was a game of contrasts that always ended with secret glances and barely hidden blushes tinting his ears.

When you arrived at the Daily Planet building, routine took over. Clark, with his usual gallant grace, held the heavy glass door and pressed the elevator button. He waited for you to step in first, and you did, feeling his steady presence behind you as the doors slid closed. The memory of his warmth still lingered, making the thought of a long workday feel like a sentence.

“A night far too short for a day this long,” you muttered under your breath, looking up at the elevator ceiling with a dramatic sigh.

Clark adjusted his glasses, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “It’ll be the weekend soon,” he murmured, trying to cheer you up.

“Clark, it’s Tuesday,” you replied, turning your head to look at him with one raised brow in playful exasperation. “We haven’t even made it halfway through the week.”

He couldn’t help but grin wider, his eyes sparkling with affection that even his glasses couldn’t fully hide. Right then, the elevator doors opened with a soft ding onto the newsroom floor.

“Well, lovebirds! Starting your daily flirting session already?”

Jimmy Olsen’s words made you both turn toward him in unison. Daily flirting session? The phrase echoed in your mind. So it was true. That small, constant, and supposedly discreet game of looks and smiles between you and Clark—it had been a show for everyone all along. Maybe that explained why everyone seemed to “know” about you two without any official announcement.

Trying to regain your professionalism and divert attention, you crossed your arms and pointed your bag at Jimmy. “Enough, Olsen. Do you have the photos I asked for?”

Clark, walking past you with a look of amused resignation, muttered to Jimmy in a tone of quiet, masculine camaraderie, “Good luck.”

Jimmy hesitated, shifting from teasing to work mode in an instant. “It’s impossible to get a good shot of those two ambassadors together! I literally had to climb onto someone’s shoulders to get a decent angle,” he complained, waving his hands dramatically.

A laugh escaped your lips at the mental image. “Come on, show me that photographic treasure you risked your life for,” you said, following him to his desk—leaving Clark behind, who headed to his own with one last warm glance at your back, a silent have a good day that only you knew how to read.

The day passed in a whirlwind of orders, papers, coffee (a lot of coffee), more papers, the constant clacking of keyboards, and the hum of computers. The morning energy had faded, replaced by the intense focus demanded by writing. You were immersed in your work, shutting out the noise, until a familiar presence beside you made you look up.

"Done," said Clark, gently placing a printed copy of the article you’d written together on your desk — the reason for your shared sleepless night. A shared sense of accomplishment ran through you.

You took it and reread the final paragraphs, a smile of genuine pride tugging at your lips. "Seriously, Clark. We really are a good team," you admitted, feeling that all the exhaustion was worth it now that the work was finished. "Has Perry seen it yet?"

"I just sent it to his email," he replied, taking the article back to file a copy, his fingers brushing yours for an instant.

It was in that precise moment of silent complicity that Cat Grant’s teasing voice cut through the air from her desk. "Look at those two. Can’t stay apart for even a minute." She paused dramatically, savoring the moment. "Honestly, I don’t know why you keep pretending. It’s obvious you’re made for each other and just haven’t realized it yet."

You looked at Cat, genuine confusion crossing your face. Pretending?

Lois Lane, who had been listening while reviewing some notes, joined in with a mischievous grin. "That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. Clark, please, wake up before someone else steals this woman who’s clearly drooling over you."

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, Jimmy Olsen arrived with his camera in hand and delivered the final blow. "Relax, relax! My buddy Clark here," he said, patting Clark’s shoulder — who was starting to look uncomfortable — "has an infallible tactic. One look and she’ll melt. It’s only a matter of time, you’ll see."

Cat nodded, analyzing the scene with her usual dramatic flair. "You two would make a cute couple, admit it," she said, waving for Lois and Jimmy to keep their eyes on Clark, waiting for his reaction.

Caught under their collective gaze, Clark blinked behind his glasses. "Uh… thanks?" he asked, genuinely unsure how to respond — considering they were already a couple.

"‘Thanks?’" repeated Lois, rolling her eyes with theatrical exasperation. "Clark, for heaven’s sake! This is the part where you look her in the eye and ask her out with one of those shy smiles you’re so proud of."

The confusion on Clark’s face deepened. "But… we’re already dating," he said, as if stating something as obvious as the sky being blue.

"WHAT?!" Lois, Cat, and Jimmy shouted in perfect unison, with a harmony that could have impressed a Broadway chorus. The outburst was so loud that several heads popped up over the cubicles. Someone muttered from their desk, "I bet twenty bucks it’d happen before summer."

Clark adjusted his glasses, a nervous gesture betraying his discomfort. "We thought… we thought you already knew," he repeated, his voice a little weaker.

You looked at him, then at the stunned trio, with the same bewilderment written on your face. "Yeah… for about four months," you added softly, as if confirming a universally known truth. "We thought you already knew."

"How could we know when you’re both more discreet than a CIA operation?" protested Cat, dramatically placing a hand on her forehead. "Four months! Four! My romantic radar is rusting! I need a vacation — or at least an aura reading."

Lois crossed her arms, her indignation failing to hide her amusement. "Clark Kent managed to get a girlfriend without our help? This is historic. Jimmy, take a picture, we’re framing it in the lobby."

Jimmy, ever ready, lifted his camera instantly, and the flash lit up the cubicle. "Got it!" he announced, grinning from ear to ear. "Working headline: ‘Daily Planet’s slowest reporter finally confirms relationship. The world rejoices.’"

"Please tell me you weren’t the one who asked him out," Lois said, fixing you with a look of incredulous concern, as if worried Clark had never found the courage himself.

"I was," Clark said simply, leaving everyone speechless. Seeing their expressions, he tried to explain. "It was after the meeting when…" He paused, searching his memory for a clear reference point. "When Steve thought we had a rat invasion and it turned out to be his imagination."

"Since the fumigation incident?!" exclaimed Jimmy, eyes widening. "That was months ago! That’s ages!" Suddenly, the memories hit him — the coffees Clark always brought to your desk, the way you’d straighten his tie without thinking, the muffled laughter you shared in the kitchen. The pieces clicked together with silent thunder.

"Of course!" Lois added, pointing accusingly as she, too, pieced it together. "That’s why we saw you two leaving at the same time last week!"

"Does that mean you’re already spending the night together?" asked Cat, eyes sparkling like Christmas lights as she clutched her chest dramatically. "I can’t believe it. It’s official! You should’ve told us — this is vital to office morale!"

"We assumed you already knew," you repeated with a small laugh, your smile disarming in its simplicity. The ease of your reply only left them more stunned.

"Is this how you people work? Forming a gossip committee on company time?" Perry White’s deep, authoritative voice sliced through the air like a blade. Everyone scattered immediately, pretending to be deeply engrossed in their screens. The editor-in-chief stopped in front of your cubicle, his gaze fixed on you and Clark. "You two. The article. Printed. On my desk. Now."

"Here it is, Chief," said Clark professionally, handing over the pages with one hand while nervously adjusting his glasses with the other — a gesture you now found adorably endearing.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of knowing looks and whispers that stopped the moment either of you walked by. By the end of the day, you both stepped into the elevator once again, this time sharing a renewed sense of intimacy. The doors closed, isolating you from the newsroom’s noise, and Clark leaned closer.

"I left my sweatshirt at your apartment," he murmured near your ear, his voice low and tinged with meaning.

You let out a soft laugh. "Oh, how terrible," you said, pretending to be worried, sighing dramatically. "I guess I’ll have no choice but to use you as my personal pillow again."

He smiled — a wide, carefree smile he rarely showed in public — and then took your hand. It was right at that moment, as you stepped out into the cool evening breeze, that a blinding flash caught you both off guard.

You turned toward the source of light. There stood Jimmy, Lois, and Cat, crouched behind a decorative hedge. Jimmy was holding his camera proudly.

"It’s true!" announced the photographer, showing the screen to his partners in crime. "Solid evidence, folks! Caught holding hands in public!"

"Go home!" you said, laughing as you tried to keep your composure. "What’s next? Do you want me to kiss Clark so—?"

But you didn’t get to finish the sentence. Clark, caught up in the fun and the challenge, gently turned you toward him and, wrapping an arm around your waist, kissed you. It wasn’t wild or impulsive — it was one of those familiar kisses between you: tender, possessive, and full of deep affection. Yet for your audience, it was the event of the century. Cat let out a tiny shriek, clutching her heart as if about to faint. Another flash immortalized the moment.

When you pulled back, cheeks flushed from both the kiss and his boldness, you looked at him with bright eyes.

"They needed solid proof," he said, blushing as well, shrugging slightly.

You laughed, shaking your head. You couldn’t believe it.

"Alright, we’ll let you two go," Lois intervened, grabbing Cat — still dazed — and a euphoric Jimmy by the arm. "But listen here: dinner this Friday, dedicated entirely to you. Don’t even think about canceling!"

As the trio walked off laughing and arguing about dinner plans, you leaned closer to Clark, resting your head on his shoulder.

"We have to be careful," you murmured playfully, just for him. "If they ever see me kissing you while you’re wearing your… other suit, they’ll think I’m cheating."

Clark smiled, shaking his head with amused exasperation at the irony of his double life. "Let’s go home," he said softly, wrapping a protective arm around you.

And there, walking together toward the subway, with the city glowing around you, you couldn’t help but laugh. You laughed at the absurdity of it all — that everyone thought your relationship was some great secret, when in truth, it had simply been the Daily Planet’s most unintentionally well-kept mystery. The night promised to be as warm and peaceful as the last, only now, with a new and delightfully chaotic chapter added to your story.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz

Clark always noticed everything — absolutely everything. It wasn’t just a matter of being observant; it was a perception as sharp and natural as breathing. He could read a lie in the faint hesitation of a voice, anxiety in the tapping of fingers on a desk, or sadness hidden behind a too-perfect smile. And that, inevitably, included you.

Maybe at first, during those fleeting encounters at the Daily Planet office, you thought he was like everyone else — a calm, perhaps slightly absent-minded man, just another journalist in a sea of tweed jackets and cups of cold coffee. But no, he wasn’t. There was a depth in his blue eyes that betrayed the clumsy façade, a calm that wrapped around everything like an invisible force field.

The day of your first real interaction, Jimmy Olsen had been the catalyst. “You have to try her Mexican torta, Clark! It’s a work of art. I was thinking — it could even be a piece about small culinary businesses!” the young photographer insisted with his contagious enthusiasm. Clark, with an indulgent smile, finally gave in and placed an order. And you were the one chosen to deliver it.

The newsroom was organized chaos, a maze of desks. You found him easily; his was the only one that looked like an oasis of order. You approached, your heart pounding against your ribs.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kent?” you asked, your voice louder than you intended. Your smile was quick and tense — a reflex of your natural state: the nervous anticipation of making a mistake.

He looked up from his monitor. “Yes, that’s me,” he said, and his smile was different — warm, genuine, disarming. His eyes lingered for a moment on the bags you were holding before meeting yours again.

“Here’s your order,” you said, glancing around for a place to set the food down so you could free a hand to take the payment. “Mexican torta with orange juice and lemon pie for dessert,” you recited, trying to keep your tone professional.

“Of course, thank you. Just a moment, please,” he said, beginning to look for his wallet in the inner pocket of his jacket.

He stood up — and that was when you understood what Jimmy meant when he joked about “Kent’s size.” He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his movement was as sudden as it was clumsy. His chair squeaked as he turned, making his heavy coat, hanging from the backrest, slip and fall to the floor between you.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured, embarrassed.

By reflex, still holding the bags, you crouched down at the same time to pick it up. “It’s fine, I’ll—”

It was a collision of good intentions. As he pulled the garment quickly to avoid inconveniencing you further, your fingers — those bitten, uneven nails you had punished for years, chewed down almost to the quick, with torn skin and bleeding cuticles that mapped your anxiety — snagged on the rough fabric of his coat.

A sharp, familiar pain shot through your index finger. “Ow!” The exclamation escaped you involuntarily, a short, sharp gasp.

Clark’s eyes widened in alarm. His usually serene gaze filled with immediate, profound concern. It wasn’t the superficial discomfort of someone who caused a small accident, but the genuine regret of a person who can’t bear the thought of hurting someone else.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— are you okay?” he said, his voice as solid and comforting as his presence. His hand moved as if to take yours, but stopped halfway, respecting your space.

A blush crept up your neck to your cheeks. Shame pricked at you. Those nails — that tangible proof of your inner battles — now laid bare under his perceptive eyes. Who would have known? No one. Until now. You quickly hid the offending hand in your pants pocket, forcing the grimace of pain into a strained smile.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Kent. It was an accident,” you murmured, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

He didn’t press, but his gaze didn’t leave your face. He could see the discomfort, the retreat. With a deliberately slow motion, he took out his wallet and handed you the exact amount. “Here you go. And… really, I’m sorry again,” he repeated, his words heavy with sincere remorse.

You nodded, grateful the awkward moment was ending. “Thank you. Enjoy your meal.”

As you turned away, you felt his gaze on your back. It wasn’t the look of an ordinary customer. It was the gaze of someone who, in an instant, had seen beyond the restaurant worker. He had seen the torn skin on your fingers, had heard the silent cry of your anxiety — and though you didn’t know it then, he had already decided he wanted to learn the story behind it all.

Clark always noticed everything. And now, you were the center of his observant universe.

That was when he looked at you. And the next day, and the one after that, and the week after that — Clark Kent’s order became a sacred routine at the Daily Planet. Jimmy joked that he had finally found a restaurant he liked, but deep down, you knew it wasn’t the food he was after. It was that fleeting moment at the newsroom door, the brush of his fingers as he handed you the money, the way his smile seemed to illuminate only that corner of his desk — just for you.

And he watched you, even now that the two of you had begun a hesitant, tender relationship. Even when he saw you from afar — crossing the street or waiting for the subway — he didn’t just see you; he felt you. He could sense the quickened rhythm of your heart, a rapid, anxious drumbeat that turned into a private symphony only he could hear whenever he drew near. But you said nothing. The source of that anxiety was uncharted territory — a wall you kept standing with smiles and evasions.

“I won’t do it anymore,” you whispered every time you caught his gaze drifting down to your fingers. Shame burned inside you. It was as if he had discovered a part of you so intimate and humiliating that even you couldn’t face it. And so, he began to watch more closely — with the infinite patience of a detective solving his most important mystery. He focused on the trigger.

He noticed you didn’t bite your nails out of boredom, but when you were lost in silent worry, replaying in your mind a mistake you thought you’d made — a wrong order, a misunderstood word. Your fingers would fly to your mouth, and your teeth would tug at those small bits of skin until a thin crimson line betrayed the pain. It was an automatic punishment, a physical response to a mental torment.

The true revelation came one day when he decided to surprise you at the restaurant to invite you to lunch. When he peeked inside, his heart — as strong as any human’s but infinitely more controlled — trembled. Your boss, a woman with a severe expression and her hands on her hips, was scolding you in front of the counter over a mixed-up reservation. You kept your eyes down, fixed on the pattern of the tiled floor.

Clark didn’t need to get closer. His X-ray vision — that power he always kept under strict control — activated instinctively. Through bodies and tables, he saw you with painful clarity. He didn’t just see your hunched shoulders; he saw your teeth pressing into the inside of your cheek, biting hard. Your hands, hidden beneath the apron, rubbed against each other in a nervous, repetitive motion. You nodded, apologizing softly, and your tone — the same “Don’t worry, Mr. Kent” from that first day, but now weighted with resigned sadness — reached him clearly through the noise, engraving itself into his memory.

In that moment, he knew. It wasn’t a simple bad habit. It was the manifestation of an inner battle you fought alone.

And there you were, walking out of the restaurant with your gaze lowered, eyes fixed on the cracks of the sidewalk as if you could find an answer within them. Almost without lifting your head, your eyes met Clark’s. And you smiled. It was an instant reflex — a defense mechanism so polished that even you almost believed it. A bright, false smile designed to erase any trace of what had happened inside.

But he didn’t smile back.

His face was serious; his eyes, usually so full of calm, now reflected a deep concern and an understanding that pierced through you. He didn’t see the smile. He saw through it, as if it were made of glass. He could see the dried blood on the inside of your cheeks, where your teeth had pressed. He could see the redness and swelling on your hands, the nails pale and fragile, with just enough blood beneath them to make the tips look translucent.

“Don’t ask, Clark,” you said immediately, your voice breaking, almost strangled by the knot in your throat. “Please. I just… I just want to go home,” you whispered, looking away toward the street, wishing you could dissolve into the crowd.

He didn’t move. His gaze was gentle but unyielding. “Do you really want to go?” he asked quietly, his voice so low that only you could hear it. “Or do you just want to run away from this?”

You nodded, refusing to meet his eyes. “Yes. Home.”

Instead of arguing, with a delicacy that betrayed his strength, he took your wrist, carefully avoiding contact with your injured fingers. His touch was firm but not painful — an anchor amid your inner storm. He led you away from the restaurant with calm determination, and you followed, confused, not understanding his purpose.

“Clark, what are you doing? Where are we going?” you asked, your voice a thin thread of tension.

He didn’t answer until they reached a quiet, half-hidden alley, far from curious eyes. Only then did he let go of you and look at you, waiting for your ragged breathing to slow down.

“What is this?” you asked, glancing around in disbelief. “Why here?”

Before you could say anything else, he stepped closer. In one smooth, confident motion, he placed a firm hand on your waist. A gasp caught in your throat when, suddenly, the ground vanished beneath your feet.

“What is this? Clark?” you screamed, clinging to his shoulders with desperate strength, your fingers—even the aching ones—digging into the fabric of his suit jacket. The wind lashed your face, the city lights turning into a blur of colors beneath you. “Clark!”

“Calm down,” his voice said, surprisingly steady and close to your ear as he held you with absolute security. “I’m not going to let you fall. But I need you to listen. I need you to see.”

“No, no! Put me down first and then I’ll listen! If I don’t understand, you’ll throw me off!” you pleaded, burying your face in his neck, terrified by the height and the surreal situation.

He smiled, a soft gesture you could feel against your cheek. “Never,” he whispered, and the promise in that single word was as solid as the arms around you. But he did as you asked. He changed direction and, with the same gentleness with which he had lifted you, descended toward your apartment window, opening it with precise ease before landing silently in your living room.

The moment your feet touched solid ground, you stumbled away from him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You looked at him with a mix of fear, confusion, and a spark of anger.

“What was that?” you shouted, then immediately remembered your aversion to yelling. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to lower your voice. “Clark, for God’s sake… don’t tell me…” You stopped, the pieces of an impossible puzzle starting to click together in your mind. His superhuman strength, his sometimes too-perfect clumsiness, the way he always seemed to know… “Are you part of the Justice League? Do Superman and Batman know?” you asked, nervous, your mind racing a thousand miles per hour.

He didn’t speak at first. He just approached you, slowly, as if calming a frightened animal. And just when your fingers, out of sheer anxiety, started to seek the familiar comfort of self-punishment—moving toward your mouth—he gently took your hands. His large hands enveloped yours, stopping the destructive motion.

He made you look at him. His blue eyes, now unobstructed by the glasses, looked into yours with overwhelming intensity—with a truth he could no longer hide.

“I am Superman, sweetheart,” he said.

And then, with his free hand, he slowly removed his glasses.

Your eyes widened. The world stopped. The room, the city, the entire universe, shrank to that face—to those eyes you now recognized not from the pages of a newspaper, but from a deeper place, from the sense of safety you had always felt beside him without knowing why. The clumsy, sweet man from the Daily Planet and the world’s greatest hero were the same person. And in that instant, everything—his glances, his concern, his ability to see absolutely everything—finally made sense.

You looked at his face with overwhelming clarity. The features you thought you knew—the strong jaw, the kind curve of his mouth—were now free from the disguise of the glasses, revealing the whole man. With a trembling hand, you lifted your fingers and touched his cheek. It was warm, solid, terribly human. He closed his eyes at your touch, as if it were the anchor keeping him grounded on Earth. Then, his own hands wrapped around yours, stopping their path gently, and he squeezed them with a tenderness that shattered you from within.

“This… this is my greatest secret,” he confessed, his deep voice a whisper that resonated in the silence of the room. “One that very few people know.”

You didn’t fully understand. “Why…?” you whispered, not breaking eye contact with those blue eyes that seemed to hold entire constellations. “Why are you showing this to me?”

He exhaled softly, as if he had been waiting his entire life for you to ask that question. “Because I want to know your soul. Your weaknesses, your greatest fear. Because I don’t want something shallow, or stolen kisses in the newsroom corner. I want to see you—the whole woman. And for you to let me do that… I need you to see me first. All of me.”

You hesitated. The wall you had built around yourself was cracking, and the vertigo of being exposed was terrifying. “What do you want to know, Clark?” you asked, your voice laced with consuming doubt.

He didn’t hesitate. “Your job. That’s where your anxiety comes from, isn’t it?” he said, more a statement than a question.

Your heart seemed to stop in your chest. A primitive instinct made you want to pull your hands away, to flee from the truth he was pointing at. You took a deep breath, a desperate attempt to regain control, but he didn’t release his gentle yet firm hold.

“You hurt yourself,” he continued, his voice filled with pain that wasn’t his, but yours. “Too much. And I can’t watch it anymore. I want you to see yourself the way I see you. To love yourself the way… the way I love you.”

Your eyes filled instantly with tears. A knot formed in your throat, and you licked your lips, suddenly dry. It was the first time he had ever said those words, and they didn’t fall on you like a weight, but like a warm mantle dissolving part of the cold you carried inside.

“I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist for years,” you finally admitted, lowering your gaze to your intertwined hands. “I’ve taken medication, but I always stop. I got tired of my mother telling me I was unstable, that I cried or panicked because I didn’t take my pills, and it hurt… so I quit, thinking it was better that way. But I don’t even realize it, Clark. It hurts after, when I see the damage, but in the moment… I can’t control it. And besides,” you added, with bitter conviction, “most of the time, it’s my fault. It’s a burden, Clark. Being with me. And I don’t want your life to fall apart because of me.”

“My life doesn’t fall apart. I need you well,” he said, and his gaze was so intense it was almost tangible. “Every time you hurt yourself, you hurt me too. Because you’re already a part of me. I don’t want to see you suffer.” He paused, then, with a determination that allowed no argument, pleaded, “Quit that job.”

A sad smile curved your lips. “Clark, if I quit that job, where would I live? You know perfectly well that my mother… isn’t an option.”

“Live with me,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And about the job… you are the art in that restaurant. That’s why your boss has clients, and she shouldn’t treat you like that. I’ll talk to Perry. You can cook for the Planet. The kitchen department doesn’t have many people, and their food is… not horrendous,” he said, incapable of being rude even then. “It’s… somewhat… flavorless,” he corrected with a grimace, making you smile through your tears. “You’ll live with me. It’ll be another step in our relationship, and that way, day by day, you’ll see how valuable you truly are.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing not pity but unwavering faith in the person you could become. And you nodded—not with words, but with your whole body, throwing yourself into his arms and burying your face in his chest, where the steady, powerful beat of his heart promised a new beginning.

“Thank you,” you whispered, holding onto him like a lifeline.

“I won’t let anxiety torment you again,” he murmured into your hair. “I swear it.”

And he did. Clark was not a man of empty promises. He managed to buy everything necessary to protect your hands: restorative creams, silk gloves for sleeping, even a small set of stress balls for your desk. He took you to the doctor to check the inside of your cheeks, and luckily, there was nothing serious. You went back to the psychiatrist and, this time, you began your medication with renewed commitment, knowing that you weren’t alone in the fight.

Soon after, you started working at the Daily Planet, in the cooking section. And yes, it was a complete success. The aroma of your dishes became the soundtrack of the newsroom mornings, and soon everyone was buying just to taste your food.

One afternoon, in the middle of the lunchtime rush, you felt a familiar presence behind you.

“My beautiful girlfriend is so busy with her work that she’s forgotten to take her pill,” said Clark, stepping up to the counter with his tray. He had ordered his meal to go. With a smile, he took the small blister pack from his bag — the one you now kept locked in a drawer — and placed the pill in your hand. “Take it. I’m not leaving until you do.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the stoves. You nodded and took the medication with a glass of water. “See you at home,” you said, handing him his lunch box.

“God, Clark, give your girlfriend a minute. I need to try her lasagna! The one from the other day was the best thing I’ve eaten, and that little piece you gave me wasn’t enough,” complained Jimmy from behind him, eyes fixed on the kitchen like a bloodhound.

“I second that complaint,” added Lois Lane, who had approached with her empty coffee mug and a mischievous smile. “That sauce is a mystery my palate needs to solve.”

You laughed — a light, genuine sound that filled the room. Clark huffed, pretending to be annoyed, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable. With one last, meaningful look toward you, he walked away with his tray to sit at his desk. And from a distance, through the buzz of the newsroom, his eyes found you — watchful, protective, and filled with a love that, at last, you were beginning to believe you deserved.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz

Everything began with a gesture you never thought would hold so much importance: a lamp you gave him for his birthday. You barely knew him, you had only been friends for a few months, and yet something inside you pushed you to choose that gift. It was strange, but also natural.

Your first interaction had happened much earlier, when Clark walked into the flower shop where you worked. You remember perfectly the sound of the little bell above the door and how the fresh air from the street blended with the sweet aroma of the flowers. He asked for a bouquet of roses for his mother, and you prepared it almost automatically, never imagining that he was already watching you with those bright eyes that seemed to hold a secret. His cheeks were slightly flushed and there was a nervous expression he could barely hide, as if his heart was beating harder than usual.

After that, he came back again and again with the excuse that his mother had loved the flowers. But soon you stopped believing him. He would buy roses, sunflowers, potted plants, or full bouquets that you suspected he gave to anyone he ran into along the way. For you, it was curious; for him, it was just a pretext to see you again. And even if you didn’t admit it, it made you happy every time you saw him walk in—so much so that your lips curved into a smile the moment you recognized him crossing the door.

“What bouquet will you take this time, sir?” you asked one afternoon, adjusting your apron absentmindedly.

Clark scratched the back of his neck, uncertain. “I’m not sure yet.”

Amused, you threw him a playful hint while arranging some daisies on the counter. “You should describe the woman you like. That way I could help you choose something special.”

His eyes widened in surprise, almost choking on his own words. “Woman who…? Oh, no… no, I… they’re for my mother,” he stammered, then lowered his gaze, hoping you wouldn’t keep asking. He knew he was terrible at lying and feared he might end up confessing that the real reason for all those purchases was you.

“Oh, fine,” you replied in a neutral tone, though deep down you suspected the truth.

A silence settled between the two of you. For him, it was a delightful silence, full of possibilities; for you, it was uncomfortable, as if the words got stuck in your throat.

“So… how can I help you?” you asked at last, trying to break the tension.

Clark gathered his courage and, with his cheeks still red, finally let out the question that had been circling in his mind for weeks. “Are you… are you busy this evening?”

You hesitated, surprised. “It’s just that today I finish at seven,” you explained, clarifying that you usually closed the shop at five.

He smiled timidly, but his eyes sparkled with excitement. “There are plenty of restaurants open at that hour.”

You couldn’t help smiling back. “Alright,” you replied, accepting without thinking too much.

And that’s how it all began: a simple date in a small restaurant. The warm glow of the lamps, the murmur of the people around, and the aroma of freshly baked bread created an intimate atmosphere. He spoke about his work with enthusiasm, and you shared how you had learned to tell flowers apart, to recognize their fragrance and combine them into arrangements. Clark listened to every word as if it were the most fascinating story in the world, and you noticed how his eyes lit up every time you smiled.

In time, came the invitation to his home. You were surprised when you saw the place: big, spacious, impeccably tidy. Yet something caught your attention. The walls were bare, without pictures or photographs. The furniture was practical, used only out of necessity, with no decorations or memories to give life to the space. White, plain, silent. It was a home, but at the same time it seemed like a place waiting for someone to fill it with warmth.

You didn’t say anything. Somehow, you knew that emptiness reflected part of who Clark was. And though you kept quiet, inside you thought that perhaps, little by little, you could give that space the warmth it lacked so much.

And then it happened. You grew used to that wide, silent, almost too orderly space. Over time you stopped feeling it was cold: you learned to enjoy its simplicity, that basic way he had of keeping everything in place. The curious thing was that little by little that order became part of your routine, and without realizing it, you began to associate it with the calm you felt whenever you were with him.

Before you were officially a couple you had already shared kisses—those that arrive in between hesitations and prolonged silences, as if every brush of lips were a secret kept for far too long. And then his birthday came. Nervous, you thought of a special gift and chose a golden lamp, with small carved details at its base that glimmered in the light. It wasn’t just an object; it was like a piece of yourself you wanted to leave in his home. You carefully placed it on a piece of furniture in the living room and turned it on.

Clark, standing behind you, crossed his arms and watched with a soft smile. “It looks… perfect there,” he murmured, as if the room had suddenly found its first touch of life.

He never moved it again. He left it there, as if that gift had become an essential part of the place.

Soon after, with a trembling voice and his hands clasped together, he gathered the courage to ask you to be his girlfriend. You didn’t hesitate to accept. From that moment on, his days began to intertwine with yours. Sometimes he would show up at the flower shop, inventing any excuse to see you, and other times he insisted you accompany him to his apartment for dinner. Then, as if he didn’t want to let you go too soon, he would walk you back to your own apartment, much smaller than his.

You remember how he would pause at the threshold, taking in your few pieces of furniture, the posters of your favorite artists taped to the walls, the small, unevenly hung frames. “This place truly has a soul,” he once said, smiling tenderly. And you shrugged, amused. “I just don’t like empty walls.”

He never admitted it out loud, but every time he left your apartment, he thought about how different it was from his. Your home had color, it had memories, it had life… it had what he secretly longed for his own to have.

And then came your first Christmas together.

You surprised him by showing up at his apartment carrying boxes and bags, your arms trembling under the weight, but your smile shone brighter than everything you brought. Twinkling lights, long garlands, a packaged artificial tree, glittering ornaments, red and gold ribbons. It was as if you had decided to transform every corner of his space all at once.

Clark raised his eyebrows as he watched you unload everything in the middle of the living room. With his hands on his hips and pretending to be serious, he let out a joke: “Looks like you robbed all the Christmas decorations in Metropolis.”

Your laughter filled the room, breaking the monotony of those white walls. Perched on the ladder, you carefully hung a wreath on the empty wall that had always bothered you. He watched from below, holding the tree branches while you stretched your arms.

“Don’t exaggerate, I still missed a few inflatable reindeer,” you replied between laughs.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I should be scared or grateful.”

“You should feel excited,” you teased, stepping down a rung to look at him with playful seriousness. “This house needed a bit of Christmas spirit.”

He observed you in silence for a few seconds, with that expression you had seen on him so many times: as if he wanted to carve into memory the way you smiled, the light in your eyes, even the movement of your hands while arranging every decoration.

“It’s not just the house that needed it…” he finally said, in a low voice.

You froze, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Clark cleared his throat, nervous. “I mean… I needed it. I never cared about decorations, or ornaments, or trees. But seeing you this happy, bringing all this… it’s different. You make me feel like… like I belong somewhere.”

Your cheeks grew warm at his words. You climbed down from the ladder and looked at him closely, your heart pounding. “Clark…”

He smiled, trying to soften the confession. “Although I admit, I still don’t know how I’m going to survive if you decide to hang lights even in the kitchen.”

You laughed, giving him a playful nudge on the arm. “Then you’ll have to get used to it, because I plan to fill every corner of this place.”

Over time, Clark offered you something that, for him, meant absolute trust: the key to his apartment. He didn’t say it solemnly or with a plan, he simply placed it in your hand one afternoon as you walked together. “So you can spend as much time here as you want,” he whispered, with a shyness that melted you.

From then on, you began to transform that space. You put up photos in little frames: the two of you smiling, an afternoon at the park, your first dinner out together. You placed soft cushions on the sofa, scented candles on the tables, and every so often you’d bring a new plant or an ornament you thought was perfect. Each object became a little piece of you inside his world—and the most beautiful thing was that Clark never questioned it. On the contrary, every time he came home and noticed something new, his face lit up.

One night, when you opened the door, you found him standing in front of one of the shelves. The funny part was that, without realizing it, you were looking at his face distorted through a transparent ornament ball you had left there. His eyes looked huge, disproportionate, and the sight made you burst into laughter.

Clark turned toward you, confused. “What’s so funny?”

You pointed at the ornament and walked closer. “Look at yourself… it’s like a mirror decided to play tricks on you,” you said between laughs.

He leaned a little toward the ornament, saw the effect, and rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Great, just what I needed: another version of me with a cartoon face.”

You picked up the ornament gently and turned it on. A faint light began to glow from its base, projecting a small suspended galaxy in the center, with tiny stars spinning slowly. The reflection lit Clark’s face, and for an instant he looked like a child amazed for the very first time.

“It lights up and, in the center, this appears… a galaxy,” you explained softly, glancing at him. “Do you like it?”

He was speechless for a moment, eyes fixed on the little spectacle. Finally, he murmured: “I love it.”

You both stayed there, gazing at the ornament as if time had stopped. Until Clark took a step closer, placed his hands on your waist, and kissed you softly, just a brief brush but full of tenderness. “I didn’t give you your welcome kiss,” he whispered afterward, carefully turning off the ornament. “How was work?”

As you took off your bag and left it on the sofa, you sighed, a mix of exhaustion and excitement. “Exhausting. Today I closed a huge order… thirty floral arrangements for a party. I have to deliver them in two months.”

Clark stopped in the kitchen doorway and raised an eyebrow. “Thirty? That sounds like…” he paused, smiling, “…a flower frenzy.”

“It is,” you admitted with a playful look, following him into the kitchen. “But it’s also a challenge. And if I pull it off, it’ll be the biggest order I’ve ever done.”

Clark opened the fridge and took out two bottles of water. He handed you one, and as he drank from his, he watched you with a proud gleam in his eyes.

“I know you’ll make it. I’ve never seen anyone work with as much passion as you do.”

You took a sip and looked at him curiously. “Do you really think that?”

He set the bottle down on the counter and leaned toward you, serious, though with clear tenderness.

“Of course I do. From the first time I saw you at the flower shop… I knew you were different. It wasn’t just the way you arranged the flowers, it was how you did it. Like each bouquet carried a little piece of you.”

Your cheeks flared red. You lowered your gaze, playing with the bottle cap.

“You’re going to make me blush more than you.”

Clark let out a soft laugh, stepping even closer. “Then we’re even. Because you always manage to make me blush first.”

Another time was when Clark came home from work with exhaustion painted on his shoulders. He loosened his tie, left his jacket on the chair, and was about to collapse onto the couch when something stopped him.

On the wall, next to the golden lamp you had given him for his birthday, there was something new. His eyes narrowed, curious. It was a huge frame, a collage of perfectly arranged photos. Clark slowly stood up, walked toward it, and froze in front of the images.

There he was with you, holding each other in the park. A picture of Krypto licking his face while you laughed. Another one of you both at the flower shop, taken without him noticing. But what surprised him most were the photos of him with Martha and Jonathan: as a child with a crooked cap, as a teenager in the barn, as an adult standing beside his parents. Photos he thought only existed in old albums hidden in Smallville.

His heart tightened, and without thinking, he took out his phone and dialed your number.

“Where did you get those pictures?” he asked the moment he heard your voice, even before greeting you.

On the other end, your soft laugh filled the line. “I asked your mom when we went to visit them. What do you think?”

Clark swallowed hard, still staring at the wall. “I like it,” he whispered sincerely.

“Good. I’ll come see you early,” you added absentmindedly, surely jotting down a sale in your notebook. “I love you.”

With that, you hung up.

Clark froze. The phone still pressed to his ear, as if he hadn’t fully processed it. Had he heard right? Had you said “I love you”? Or was it something automatic, like a rushed goodbye? His chest stirred restlessly.

He dialed your number again. Nothing. A second time. Still nothing. Then the message came: “Customers came in, I’ll call you later :)”

Later. Two words that to anyone else would be normal, but to Clark meant torture. It wasn’t three hours; it was one hundred eighty minutes of uncertainty.

He set the phone down on the table, tried to take a deep breath… but couldn’t. Within seconds he had his jacket back in his hand and was heading out the door. He walked fast—too fast for someone trying to look calm.

For Clark, waiting three hours wasn’t simply counting the passing of time. It was feeling each minute as an unbearable weight, one hundred eighty heartbeats that forced him to jump up, grab his jacket, and run through the streets of Metropolis.

The cold evening air cut his breath, but he didn’t care. He could only think of you, of your voice, of those two words you had said so naturally. When he finally arrived, he saw you saying goodbye to the last customer with your usual warm smile. Then you stretched with tiredness, not noticing that he was there, standing at the entrance. The bell above the door chimed, and you turned around, startled.

“Good afternoon, how can I…?” you began, until you recognized him. “Clark?”

He was restless, his hair tousled from the rush, his eyes shining with nerves.

“Are you okay?” you asked, setting the notebook down on the counter.

“Yes… no… I mean…” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, realizing how desperate he must have looked.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Clark, you’re seriously making me nervous.”

He lifted his gaze toward you, as if finally gathering the courage. “Did you say you loved me?”

The question fell into the air, direct, without detours. Your lips parted, uncertain.

“Yes…” you murmured, lowering your gaze a little. “Was it too soon?”

“No, no, not at all,” he replied immediately, raising both hands as if trying to erase any doubt. A nervous laugh almost slipped out. “It’s just… I wanted to say it first, but I was afraid you’d think it was too soon. And you said it so naturally that… it sounded right, really right, because I… I love you too.”

The silence that followed was broken by your smile. Your eyes softened, and you nodded slowly. “The truth is I didn’t know if I should say it… but it’s what I felt.”

You walked toward him with timid steps and kissed him. It was a long, deep kiss, full of relief and tenderness. Clark wrapped his arms around you, as if he could finally breathe freely. But suddenly he pulled back a little, looking at you intensely.

“Move in with me,” he blurted out, without thinking too much.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

He didn’t back down. His hands still rested on your waist, his eyes locked on yours. “Move in with me,” he repeated, his voice firm, almost pleading.

“But… Clark,” you stammered, uncertain. “It’s just… I want to, of course I want to… but you have your life so put together, and I… I carry chaos with me. My things, my habits…” you lowered your gaze, nervous.

Clark smiled softly, leaning closer so you would look at him again. “I want you. With your messy yet organized life. With your posters on the walls, with your plants I don’t know how to keep alive, with your Christmas lights in the middle of summer. I want it all. I want to be with you, truly.”

Your eyes grew misty, and you let out a trembling laugh. “You’re a disaster when you get romantic.”

“And yet you love me,” he replied, with that smile that made it impossible to deny him anything.

You hugged him tightly, burying your face in his chest. “Yes… I love you. And if you really want it… I’ll move in with you.”

Clark closed his eyes, holding you tightly against him, as if he had just heard the words he had been waiting for his entire life.

So you moved in, and if Clark’s house had already changed since you first met him, it changed even more. A brown doormat with the word “Welcome” at the entrance, coat racks, a little dog made of stone as decoration, a few plants on the windows, more frames hanging on the walls, some small ones on his furniture. His desk had changed too, now with a framed picture of you two and a lamp. You bought some dreamcatchers, some small yellow glass bird figurines with colors, and placed them in the center of the table.

When Clark walked in and looked around his home, just like every day after work, he felt at peace. It wasn’t dark or empty anymore; it was full of you, of your energy, and that was exactly what he needed. He took off his shoes, placed them in the cabinet, and slipped on the slippers that matched yours—slippers he would never let Jimmy or Lois see because they would laugh at him. They were big zebra ones, while you had lion ones. When you came out of the bedroom after folding clothes, you smiled.

“You’re home early. Did the city not need Superman today?” you asked.

“No… actually, Superman needed his girlfriend,” he said, wrapping you in his arms.

“Let’s have dinner. I cooked tonight. I followed every step—I’m sure this time I didn’t use too much salt,” you said, making him laugh.

“It’s better to have too little salt than too much,” he admitted.

“I know, you think just like me. That’s why you’re my favorite man,” you said, giving him a short kiss. “Come on.”

You gave him a short kiss on the lips and pulled him toward the table. Clark let himself be guided, as if nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

While you ate, it was obvious he couldn’t stop looking at you. His eyes followed your every move: the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way you smiled when you tasted the food, the way you pressed your lips together when you thought something had turned out “almost” right.

Clark had already shared his secret with you. You knew who he truly was—not just Superman, but Clark Kent, with all his doubts, his fears, and his convictions. And you accepted him completely, without conditions. He knew it, felt it, in every corner of the house you now shared.

The two of you laughed together, and then fell into silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. For Clark, there was no longer any doubt: you were his home. And he was determined to be by your side for the rest of your lives.

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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

Night was falling over Metropolis with that melancholic slowness that comes with drizzly days. Raindrops slid down the windows like lazy tears, tracing winding paths that distorted the city lights. Inside the apartment, the outside world was reduced to a distant, muffled hum. Only the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp fought against the dimness, creating an intimate golden circle around the bed — a perfect refuge from the damp and the cold.

Clark was lying on his side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow supporting his head, the other resting lazily on your back through the soft fabric of your sleep shirt. His fingers, carrying that restrained strength that always amazed you, traced slow, distracted circles on your skin — a touch that was both a caress and an anchor. You, lying face-down with your cheek resting on your crossed arms, were talking nonstop, animated by the warmth of the moment and your shared complicity.

“And then Susan, with that voice that sounds straight out of a luxury perfume commercial, goes and says she should be the one to cover the embassy events because— and I quote— ‘she has more diplomatic experience,’” you recounted, imitating her pompous, nasal tone with hilarious precision. You paused dramatically, widening your eyes to emphasize the absurdity. “Experience! For God’s sake, Clark, the last time they sent her to an international conference, she got lost three times at Heathrow Airport. Three! And ended up in the cargo terminal. The consulate had to intervene to rescue her.”

Clark let out a low, rough laugh — the kind that seemed to rise from deep within his chest and that he always tried to muffle, as if its sheer force could wake up the whole neighborhood. His body trembled slightly against yours.

“And what did you do, little troublemaker?” he asked, his voice a velvety whisper that mingled with the patter of the rain.

“Me? Nothing,” you replied, lifting your chin with feigned innocence that fooled no one. Your eyes sparkled with mischief. “I just told her, very seriously, not to worry — that surely Superman would be happy to help her find the correct boarding gate next time. You know, as a service to the journalistic community.”

The reaction was immediate. Clark covered his face with his free hand, a genuine, unrestrained laugh shaking his shoulders. His body tensed and then relaxed into a muffled chuckle.

“No!” he exclaimed between his fingers, his voice filled with amused horror. “I can’t believe you said that. In the middle of the newsroom.”

“What?” you propped yourself up a little, leaning on your elbows, a triumphant smile dancing on your lips. “It was a perfectly valid and supportive comment. Besides, everyone laughed. Well… everyone except Perry. He just gave me that tired look — the one that clearly says, ‘Dear God, I need a vacation on a deserted island, far away from all the lunatics I hired.’”

Clark then turned completely onto his side, abandoning his relaxed posture. The warm light of the lamp caressed the line of his jaw and disappeared into the dark curls of his hair. His eyes — that striking shade of blue — looked at you with an intensity that made the playfulness turn a little more serious. A glint of amusement and affection danced within them, revealing that he had no intention of sleeping anytime soon.

“You know…” he began, his tone now slower, more intimate. “If you drop bombs like that so casually in the middle of the office, I’m not sure I can trust you with anything. I don’t know if you’re trustworthy.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be deeply offended. You crossed your arms over your chest, though you couldn’t hide the curiosity his words stirred.

“Trust me with what, Mr. Kent?” you asked, drawing out the words. “Have you discovered that Jimmy orders donuts in secret?”

He smiled half-way, that calm, sideways grin that always made him look even more charming, as if sharing a private joke meant only for you. His hand found yours on the sheets, his fingers playing with yours.

“No, nothing from the office,” he murmured, his voice a thread of silk. “Let’s just say… something a little more important. A secret.”

Your curiosity flared like a spark. You sat up a little more until you were almost nose to nose with him. The air between you felt thicker, heavier.

“Uh-huh,” you said, feigning skepticism. “A secret on the level of ‘Perry has a Hello Kitty sock collection’? Or are we talking something like ‘this could change the course of humanity’? Because there are levels, Kent. Levels of responsibility. And my record of keeping secrets is… well, existent.”

Clark let out another laugh, this time more open—a warm sound that filled the room and chased away the last traces of the night’s chill. His gaze wandered over your face, savoring every nuance of your conversation.

“Just a normal one. Nothing that could disturb the cosmic balance,” he clarified, though the playful spark in his eyes suggested otherwise. “But tell me, just out of curiosity… could you keep it? Could you be the grave?”

You sat up completely, resting on your heels and pretending to strike a pose of deep, serious contemplation. You brought a finger to your chin and frowned, staring at the ceiling as if the answer were written there.

“Mmm, let me think,” you said, dragging out the words with exaggerated solemnity. “The truth, the absolute truth… is that no. I’m terrible at keeping secrets. My own, yes—but other people’s? They make me itch.” You lowered your gaze to meet his, a wide, shameless grin spreading across your face. “But since I really, really want to know what you’re about to tell me, let’s pretend, just for tonight, that I’m the most discreet person on the planet. Let’s pretend I can. Now talk.”

Clark looked at you with disbelief that melted into laughter, his eyes glowing with a love so deep it almost hurt to look at him. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping my secret all these years if you’re this indiscreet,” he said, his voice laced with tenderness that contradicted his words.

A mischievous smile curved your lips as you settled against him, resting your cheek on Clark’s familiar, solid chest. You could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—a sound more comforting than anything else in the world.

“Oh, don’t believe that for a second,” you whispered, toying with the soft fabric of his shirt. “I had to confess it to the alley cats behind the Planet. All of them. Including the tricolor one that always seems to judge me.”

He tensed dramatically, mock horror spreading across his face. “What?” he exclaimed, his fingers pausing their slow circles on your back. “You told the cats of Metropolis about my secret identity?”

“Someone had to know!” you defended yourself, your voice trembling with suppressed laughter. “I didn’t want my brain to explode from keeping it in. And at least it’s safe with them—cats don’t go around spreading gossip. And if they do, no one understands them. The three-colored one only meows about the downfall of human society; he’s not interested in superheroes.”

A deep, resonant laugh escaped Clark, a sound so pure and expansive it seemed to light up the room more than the lamp itself. The vibration of his chest rippled through your body, making you laugh with him—a laughter that came from deep within, cleansing away every trace of stress or worry. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close in an embrace that was both refuge and celebration.

“You’re absolutely impossible,” he managed between breaths, his laughter still lingering.

“And you love me for it,” you said with a triumphant, teasing smile, lifting your gaze to meet his. It wasn’t a question—it was a truth as fundamental as gravity.

He leaned in then, resting his forehead gently against yours for a moment—a gesture of quiet intimacy. Then his lips brushed your forehead in a kiss so tender it made the world stop for a second. “Yes,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm. “And that—the fact that I love you—is the one secret I’ll never, ever want to keep.”

He said this and joined his lips with yours, savoring the peace of that day. When he pulled back, he laid you down beside him again and listened to you continue speaking.

Outside, the rain kept falling over Metropolis, washing the streets and cradling the city in its steady rhythm. But inside the room, wrapped in the golden circle of the lamp, the storm was nothing more than a distant backdrop. There was no space left for anything else—only the echo of shared laughter, the whisper of the sheets, and the silent warmth of two people who, in every gesture, every look, and every laugh, already knew each other by heart.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Having a boyfriend might sound like a beautiful idea. But having someone like Clark as your boyfriend… it’s almost a dream.

Waking up to the sight of his broad, bare back while he cooks breakfast… it’s like living in a romantic movie with an unlimited budget. There he is, standing in front of the stove, stirring the eggs with a sleepy smile while you finish getting ready. Always so gentlemanly, so sweet in the details. He loves you, and everyone knows it. Not because he tries to prove it, but because his body speaks before his words. Because he watches you closely when you talk, as if everything coming out of your mouth mattered. Because he smiles tenderly, without even realizing it.

Because he simply exists… and believes the world is better with you in it.

But having a boyfriend who’s also Superman has its nuances.

You see… Clark’s body consumes three times more energy, and when he’s not fighting evil or flying through the skies, he’s eating like a growing child on solar-powered steroids. Literally.

Tonight you’re making spaghetti bolognese. He’s been craving it for two days and you, with a melted heart, said yes. He offered to do the shopping, and you stayed behind finishing the sauce and putting the garlic cheese bread in the oven. The warm, spiced aroma filled the kitchen when you heard the door open.

You smiled.

“Right on time,” you murmured, closing the oven and turning around… only to find yourself staring at something you weren’t sure was your boyfriend or a being made entirely of grocery bags.

Clark walked in covered from the waist up, you could barely see his face. He was carrying at least ten bags per arm, as if it was nothing.

“But Clark…” you said, running over to help him, though you knew perfectly well he could lift a truck with one finger if he wanted to. “I asked for one tomato sauce, Clark… one.”

“There were deals, love,” he replied in that boyish voice of his, like he’d just done something adorably mischievous. He dropped all the bags with the ease you’d lift a pillow, and took the ones you were already holding. “These are detergents… there was a two-for-one offer. It would’ve been a crime not to take advantage!”

“Clark,” you scolded, crossing your arms. He looked at you, hesitating. You held up a bag and shook it in front of him.

“Six bags of candy? Six! Where’s what I asked for on the list?”

“There,” he replied, timidly pointing to another corner of the table, where the oil, some cans, and… yes, the famous tomato sauce sat. “And here it is!” he grabbed it like a trophy and offered it to you, smiling as if that erased the rest.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Last time you overdid it with the candy too and you had a reaction, Clark…”

He pursed his lips, pretending not to remember.

“Reaction? What reaction?”

You raised an eyebrow with a “are you kidding me?” look.

“Seriously? You want me to remind you?” you crossed your arms, giving him an accusing stare as he slowly moved toward the kitchen, as if evading you would save him. “You started levitating in your sleep from how energetic you were. You looked like a balloon floating above the bed! And you talked so fast even you couldn’t understand yourself. Clark, you mumbled every physics formula you knew and spent the whole night singing cereal jingles like a possessed radio!”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Clark let out a low laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed but with a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Okay, okay… maybe I got a little excited,” he admitted in a sweet, guilty tone, like he was confessing to stealing a cookie before dinner. “But I promise I’ll behave this time… Well… only… if you give me one while we’re setting the table,” he said, dragging out the sentence as he stealthily leaned toward the steaming tray in the oven.

“Clark Joseph Kent!” you said, lightly smacking his chest with a spatula. “Don’t even think about sticking that finger in there.”

“But it looks so good…” he replied with a slight pout, dramatically dropping his shoulders as he peeked into the oven. “Is that… spaghetti bolognese?”

“Yes,” you answered firmly. “And yes, you’re going to wait. In this house, we respect dinner.”

Clark came up behind you, wrapping those warm, strong arms around your waist—the ones you knew all too well. He rested his chin on your shoulder and took a deep breath.

“Smells like home,” he whispered softly, sincerely. As if he truly didn’t need anything else in that moment.

You rolled your eyes with a hidden smile and grabbed one of the candy bags to put it away.

“And you, Mr. ‘I accidentally float off in the middle of the night from a sugar high’, are going to watch me lock this up. Literally.”

“Locked up?” he repeated, amused.

“With a padlock.”

“A padlock?” he laughed now, raising an eyebrow. “Love… you know I can break steel with two fingers, right?”

“Yes, I know,” you said, turning to face him while he still held you. “But I want you to remember that even so, I care more about making sure you don’t end up floating on the ceiling with confetti glitter in your hair like last time.”

Clark burst into a full, deep, radiant laugh—one of those that filled his face with dimples.

“You’re right… it was kind of embarrassing,” he admitted with a playful grimace. “But you were so cute telling me to ‘get down from there’ like I was a naughty balloon…”

“And you just kept saying: ‘I can’t… but I have an idea for an interdimensional rocket powered by Nutella,’” you said between laughs.

“Hey, it was a good idea…”

“Clark.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll behave,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “But if I do… will you give me a double portion of spaghetti bolognese?”

“I’ll give you triple… if you put the candy away with no cheating.”

Clark nodded solemnly and stole another kiss on your cheek.

“Deal.”

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The sunsets of your youth always felt endless. The house filled with a dense, almost uncomfortable silence, and you filled it with your imagination. You invented fictional scenes, different worlds, because the reality you had to live in felt harsh and cold. You had your parents, yes, but nothing more.

The hardest part wasn’t solitude itself, but the absence of real company: no friends, no siblings, no one to share silly secrets or unexpected laughter with. You grew up reserved, cautious with words, as if you feared never fitting in anywhere. Crowded places didn’t cause you real panic, but they unsettled you; they made you feel like you belonged somewhere else you had never found. You tried hard to be professional, to control that feeling, but inside there was always the certainty that you didn’t belong anywhere.

You repeated the same thing to yourself over and over: that your future would be like this, silent, solitary. That human warmth was not meant for you. And then, just when you were starting to resign yourself, he appeared. A man nearly six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and soft-smiling, who came to unravel all your ideas.

There you were now, on the sofa. Clark, with his massive frame, was resting on your chest as if he took up no space at all, as if he had shrunk to fit into you. He looked like a child seeking warmth, seeking refuge. Your hand slid through his dark curls, gently playing with them, while his glasses rested on the table beside you. There was no TV on, no music, only silence. The kind of silence that once weighed heavily on you and now felt warm.

Your eyes were nearly closed, heavy with fatigue, and Clark seemed asleep. You had both had a long day, surrounded by more people than your mind usually tolerated. And yet, returning to the apartment, closing the door, and staying like this—embraced in a shared silence—was never a problem. It was a relief.

You no longer lived in imaginary worlds. Clark had taught you to look at the present, to enjoy what you had in that moment.

“Empanadas…” he suddenly mumbled, barely opening his eyes and lifting his gaze toward you.

You blinked, confused, your voice still drowsy.

“Mmm?” you replied, not lifting your head from his shoulder.

Clark smiled softly, with that mischievous air that appeared every now and then.

“Last time you said you were craving empanadas,” he murmured suddenly, as if he had been keeping track and had now come to claim victory.

You barely opened your eyes, exhausted, and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes… and what about it?” you asked, your voice hoarse with sleep.

Clark smiled like a boy with a secret.

“Well, I’ll make them for you.” He said it with determination, though his tone was so soft it almost sounded like he was about to fall asleep.

You let out a light laugh, resting your head more comfortably against the sofa.

“There’s no dough…” you whispered.

He nodded, sinking back into your chest, as if the conversation had ended. You closed your eyes, ready to surrender to sleep, when he lifted his head again.

“But we have flour,” he pointed out, with that confident tone he used whenever he found solutions.

You sighed, not opening your eyes.

“Yes, but we don’t have eggs.”

Clark nodded again, as if nothing could discourage him, and lay back down. Silence settled between you, so heavy it seemed to lull you into sleep. And just when you thought he had given up, you heard him again.

“There’s a store right across the street…” he whispered, his cheek still pressed against your chest.

You opened one eye, tired, and looked at him incredulously.

“You’re not sleepy anymore, are you?”

He shook his head slowly, with a mischievous smile.

“That’s not fair… just when I finally start to sleep, your hyperactivity comes back,” you protested with a pout.

Clark chuckled softly and stroked your arm.

“Sleep, love. Rest easy. I’ll take care of everything else.” Then he tilted his head and pressed a soft kiss to your chest—nothing lustful, only tenderness.

“Mmm…” you mumbled, half-asleep, giving in.

Clark looked at you with a mock-hurt expression, waiting for you to notice him. Knowing him too well, you could sense it without opening your eyes.

“Don’t you plan to say goodbye to your boyfriend?” he asked with exaggerated drama.

You shook your head, smiling, and closed your eyes again.

With that mischievous grin, Clark began covering your face with small kisses. First on your jaw, then your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, even the tip of your nose. You laughed quietly, unable to resist, and pushed him weakly with your hand.

“You’re unbearable,” you murmured between laughs.

“And you love me that way,” he replied confidently, giving you one last kiss on the forehead.

Then he stood carefully, not hurting you, and you immediately felt the cold of his absence. You turned a little, not because you were upset, but because sleep was dragging you under again.

Before leaving, Clark stopped by the closet, grabbed a light blanket, and gently laid it over you. He paused for a moment, gazing at you with that mixture of tenderness and devotion always in his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

Half-asleep, you felt the weight of the blanket and sighed peacefully. For the first time in days, you were truly resting.

Clark closed the door softly behind him, ready to cross the street just to fulfill a craving that, though small, was important to him because it came from you.

You didn’t hear when Clark returned—sleep had overtaken you. You only woke with the sweet smell of empanadas drifting from the kitchen. You stirred under the blanket and, opening your eyes, noticed the darkened living room, lit only by the warm glow of the kitchen.

You rose slowly, combing your hair with your fingers and rubbing your eyes to wake up. When your vision finally cleared, laughter escaped you: there was Clark, still in the same clothes from that morning—a rolled-up long-sleeve blue shirt and gray pants—but that wasn’t the funny part.

He was wearing the apron you had bought as a joke, tied neatly around his back, and in bold letters it read: “Mom in the kitchen.”

You had never imagined he’d actually wear it, but there he was, focused in front of the oven as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The image imprinted itself in your mind, so warm it made you smile even more.

You slipped on your slippers and walked toward him, dragging your feet slightly from sleep.

“Just in time,” Clark said when he saw you, with that smile that always seemed to light you up more than any lamp.

“Sorry I didn’t help you…” you whispered, a little guilty.

He leaned in and took your waist, leaving a soft kiss on your cheek.

“Even if you’d wanted to, I wouldn’t have let you, sweetheart.” His tone was playful, but his eyes were serious, full of concern for you. “We could have ended up burning down the kitchen… and I’m not willing to risk you for that.”

You laughed quietly and shook your head, burying yourself in his chest. You sighed, breathing in his scent that always soothed you: clean, warm, like fresh air after the rain.

The oven timer rang, breaking the moment. Clark straightened and carefully pulled out the tray. The sweet aroma of strawberries filled the kitchen. While he served the empanadas, you set the plates, cutlery, and a couple of glasses of water on the table.

Clark came up behind you and, before placing the tray on the table, wrapped an arm around you and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“You know what the best part is?” he murmured.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That no matter if the world out there is full of chaos, I’ll always have this with you: a kitchen, a couple of empanadas, and you smiling even when you say you’re tired.”

Your smile softened, and you turned to give him a short kiss on the lips.

“You’re cheesy, Kent.”

He laughed softly, setting the tray on the table.

“Maybe… but I’m yours.”

You sat down together, sharing the warm empanadas as the night went on. There was no noise, no rush, only that small corner of the world where you could exist without masks, without fears, with the only man who had pulled you out of loneliness and brought you back to life.

And as Clark offered you another empanada with a boyish grin, you thought that maybe those boring sunsets of your youth had only been the prelude to arriving here: to the calm of a home, and to the certainty that love, when it’s real, doesn’t need grand gestures… just a kiss, a ridiculous apron, and a couple of freshly baked empanadas.

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Interactions had never been your thing, and you weren’t lying when you admitted it. Jimmy, despite being your friend for years, always ended up asking if you were angry. Your answer was the same, dry, like an automatic shield:

"This is just my face."

Not even on your birthday could you loosen up. Jimmy hugged you and nearly dragged you through the newsroom so you would accept some sign of affection, while you looked for a way to slip between desks, dodging the hands that reached out to congratulate you. You repeated it to yourself in silence: Why congratulate me if they never talk to me? In your mind, it was all a performance—they only wanted the boss to notice and give a couple of hours off. And you, serious, with a hard expression, looked at people as if they had said something absurd.

It was hard for you to express yourself, hard to trust. And yet, against all logic, you had ended up beside a man who seemed pulled out of another world. A huge, gentle man with a warm smile, a farm boy from Smallville with an immense heart. A teddy bear turned journalist. And sometimes, in your silences, you wondered how it was possible for someone like him to love you, with all those flaws that others never hesitated to point out.

That day, you saw him walking toward your desk. His steps were steady, but his eyes carried the same kind awkwardness as always. He sat in the chair beside you, placing his papers on the table.

"Will you help me? My interns are a disaster." He ran a hand through his hair, exhausted, and tried to smile.

You nodded slightly and took the papers.

"What a mess," you muttered without realizing it.

Clark heard and laughed softly, nodding.

"Look here. This connection between paragraphs is poorly done," he said, pointing with his pencil.

You tilted your head, scanning the lines.

"Here too," you whispered, marking another mistake.

The two of you fell silent, focused. Your fingers gripped a pen to underline, while he held his tightly. Between scribbles and notes, the air filled with that strange calm that only appeared when you worked together.

"Done," you said at last, handing back the papers.

Clark breathed deeply, almost relieved.

"Thanks, they’re going to drive me crazy." He smiled, blushing a little.

You lowered your gaze, a faint curve tugging at your lips.

"Cereal for dinner?" he suddenly asked, as if unwilling to let the silence stretch too long.

You looked at him in surprise, your fingers playing with the edge of a sheet.

"Yeah. Are you leaving early?"

"Yes. I just need to type this up on the computer and that’s it." He sighed, lowering the papers, but then looked at you directly, in that way of his that made the air feel heavier. "I’ll stop by the store. Do you want anything else?"

You bit your lip, thinking of the simplest answer.

"Yeah… toothpaste and paper. We need to do a big shopping trip this weekend."

Clark nodded easily.

"Perfect."

He rose slowly, gathered the papers carefully, and before leaving, let his hand rest lightly on your shoulder. A simple gesture, so subtle that anyone else would have missed it. But in you it lit a strange warmth, as if that minimal touch had pierced through every one of your defenses.

"See you at home," he said with that shy smile.

And all you could do was nod, swallowing down all the words you didn’t know how to say.

“It doesn’t even look like you lock yourself in your room on weekends to… you know, ferment,” Lois said with a mischievous smile.

You shook your head with a short, almost awkward smile.

“Clark is such a little lamb when it comes to affection,” she added playfully. “How did you manage to get him to hold back from kissing or hugging you?”

“He doesn’t want me to feel uncomfortable. It’s not like he avoids it, it’s just… I don’t show that in public,” you replied simply, trying to sound firm, though your voice came out a little low.

Lois arched an eyebrow with a sly expression. “So I bet you turn into ‘heart eyes’ when you’re at his apartment, right?”

You pressed your lips together and turned back to your screen. “Let me work, Lane.”

She burst out laughing as she walked away, while a faint smile trembled at the corner of your lips.

When you finished, you waved to those you passed in the hallway. You decided to stop by the bathroom on the first floor before leaving; you wanted to change clothes and be more comfortable for the trip home.

The bathroom was silent, except for the drip of a poorly closed faucet and the distant hum of the printers downstairs. You were in one of the stalls, clumsily folding your jacket and shaking your feet free from your aching heels, when two female voices broke into the quiet.

You didn’t recognize either of them. They were probably from another section of the newsroom, maybe from the second floor.

“So, has he already left? What a shame… last week I wanted to ask for his number,” one of them said, fixing her hair in front of the mirror.

“Seriously, you were going to?” the other asked, surprised.

“Yes. He was so polite… I really like that man.”

Your hands froze on the sweatshirt. You weren’t sure if you should leave or wait. If you made a sound, they might think you were eavesdropping on purpose. So, with a knot in your stomach, you sat down on the toilet lid, trying to make as little noise as possible.

“And what happened?”

“Nothing. He was kind, but you know… his problem is that he has a girlfriend.”

You swallowed hard, trying to slip off your jacket silently.

“Oh, you mean the bitter one from the Planet?” the second one laughed. “Do you think she bewitched Clark?”

Your fingers froze mid-movement. You stayed completely still, listening, though part of you screamed not to.

“Ugh, the bitter one from the Planet?” the second mocked. “She always looks annoyed with everyone, she doesn’t even know how to smile.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

“Exactly. Clark is nice, polite, even sweet… and what is he doing with someone who looks like a statue? He must be with her out of pity.”

Your heart pounded, and you clutched the sweatshirt against your chest.

“Besides, have you noticed how he acts when she’s around?” the first continued. “All awkward, like he wants to run away.”

“Yes. And she’s always got that face like she hates him sometimes… poor guy, it must be embarrassing to date someone so cold. Can you imagine? He’s so affectionate, and she’s so… dry!”

Both of them laughed, the sound bouncing off the tiles and stabbing into you like knives.

“I say it won’t last. Sooner or later Clark will realize he needs someone who actually knows how to love him… not someone who doesn’t even seem to know what she feels.”

The last sentence fell on you like a weight. You lowered your head, your eyes burning, fighting the urge to run out. It wasn’t the first time you had been labeled for being reserved, but hearing it this way—so direct, with laughter—made it feel more real, more cruel.

You waited until the laughter faded and the sound of their footsteps disappeared down the hall. Only then did you slowly open the stall door, your heart still tight. You put on your sweatshirt, grabbed your jacket, and left without looking back. You walked quickly toward the exit, as if every wall echoed the words you had just heard: bitter, cold, embarrassment, pity.

The cold night air struck you as you stepped out of the building, but it did nothing to ease the knot in your throat. You took the subway without raising your eyes, wishing only to get back to the apartment. Every voice in your memory seemed to echo the same thought: What if Clark really is bored of you? What if he’s truly ashamed of you for being this way?

When you opened the apartment door, a familiar scent welcomed you: tomato sauce and spices. Clark was in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove, stirring pasta with a wooden spoon. His broad back bent naturally, and his slightly messy hair fell to one side.

You stopped at the doorway, silently watching him. You watched how he hummed softly to himself, how he set the spoon on the edge of the pot and dipped his finger into the sauce, frowning with focus. For a moment, the memory of those voices pierced your chest again: He’s probably only with you out of pity.

Clark didn’t turn, but his gentle voice broke into your thoughts:

“I can feel you, sweetheart.”

You swallowed hard. You didn’t answer. You just stood there, your sneakers still damp from the street, your bag hanging from your shoulder.

He switched off the flame, turned slowly, and looked at you with those clear eyes that always seemed to uncover what you kept inside.

“Is something wrong?” he asked cautiously. Then he took a step closer and added, “Do you want to hug me?”

Your lips trembled for a moment, and finally you nodded without speaking. You walked to him and hugged him tightly, burying your face against his chest. Clark wrapped around you at once—warm, steady, patient—stroking your back as if he knew words were unnecessary.

At home you were different. Here you didn’t feel the need to pretend, nor to hide. With him, you had learned to smile without noticing, to be the one who reached first: a hug, a kiss on the cheek. Gestures no one at the newsroom would have ever believed were yours.

Clark stroked your hair and smiled against your forehead.

“I made spaghetti. Your favorite.”

You lifted your gaze, and for the first time all day, you truly smiled. A wide, serene smile, so genuine that the small dimple in your left cheek appeared. Clark looked at it as though it were a treasure only he knew how to awaken.

The table was set with simple care: two deep plates, fresh toasted bread on a small dish in the middle, and the pot of steaming spaghetti. Clark sat down across from you, the apron still hanging from his neck, and began to serve.

And in that moment, surrounded by warmth and the scent of home, the voices in your mind finally faded—quieted by the certainty that love was not measured in grand gestures, but in these simple evenings where everything you needed was already in front of you.

You looked at him, uncertain, in silence, until at last you whispered: “Clark…”

He lifted his gaze, tilting his head, and immediately pouted dramatically, like a child being scolded. “We’re at home, not at the office,” he said, raising his brows and extending the ladle as if it were a weapon.

Your seriousness broke, and a brief laugh slipped from your lips. “All right…” you murmured, lowering your eyes to the plate. “Can I ask you something, love?”

He smiled gently and nodded, serving your portion. “Of course. Ask whatever you like.”

You bit your lip before letting it go. “Did… anyone ever ask for your number?”

Clark froze. The ladle hung suspended above his plate. His eyes locked on you—serious, intent. “Yes,” he admitted slowly. “It was the lady at the comic shop, to keep me updated on the issues of the series you love.”

An involuntary laugh escaped you, though unease still burned inside. “No… I mean a woman.”

Clark’s playful expression faded. He lowered the ladle, set it back into the pot, and leaned toward you. “Something happened, didn’t it?” he asked quietly, as if he already knew, as if he could read it in your eyes.

Silence settled between you both, broken only by the faint bubbling of the sauce still simmering. Clark didn’t look away, waiting for you to trust him.

You dropped your gaze to the plate, stirring the spaghetti with your fork as if you could hide what you’d heard in the strands. At last, your voice came out low, trembling:

“Today… I overheard two girls in the restroom. They said… that you must be with me out of pity. That I always look upset, that I make you uncomfortable. That… maybe I embarrass you.”

The last word cracked in your throat.

Your words lingered in the air. Clark didn’t stay seated; he rose slowly from his chair and walked around the table, approaching you with that calm of his that always carried something deeper.

“They don’t know you,” he said, his voice firm. “They don’t see what I see every day.”

He stopped in front of you and, to your surprise, knelt down, one knee to the floor so he could meet your eyes. His blue gaze sought yours with an intensity that nearly stole your breath. He took your hands into his—warm, steady—and held them gently.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I’m the only one who gets the privilege of your kisses without asking. The only one who receives your hugs, even when at first you didn’t know how to give them. You adapted to me, sweetheart, little by little. You let me in, you let me love you in your own way. And that… that means more than anything.”

Your lips trembled, tears welled in your eyes, but your voice came out barely audible: “So… you like me the way I am?”

Clark smiled tenderly, leaning closer, his thumbs brushing over your skin. “I don’t just like you… I feel you’re perfect. Perfect because you’re you.”

Your breathing quickened. Part of you wanted to keep questioning, to seek reassurance. But he was already there, kneeling before you, stripped of masks. Clark drew closer, his eyes never leaving yours, as if needing you to understand that every word was real.

His lips brushed yours first with hesitation, as if afraid to break you, then with more certainty, more truth. It was a deep kiss, full of tenderness, but also of the desperate need to make you feel safe, cherished, irreplaceable.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice still trembling: “Never let anyone make you doubt what you are to me.”

And in that instant, you knew that what you had heard in the restroom faded before this truth: Clark had chosen you, with all your insecurities, all your reservations. To him, you were perfect. And so you smiled—the smile you rarely showed—and he mirrored it, dimples appearing as he wrapped you in his arms, letting you sink into his chest, into your safe place.

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You had spent so much time living with someone during college that sharing expenses had become your way of surviving. It was the only way to make your money stretch—working just enough while studying so you wouldn’t fall behind. The harsh reality was that rent in Metropolis was expensive, far too much for someone who was just starting out. That’s why, the moment the Daily Planet accepted you, your first concern was finding a place to live.

You tried with Cat, and you still remembered that moment. You walked behind her through the newsroom hallway, a little nervous but hopeful.

“I’m a good cook,” you said with a wide smile, trying to sound convincing. “I can make sure we have delicious meals on a small budget. We wouldn’t spend that much.”

She stopped, looked at you with those sparkling eyes, and a playful laugh escaped her lips. She shook her head, her blonde hair swaying gracefully.

“No, queen,” she replied, her tone affectionate but firm. “It’s not that I don’t like you, but what would become of me when I bring a guy home? Do you really want to hear everything that happens?”

Her words made you blush, though you managed to shake your head quickly.

“No, of course not.”

Before you could say anything else, Cat threw a mischievous glance at Jimmy, who was sitting not far away.

“Don’t even think of him as an option,” she added, amused. “Living with Jimmy would be like having a live porno theater every day, with a different person each week. And you might even end up falling for him too.”

You laughed, unable to hold it back. Jimmy had that undeniable magnetism: charming, flirtatious, always surrounded by people. But for you, there was no real interest beyond the jokes you made whenever you saw him with a new conquest.

Later, you thought about Lois. The idea lingered for a couple of days, but you dismissed it almost instantly. Lois Lane was the best in the newsroom, the Daily Planet’s star reporter, and although her face was often framed by a friendly smile, there was a natural seriousness about her that commanded respect. You felt intimidated approaching her, as if an invisible wall of prestige and self-assurance surrounded her.

So you didn’t dare even to ask.

“Still haven’t found a room to stay in?”

Jimmy’s voice jolted you from your thoughts. You lifted your gaze from the printer, still blinking with the last pages of the report you were reviewing. Standing at the doorway were Jimmy and Clark.

Jimmy stepped in first, as always with his quick and confident stride, holding a messy stack of papers he could barely keep together. Behind him, Clark walked more calmly, carrying his notebook, his shoulders a little hunched as if he wanted to go unnoticed. His eyes were lowered, and yet, when he realized you were looking at him, he lifted his gaze and offered you a shy smile. His cheeks flushed red, but he didn’t look away.

You had grown used to his presence. Since you had arrived at the Daily Planet, Clark had been unusually kind to you. His warmth had calmed the anxiety you felt during those first days. With him nearby, things seemed a little less overwhelming.

“Yes,” you sighed dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. “Most likely, I’ll end up sleeping on a park bench, under the moonlight, with a stray dog as my honor guard.”

Jimmy’s laughter filled the room, and to your surprise, you also heard Clark’s soft laugh, which he tried to cover with a cough, as if he didn’t want to draw attention.

“Relax,” Jimmy teased, raising the papers as though they were an improvised microphone. “You could probably make more money as a bum than working in this newsroom.”

You rolled your eyes, though an inevitable smile slipped onto your lips.

“Thanks for the support, Jimmy. Always so encouraging.”

He winked at you and adjusted the straps of his camera.

“That’s what I’m here for. If you want, I can get you a big cardboard box tomorrow. Luxury brand, so you can sleep in style.”

You laughed, shaking your head. Clark smiled too, though he limited himself to simply watching you both in silence, in that way of his where he listened more than he spoke.

You stayed chatting for a few minutes, Jimmy tossing jokes and you responding with light sarcasm. Until finally, he announced that he had to finish printing some photos and organize files on his laptop.

“I’ll leave you two,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the door. “Don’t get into trouble… or do, but let me know so I can take pictures.”

Jimmy left laughing, and the office grew quiet. Only the low hum of the printer remained.

Clark, who had been leaning against the doorframe, shifted slightly. He looked as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. He glanced sideways, fiddled with his notebook, and you noticed. You had learned to read those signs in him: when his foot tapped nervously, when he adjusted his glasses for no reason, when his voice got caught in his throat.

“Clark…” you said at last, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “Say it. Whatever’s on your mind. You look like you’re about to confess you found a poster in the city calling me a wanted murderer and that you just uncovered my secret.”

The sound of his laughter filled the room. A soft, somewhat awkward laugh.

“No, no, nothing like that,” he replied quickly, raising his hands as if to clear away any misunderstanding. “Sorry if I made you think something weird… it’s just, well…” He paused, hesitated, adjusted his glasses, and lowered his voice. “I don’t know how to say this, but… if you’d like, you can stay with me.”

Your hands froze over the papers. You stared at him in surprise, making sure you had understood correctly.

“Are you serious?” you asked, stepping toward him. “Clark, are you really saying that? Or is this a joke? Do you mean I can stay only for tonight and tomorrow I’m out the door? Or are you actually proposing I be your roommate?”

Your voice brimmed with emotion, impossible to hide.

He smiled, with that sweetness that always seemed as genuine as it was clumsy.

“I think you’d make a good roommate,” he admitted, a deeper blush rising to his cheeks.

You didn’t think twice. You let the papers fall onto the desk and threw yourself into his arms.

Clark stiffened instantly, caught off guard by your reaction. He hadn’t expected it, and the redness in his face deepened. But slowly, his arms lifted, wrapping around you carefully, returning the embrace.

“God, Clark,” you said with nervous laughter, holding him a little tighter. “You have no idea how you just saved my life. You don’t know what it means not to spend another sleepless night wondering what would become of me in this city without a roof over my head.”

Clark swallowed hard, his hands trembling faintly against your back.

And with those words, it was decided. All your belongings, which had remained in your old apartment, were soon moved into Clark’s. Even the clothes you had left for a few days at Cat’s place were now neatly folded in the room he had given you—just across from his. From the very beginning, he had said with his shy smile:

“I want you to feel comfortable… that will be your room. It’s close to mine, in case you ever need anything.”

Hearing him say that, you felt the weight in your chest ease, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. And though you were sharing more than you had expected, life suddenly felt better than you had imagined.

For Clark, it was a change too. He didn’t say it often, but you knew that offering you a place to live meant more than it seemed. That big, quiet, perfectly tidy apartment was also a reflection of his loneliness. Ever since he had moved from Smallville, weekends stretched endlessly; it wasn’t unusual for him to spend hours reading or working at the newsroom, just to avoid feeling so alone. Now, even though it wasn’t as if you were together every second, at least there was someone there—someone to share a cup of coffee in the kitchen with, or a few words before sleep. And for him, that was enough.

With time, the routine became so natural that you barely noticed how everything had changed. Every evening when Clark came home from work, you were there. Sometimes much earlier, sometimes even later, depending on your shifts and errands. But you always found each other in that shared space that was slowly transforming.

The living room, once a minimalist, silent place, soon became common ground. You decided to set up two small desks on opposite ends. Clark’s was immaculate: books aligned by color and size, papers perfectly stacked, not a single stain on the surface. Yours, on the other hand, had a personality of its own. Books piled in uneven stacks, newspapers folded open in random corners, pencils scattered as if they had come alive. Yet somehow, the chaos never spilled into his space; that was your golden rule—to never give a bad impression that might cost you your place.

One afternoon, while you frowned over a stack of articles, Clark walked over with a glass of water.

“Your desk looks like a battlefield,” he said with a soft laugh, setting the glass in front of you.

“And yours looks like the museum of perfection,” you replied with a smile, not lifting your eyes. “I don’t know how you manage to keep everything… so orderly.”

Clark shrugged.

“I guess it’s habit. My parents taught me that if you keep things organized, it’s easier to think clearly.”

“Then I must be a disaster at thinking,” you said with a laugh.

He shook his head, holding your gaze for a second longer than usual.

“No. You just think differently. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Those words left you silent, warmer than the untouched water in front of you.

And as the evening light spilled gently through the windows, you realized that the apartment no longer felt like just walls and furniture—it had become a place where two lives, once solitary, had begun to weave themselves together into something quietly extraordinary.

Over time, you both started splitting the rent and expenses. The two of you would sit at the kitchen table, scribbling down numbers to keep track. You usually filled the fridge with the basics, though it wasn’t unusual for you to end up snacking on something that technically belonged to him.

One night, you opened the fridge and, without thinking, grabbed a yogurt you spotted in the corner, convinced it was yours. You had already taken a spoonful when Clark appeared at the doorway, drying his hair with a towel after his shower.

"That’s mine," he said calmly, though his lips held a mischievous smile.

You froze, spoon still in midair.

"Sorry! I thought it was—… Well, I must’ve gotten confused, I swear."

Clark let out a quiet laugh and leaned against the kitchen frame.

"It’s fine. Just buy another one later."

You sighed, rolling your eyes.

"I promise I’ll replace it tomorrow. And it’s not like you’re kicking me out over a yogurt, right? Because if that’s the case, I’ll start packing my bags right now."

Clark shook his head immediately, walking over to toss the towel on a chair.

"Of course not. I’d never kick you out over a yogurt."

"Then what would you kick me out for?" you asked playfully, finishing the last bite.

Clark paused, thoughtful, as if he were genuinely considering it.

"Maybe… if one day you showed up with Jimmy and told me he was moving in too," he finally replied, arching his brows with amusement.

You burst into laughter, shaking your head.

"Please, I’d rather live in the park with my luxury cardboard box."

Both of you laughed.

But let’s be honest: sharing space with someone like Clark was, in some way, a privilege you weren’t prepared to handle. His blue eyes were so clear they sometimes unsettled you with how much they seemed to reveal. His height—imposing, nearly 6’4—made him stand out anywhere. And that dark, curly hair, sometimes neatly in place and other times a mess, became a routine sight too perfect to resist each morning.

Seeing him with a wrinkled shirt, the first buttons undone after a long day, left you staring longer than you should. Of course, you never meant to make him uncomfortable, but that silent habit of yours quickly became the first broken rule: falling in love with your roommate.

And yes, you did. You fell completely.

He was too kind, too much of a farm boy not to be polite in everything he did. He smiled when you spoke, sat down to watch movies with you, and if you stayed up late working in the living room, he mysteriously “also had work” and stayed with you, as if he didn’t want you to be alone.

In the end, you both grew used to each other’s presence… but you more to him. And Clark seemed not to notice.

Or at least, that’s what you thought.

Because he truly seemed oblivious. In the mornings, you’d see him rushing about, his white shirt half tucked into pajama pants, hair tousled, glasses crooked. All normal. Yet sometimes you’d hear strange noises—a sudden thud, a rush of air leaving the window wide open. By the time you went to check, he was gone. No sign on the fire escape, no sound at the door. Just silence in his room.

And although you never dared to enter, you wondered if you were imagining things. Did he leave to avoid you? Did he not want to bother you, or were you the bother? That insecurity had taken root ever since you admitted you were in love with him.

But how do you catch the attention of a man who seems simply kind, without noticing what you feel?

What if he didn’t want love? What if he only wanted the comfort of having you as a roommate?

That question followed you even as you cooked.

That night you decided to take a small risk. You were in the kitchen preparing something simple: an omelet. You’d overheard from Jimmy that Clark loved breakfast at night, his favorite indulgence, and you confirmed it after some quiet investigating. So you tried: eggs, cheese, ham, vegetables. Nothing extraordinary, but with the hope he’d like it.

When Clark came in, exhausted and loosening his tie, you barely managed to say:

"I made dinner… I thought you might like it."

He looked up, and for the first time in days, his eyes lit up with a genuine smile.

"Really?" he asked, setting his briefcase on the table at once. "For me?"

"Well, for both of us," you corrected, suddenly shy, lowering your gaze to the pan. "It’s nothing special."

Clark chuckled softly and nearly rushed into the kitchen, his excitement so sincere it made you blush.

"It’s more than enough! No one’s cooked for me since… well, since I lived in Smallville. Thank you, really."

Your heart skipped. That was the famous “Clark charm.” Jimmy always teased about it in the newsroom, saying his coworker was so innocent and sweet he couldn’t help but win people over. You used to brush it off with a smile… but now you saw it.

Clark took the first bite with such delight it made you laugh.

"This is amazing," he said with his mouth still full, immediately covering it like he’d committed some unforgivable sin. "Sorry… I shouldn’t talk like that. But seriously, it’s perfect."

"If you want, I can make it more often," you replied, crossing your arms and trying to sound casual, though your voice betrayed a nervous edge.

Clark looked up at you, surprised.

"Do you mean it? Because… I could cook sometimes too. I can make soups, stews… and pancakes, though I always burn the first batch."

You laughed, settling into the chair across from him.

"Clark…" you called after a moment, your voice trembling. You weren’t even sure why you wanted his attention, but hearing your name in his voice always calmed you.

He looked up from the glass of water he had just poured, and when his eyes met yours, he smiled.

"Yes?"

You traced the rim of the table absentmindedly and drew in a breath.

"Could you… give me some advice?"

Clark raised a curious brow.

"About what? Is it for an article? Trouble with your editor?"

You shook your head quickly.

"No, nothing like that. It’s more… personal."

The word made Clark straighten in his seat, resting his elbows on the table.

"All right. Tell me."

You bit your lip, hesitating, but finally blurted it out:

"It’s just… I like someone."

Clark blinked, caught off guard.

"Someone… from the Planet?"

"Uh… no." You shook your head nervously. "Well, he lives in this building."

The silence grew heavier. Clark lowered his gaze to his glass, as if the words had stuck in his throat.

"I see…" he murmured. Then, swallowing hard, he looked up again. "And who is it?"

You faltered, eyes dropping to the crumpled napkin in your hand.

"I don’t know him that well. I’ve only seen him a few times… but he caught my attention."

Clark tilted his head, thoughtful.

"Could it be the guy from 4B? The one always carrying flowers. I’ve seen him a few times."

Your heart raced. You swallowed and nodded slowly, as if that were true.

"Yeah… maybe."

Clark stayed quiet for a moment. His smile was brief, just an attempt to look cheerful.

"Well… he seems like a good guy. You should talk to him."

"I don’t know…" you muttered, lowering your voice. "What if he’s not interested? What if he thinks I’m ridiculous?"

Clark leaned in slightly.

"You’re not ridiculous. Not at all. Just… be yourself. You’re amazing the way you are."

You looked up in surprise, but he had already averted his gaze, as if unaware of what he’d just said.

"Do you really think so?"

Clark adjusted his glasses and shrugged.

"Of course. If I were him… I wouldn’t hesitate to ask you out."

Your cheeks burned, and for a moment you thought he was closer to uncovering the truth. But his tone was so calm, so neutral, it felt like nothing more than kindness.

"Thanks, Clark," you said, though your voice came out faint. You stood slowly, picking up your glass.

"Are you leaving already?"

"Yeah, I think I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day."

Clark opened his mouth, as if to say more, but only managed a nod.

"All right… sleep well."

You walked toward your room, feeling his eyes burning into your back. And even though your heart wanted to scream that he was the one you liked, you swallowed the words. Better to leave it that way.

Once in your room, you calmly put on your pajamas, trying to sort out your head after the conversation in the kitchen. The soft fabric made you feel a little lighter, but the weight in your chest remained. You turned off the light and collapsed onto the bed. The silence of the apartment was usually comforting, though tonight it felt strangely unsettling.

Suddenly, soft knocks echoed against the door.

Curious, you got up and cracked it open, peeking outside.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, surprised to see Clark’s silhouette.

The faint light from the kitchen spilled weakly down the hallway, barely illuminating his features. His glasses caught a glint, but his gaze was steady on you, serious.

“Why him?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You blinked in confusion.

“Him? Who?”

And then you remembered. The conversation earlier in the kitchen. Your clumsy lie. The boy from 4B. You bit your lip and looked down slightly.

“Ah… well, it seems he just… caught my attention.”

Clark nodded slowly, as if he suddenly understood what you had really meant.

An awkward silence stretched between you. The air felt heavier than ever. Then, Clark lowered his voice even more.

“I like someone too.”

Your eyes shot up to him, searching, but you could barely make out his blurred reflection. The hallway was too dark, the kitchen light too dim to reveal much of his face.

A lump formed in your throat.

“Oh… lucky her,” you tried to smile, though your words sounded fragile, sadder than you intended.

Clark, however, smiled faintly, almost melancholic.

“But it’s complicated.”

The silence in the hallway grew heavier. Goosebumps ran across your skin with every second he lingered at your door, wearing that unreadable expression.

“Why?” you dared to whisper.

He gave a small, resigned smile.

“Because… she likes someone else.”

Your lips parted, words failing you. Names instantly filled your mind: Cat with her overwhelming confidence, Lois, the newsroom’s star… even other girls at the Planet you had seen laughing with him in the hallways. Your stomach twisted, yet you managed a slow nod.

“You should tell her,” you murmured, forcing calm into your tone.

Clark immediately shook his head, lowering his gaze.

“No… it would be awkward.”

You frowned, confused.

“Awkward? Why awkward?”

He swallowed hard, inhaled deeply, and for a moment seemed torn between silence and confession. Finally, his voice came out low, almost breaking:

“Because… she’s my roommate.”

Your heart stopped. You literally felt a blow in your chest, the air escaping all at once. You stared at him, needing to be sure you had heard right.

Clark looked back up, and even in the dim light, you saw the flush on his cheeks, his hands fidgeting nervously against the doorframe.

“I don’t stand a chance,” he said at last, with a nervous laugh, as if confessing something too heavy to bear.

Your breath quickened. You stared at him, searching for a lie, but everything about him was so painfully honest.

Your hands trembled against the doorframe, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure Clark could hear it.

“Clark…” you stammered, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Stop joking, okay? It’s not funny.”

He frowned, stepping closer.

“Why do you think I’m joking?” His voice was serious, almost wounded. “Is it because… you like the other guy?”

Your eyes widened and you shook your hands quickly, clumsily.

“No! No, it’s not that…” you stuttered, biting your lip. Heat rushed to your cheeks until they burned. You shut your eyes for a moment and, before you could regret it, you said it:

“It’s because… I like you, Clark.”

The hallway fell silent. Only the distant hum of the fridge accompanied your words. You opened your eyes slowly and looked at him, expecting confusion or disappointment. Instead, you found his blue eyes locked on you, so bright even in the dim light.

Clark froze, as if the entire world had stopped spinning. His lips parted, soundless for a moment.

“Me?” he finally whispered, almost in disbelief.

You nodded, your hands still trembling.

“Yes. You. For a long time. And I’m sorry if that complicates everything… but I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The blush on his face was so clear you could hardly believe this was the same Clark who always looked so composed at the newsroom.

“I thought… it was impossible,” he confessed with a sigh. “That you would never… that you only saw me as your clumsy roommate.”

Your lips curved into a trembling smile. Before you could answer, Clark lowered his gaze, adjusted his glasses with shaking hands, then slipped them off, letting them hang from his shirt. When he looked back at you, there was no more doubt—only nerves and overwhelming tenderness.

His breathing was unsteady, just like yours. He stepped closer, so slowly you could feel the air between you thicken, charged with electricity. His broad chest brushed yours as he leaned in, and the entire hallway seemed to vanish.

Clark lifted one of his large hands and cupped your cheek with such gentleness it made you shiver.

His thumb brushed your skin in a clumsy, uncertain stroke, but it was real—so real it left you trembling. His other hand pressed against the doorframe, caging you in a world where only the two of you existed.

When his lips finally grazed yours, your heart stopped altogether. The first contact was timid, soft, almost a question. His lips were warm, moving slowly, as if he feared breaking you. You answered with the same delicacy, closing your eyes and letting go.

Then Clark dared a little more. He deepened the kiss with gentle pressure, tilting his head to fit better against yours. His breath mingled with yours, his body heat overwhelming and perfect at once. You felt his fingers slide to your nape, pulling you closer, while your hand, almost unconsciously, clutched the wrinkled fabric of his shirt.

It was a kiss both awkward and nervous, yet filled with everything left unsaid. Sweet, slow, and at the same time so intense it left your knees weak.

When he finally pulled back just a fraction, his lips still brushing yours, you felt the vibration of his voice as he whispered:

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Silence fell like an unbearable weight over the room. The dim light of the lamp barely traced the edges of the furniture, and the wall clock ticked with a calm rhythm that contrasted with the tremor in your chest. You could hear your own ragged breathing, the pounding of your heart, and that knot in your throat that refused to unravel. You didn’t dare look at him. You felt you had no right, because in that moment it seemed impossible to hold something as fragile as Clark’s heart—a heart that, though strong and heroic for the world, was more human with you than with anyone else.

But you were tired. You were being consumed little by little, tearing yourself apart. Even though you shared a roof, loneliness had become your constant companion. You lived together, and yet he always seemed absent. Yes, he was physically there, but what you needed—his attention, his time, his warmth—slipped through your fingers like sand. And that wound could no longer be hidden.

Clark was there, standing, still in his suit, red and blue clashing with the shadows of the room. He had arrived only minutes earlier, after rescuing dozens of people from a sinking ship. His hair was still damp with sea breeze, his breathing slightly quickened, but the only thing that mattered to him was seeing you. And yet you didn’t look at him. You kept your back straight, your eyes fixed on the floor, as if turning toward him would shatter you completely.

“It’s not working, Clark…” your voice came out fragile, broken, more like a sigh than a sentence. “I’m sorry, but I can’t keep fighting for something that doesn’t seem to matter the same way to you. It hurts… I feel empty and… forgive me.”

Your words lingered in the air. He staggered, as if struck by an invisible blow. His eyes filled with tears in an instant, shining under the faint light. That image alone shattered you more than you had imagined.

“You don’t… love me anymore?” he asked, his voice trembling, fractured halfway through the sentence. The pain in his tone pierced you like a knife, and the tears you had held back for so long finally began to fall.

“Clark…” you whispered, almost like a reproach, and turned to face him.

It was a mistake.

There he was, still in his Superman suit clinging to his body, the cape draped over his shoulders like an invisible burden. On any other night you would have run into his arms, kissed him until the anger and sadness melted away. But that night your heart broke into a thousand pieces when you saw what he was holding in his hands: a bouquet of red roses, some wilted by the wind, others still intact as if trying to save him from being forgotten.

Your eyes met his. Those blue eyes that had always gleamed like the sea at dawn were now red and swollen with tears. The world’s greatest hero was crying before you. And watching him cry was beautiful… unbearably beautiful. A heartbreaking work of art that only dragged you deeper into sorrow.

He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, breathing unevenly.

“I bought the groceries…” he murmured, as if those words could rebuild what was already broken.

He swallowed hard, lips trembling, and added quickly, desperately: “I picked up your skirt from the dry cleaners…”

A sob escaped his throat, yet he didn’t stop. Desperation drove him to say anything, as if these small tokens of normality could convince you to stay. “I bought your favorite coffee…” his voice cracked even more, as if every word hurt. “I went to the market and brought your green apples, the ones you always choose first. I checked the washer, changed the light bulb in the living room…”

He spoke between gasps, like a child giving excuses without knowing the right one, like a lost man who couldn’t understand how something he swore to protect had come to an end.

His voice trembled, a sob slipping through the words. Still, he looked at you as if searching for the slightest trace of hope in your face.

You nodded slowly, your voice hanging by a thread.

“But you’re not here, Clark…” you answered, your tone heavy with exhaustion and sorrow. “Not with me.”

He shook his head, desperate, at a loss for words. The roses tightened in his hands, as if clinging to them were the only thing keeping him from collapsing before you. His lips quivered, his shoulders slumped, and for the first time you saw the world’s greatest hero completely defeated… only by the fear of losing you.

It was true. Even if you tried to excuse his absences, the memories weighed like stones on your heart. Your anniversary, when you waited with the table set and two empty glasses, and he never came. Your birthday, blowing out the candle alone, while the wax dripped in silence because Clark was busy saving the world. You forgave him—how could you not, knowing what Superman meant to everyone else?—but the pain remained.

Then came the worst: losing your job. He didn’t find out until he saw you crying in the kitchen, by sheer luck, because if he hadn’t seen you, he never would have known. He missed the dinner with your friends. He left you alone at the airport, and in the end, you made your way to his parents’ farm on your own. You endured all of it, because you loved him, because your heart was willing to destroy itself just to have him near. But your limit was approaching, and you hated to admit it.

Clark looked at you as if he could read every hidden thought in your mind. His voice shook with a plea rarely heard from him. “Don’t go…” he murmured, lips trembling. “Don’t do it.”

He took a few steps forward, but stopped. And that hurt even more. You knew he did it out of respect for your space, because Clark would never cross a line without knowing you wanted him to. But in that moment, you wished for the opposite: for him to fight for you, to hold you even if you cried, to insist even if it hurt, to lie if necessary just to keep you from leaving. Yet you knew him too well. You knew that if you walked away, he wouldn’t chase you. His love was so great he’d never allow himself to bother you, even if it killed him.

That was why you had spent two weeks deciding whether to say it. Every morning you woke up and watched him getting dressed for work, with that shy smile that always seemed like an unspoken apology, with that good-morning kiss that almost made you forget the empty night without him. But you could no longer ignore the void. The small lamp in the living room—the one you had bought yourself to bring warmth to the place—was the only witness to what you had just confessed. There was no turning back.

“This apartment doesn’t feel like home anymore…” you whispered through tears.

Clark dropped the roses instantly, letting them fall to the floor. The soft thud of the stems against the wood echoed louder than any thunder. “But you decorated it…” his voice broke. “We painted it together…”

“Clark, you don’t understand.” You shook your head, pressing your hands against your temples, feeling your world unravel. “You’re everywhere, you help so many people, but you’re no longer here. This apartment… it doesn’t feel like ours anymore. Just yours.”

Your confession escaped almost like anger, almost like a strangled scream. The tears burned against your skin.

"I got fired again…" you managed to say, forcing yourself to look at him. "And you didn’t even know. I found another job after that time you caught me crying, but you never knew about that either because… well, you know, Superman is always busy."

He shook his head desperately, his eyes clouded with tears, as if he wanted to erase your words by force.

Clark suddenly understood everything he had done wrong. He remembered the times his parents had warned him that saving the world wasn’t enough—that he also had to take care of what he loved close to him. He remembered your fading smile, your tired gaze, and felt an unbearable weight sink into his chest.

"I’m leaving," you said firmly, though your voice trembled. You lowered your eyes, unable to hold his. "I didn’t want to leave without telling you."

You turned toward the bedroom to start packing, your heart pounding as if it might burst. But then you felt it: his trembling hand closing around your wrist.

The touch stopped you. Slowly, you turned, raising your eyes. And there he was: Clark Kent, the invincible hero who could stop ships, fires, and earthquakes… but who now, standing before you, looked more fragile than ever.

The silence broke with a muffled sob. Clark was looking at you with that trembling little pout on his lips until, suddenly, he fell to his knees before you. The scene was so unexpected your hands froze, unsure what to do, when he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in your stomach.

He was so tall, so strong, and yet he clung to you like a frightened child. His sobs were intense, gut-wrenching; you felt his chest shake against you, his hands trembling as they gently held your hips, not squeezing, not hurting.

"Don’t go…" he whispered between sobs, his voice shattered, broken into a thousand pieces. "Forgive me, please. I swear I’ll do better. I swear I’ll do everything to be present. If I have to… I’ll stop being Superman. Whatever you want, just give me a chance."

He lifted his gaze slightly, his crystalline eyes shining red, wet with tears he didn’t try to hide. "I know I don’t deserve another chance, I know I failed… that you don’t want to see me, but I haven’t stopped loving you for a single day. Even if I could only see you for a minute, even if I could only hear you breathe from afar, I would keep loving you just the same…" His voice cracked again, his knees hitting the floor harder.

"Clark…" you called softly, your throat tight with emotion. You tried to pull him back from your body to look at him properly, but he shook his head and held onto you tighter, as if letting go meant losing the last thread that bound him to you.

"I know I was wrong," he repeated desperately. "I understand, I accept it… but I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to lose the love of my life."

You froze. You had never imagined seeing him like this, begging. Clark Kent, Superman, the man who could carry entire cities on his shoulders… was pleading on his knees not to lose you. Begging like the boy who once implored his parents not to fall ill, not to leave him. And now he was begging for you, because he knew that if you walked out that apartment door, he would never chase you. He respected you too much for that—and that very respect was destroying him.

Your tears fell into his hair, soaking the curls you caressed with trembling hands. Feeling your touch, Clark cried even harder, but didn’t pull away. He stayed there, buried against your stomach, sobbing with all the pain of a man who didn’t know how to mend what he had broken.

"I can’t stay, Clark…" you whispered in a broken voice, carefully lifting his face.

You saw him up close. His blue eyes, once bright like a clear sky, were now dim, wet, reddened by tears. His face looked undone, as though each tear had carved a crack into his skin. And yet, he was still the most perfect vision you had ever beheld. Tenderly, you wiped away his tears, though every brush of your fingers was a lash against your own chest.

"I know we’ll go back to the same cycle…" you added, lowering your gaze, the certainty burning you from within.

Clark shook his head desperately, clutching you tighter, his lips trembling. "I keep my promises. I do." His voice broke, a lament caught between sobs. "Look at me."

You obeyed. Your eyes met his, clouded, broken, but unwavering in their refusal to look away. He looked at you as if you were the last thing he could see before dying.

"If you tell me that I’m the one hurting you…" his voice dropped, torn by pain, "then I’ll let you go. I won’t insist. I promised you from the moment I met you: I would never do anything to hurt you. And I know that… I know the burden I carry should be mine alone."

His eyes dropped to your light-blue blouse, soaked by his tears. He swallowed hard, as though guilt were choking him. "But if you leave…" his breath broke, a groan tearing from his throat, "I just want you to know this: I love you. I love you with everything I am, and I will spend the rest of my life loving you. No one will take your place. No one."

His voice faltered for a moment, before resuming with an even rawer desperation. "Thank you for putting up with me, for forgiving every mistake, for giving me more than I deserve even though I nearly destroyed you in the process. No one… no one has ever loved me like that. And I know no one ever will again."

His forehead sank against your stomach again, trembling, as if with that gesture he could beg the universe for a miracle. His words kept coming, broken, drenched in tears:

"I don’t know how to be Clark without you… I don’t know how to keep coming home to this apartment and not finding you here… I don’t know how to save the world if you’re not the one waiting for me. I don’t care about the suit, I don’t care about the S on my chest, I don’t care about anything if you’re not here." His voice rose slightly, desperate. "Tell me I still have a chance… even the slightest one, tell me it’s not all lost, because if you walk out that door I… I won’t know how to keep breathing."

Clark sobbed again, gently tightening his hold on your waist, pleading without words.

Your heart clenched so hard you couldn’t take it anymore: you threw yourself at him and hugged him with all your strength. Clark held you instantly, burying his face in your neck, clinging to you as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. His breath trembled against your skin, and you sobbed with a mix of rage and relief.

"Why weren’t you at my birthday?" you asked, your voice heavy with anger, though you never released him. Your tears dampened his shoulder, but your arms stayed firm around him. "I waited for you, Clark. I wished so badly to see you there… and you make me think you love me, and at the same time you forget me… you leave me alone."

Clark let out a heartbreaking sob and squeezed you tighter, as if your words pierced straight through him. "Never…" his voice broke as he tried to speak. "Never could I hate you." He pulled back just enough to cradle your face in his trembling hands, his fingers caressing your wet cheeks. "You are everything to me. Forgive me, please."

You looked at him in silence. Your eyes still carried reproach, but also love. Clark swallowed hard, and his voice came out defeated, almost a resigned whisper: "You’re going to leave, aren’t you?" he asked, painfully accepting the idea that maybe this was the last time he’d ever see you.

Your hands rose to wipe away his tears. You caressed his cheek, then moved to the place where his dimples always appeared when he smiled… but now there was no trace of them, only tense lines and skin wet from crying.

"Why?" you asked, your voice breaking, your chest pounding so hard it hurt.

Clark held your gaze, his reddened blue eyes pleading, as if that simple question forced him to bare his soul.

"Because I don’t know how to divide myself…" he finally confessed, his voice torn. "Because I try to save everyone, but in doing so… I end up failing you. And you’re the only one I don’t want to lose." His hands slid down, resting on your arms, trembling. "Because I’m selfish. Because I cling to you even when I’m not here as I should be. Because I thought I could carry the world and you at the same time… and in the end I only hurt you."

His forehead dropped against yours, heavy with restrained desperation. "I don’t want to lose you. I’d rather give up everything, give up who I am, than lose you. If I have to be only Clark and forget about Superman… I will. Just tell me you’ll give me one last chance, that you still want to stay… because if you tell me no, I don’t know if I’ll survive it."

His words collapsed around you. You saw him so strong for everyone else, yet so broken only for you, that your anger began to melt into your love. Yes, he was devastated, but what shone through his voice wasn’t only guilt: it was love, pure and desperate.

And though the wound was still open, in that moment you understood that he was bleeding inside too.

Your tears mingled with his as you finally hugged him tighter, as if with that embrace you could hold together the shattered pieces of you both.

Clark lifted your face clumsily, his hands trembling, and his lips found yours in a desperate kiss, broken by sobs. It was a kiss full of tears, wet, uneven, but also burning and alive. They searched for each other with the urgency of those who had almost lost everything. His lips trembled against yours, and yet he didn’t stop kissing you, as if every second could be the last.

When they finally pulled apart, he hid his face against your chest, breathing heavily, still crying. His shoulders shook beneath your embrace.

“Don’t leave me again, Clark…” you murmured, stroking his hair tenderly, your voice still breaking. “Because even though I don’t want to go… I will, if I ever feel alone again.”

He nodded desperately, unable to speak. He only shut his eyes tightly, buried his face in your skin, and let out a sob louder than the ones before.

“I swear…” he said at last, his voice trembling. “I swear, love, I won’t leave you. I won’t fail you again.”

You slowly guided him to the bed, still holding him, because you knew that if you let go, he would collapse. You both fell onto the sheets, exhausted, holding each other with the strength of two shipwreck survivors who had just been saved.

Clark pressed himself against you, wrapping his arms around you as if trying to merge with you. His forehead was damp, pressed to your collarbone, his breath warm and broken against your skin.

“Stay with me…” he whispered, with a childlike fear in his voice. “Don’t go, please.”

Your fingers stroked his back, soothing his trembling, and you kissed his forehead as if that could seal his promise.

“I’m here, Clark,” you said softly. “But don’t leave me again… because I don’t know if I could endure it another time.”

He nodded quickly, desperately, like a child just forgiven for an unforgivable mischief. He pressed you tighter against his chest, as if afraid you might vanish by morning.

“I’m scared…” he confessed in a thread of voice, burying himself even deeper into you. “I’m scared that when I wake up… you won’t be here anymore.”

You held him tighter, your tears wetting his hair. And in that shared silence, with both of you broken and yet bound together, you understood that that night there was no hero, no journalist: only a shattered man, begging for the love of his life.

Morning came with a strange silence. The soft light filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in golden hues. Clark slowly opened his eyes, expecting to find you at his side, but the bed was empty. The sheet still warm on the other side reminded him you had been there, but you were gone.

His heart clenched in an instant. His breath caught, and suddenly the memories of the night before pierced him. Fear consumed him.

“No…” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes filling with tears once more.

Panic struck so hard he threw himself from the bed, falling to his knees on the floor as the tears began to fall. He stumbled to his feet, rushed out of the room almost running, his heart pounding as if he had just lost an impossible battle.

Then he saw it.

The living room was tidy, everything in its place, as if someone had tried to bring life back to the space that had seemed to collapse the night before. And on the table, in a glass vase, were the roses he had dropped to the floor. You had picked them up, removed the thorns, and carefully placed them in water.

Air returned to his lungs.

He walked slowly toward the kitchen, and there you were. Standing by the stove, your hair messy, your eyes swollen from the crying of the night before, setting breakfast on the table. You turned when you felt him, surprised, with the same damp glow in your eyes that he carried now.

Clark didn’t hesitate. He took a few hurried steps toward you, and when your gaze met his, you were already running too. You met in the middle of the kitchen, and you held him with all your strength, while he buried his face in your neck once more, crying with a relief so intense it almost hurt.

“I thought you wouldn’t be here…” he murmured with a sob, his arms tightening around you.

“Don’t leave me again, Clark,” you said firmly, though your tears trembled on your lashes.

He nodded desperately, like a man swearing a promise with his life. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, as if needing to make sure you were there, real, flesh and blood.

“I’m never leaving again,” he whispered against your skin. “I swear, love, nothing else matters. Only you.”

Clark kept his promise. He was there, punctual and smiling, when you blew out your birthday candles, surrounded by friends and with his hand entwined in yours. He was there, waiting for you after that job interview, with flowers in his hands and the proud smile you loved so much. And he was there, carrying you in his arms, flying together to Smallville to have dinner with his parents, while you laughed with the wind on your face and he looked at you as if you were the only home he would ever need.

This time, there was no absence, no loneliness. Only Clark and you, learning to love each other with wounds, but also with promises kept.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

You looked at the clock with a nervous smile. It was almost time. To anyone passing by, it might have seemed like you were waiting for the delivery of a long-dreamed package, or that your parents were about to visit you by surprise. But no. What you were waiting for was Clark.

He left work at five o’clock sharp, punctual as a Swiss watch, and had promised to stay the night with you. It wasn’t the first time; in fact, he already stayed so often at your apartment that he was practically another tenant. He had his own pajamas stored in your closet, a pair of red slippers waiting next to yours (which were blue), and even a couple of spare suits, because more than once he had needed to leave flying—literally—early in the morning, after “many things in bed.”

Your life as a part-time teacher left you free in the afternoons; you got home at three, and the loneliness weighed a little heavier than it should. That’s why having him there was like an instant cure. Wanting to see him, kiss him, tangle yourself in his arms had become almost a ritual. Since you met him, no one had made you as happy as he did: hugging him was your favorite habit. A hug from behind, your face buried in his chest, or simply wrapping your arms around his torso while he rested his chin on your head. Nothing sexual; you just wanted to smell him, feel him, be protected by your 6’4” giant. He returned it all with everything: kisses, caresses, bringing food, more kisses, more hugs. Clark Kent, the farm boy from Smallville, was yours. And that was enough.

Perhaps the excitement was too much. For both of you.

Clark had always had perfect control over his strength, because… well, he was Superman. He could lift stranded cars as if they were cereal boxes, help workers by raising an entire train off the rails, and even lift your refrigerator so you could clean behind it. All of it done with the gentleness of someone holding a glass cup. He would never, ever hurt you. He couldn’t even imagine it.

But the problem was that today he wasn’t Superman. Today he was Clark, the man in love, climbing the stairs to your building with a smile that outshone the evening sun. His dimples glimmered, his eyes were wide with excitement, and he looked like a child about to open Christmas presents. You also smiled as you reached the door.

And that’s when the disaster began.

You reached out to open it at the exact same second he did from the outside. It was ridiculous synchronicity, fate playing a trick on you. The door, poor innocent victim, didn’t survive the impact: it thundered with such force that it sounded like a herd of buffalo had just rammed into it.

Your body shot backward like you had just taken a roller-coaster ride at lightning speed. You literally flew. Your arms flailed in the air, your feet left the ground, and for a second you had a mystical epiphany: “So this is what a balloon feels when the air escapes from it?”

“AAAAAAAAH!” you screamed, in such a high-pitched shriek that surely all the neighbors thought you were in the middle of a paranormal episode.

Clark, on the other side, opened his eyes wide and muttered in horror: “Oh no, oh no, oh no…!”

Meanwhile, you floated for half a second more before crashing onto the floor. Luckily, you didn’t land on the living-room table—otherwise it would have ended in a tragedy worthy of the ER—but you still hit hard enough to let out an embarrassing groan.

“Ay… my dignity…” you mumbled, barely conscious.

And for Clark it was worse: seeing you fly left him in shock. He hadn’t even used his reflexes. I mean, who could have thought—neither you nor him—that such an absurd scene would happen? But it did. And in that instant, his heart stopped, his skin went pale, and he felt as if he had just destroyed his own world.

“No, no, no, no, no… Love! God, are you breathing?” he murmured, rushing to you immediately. He lifted you with extreme delicacy, as if you were made of glass. Thankfully, the door had closed by itself; otherwise your neighbors would have sworn Clark had thrown you onto the floor as part of some strange domestic sport.

“Breathe, please breathe!” he begged, placing his hand on your chest. He felt your heart pounding, surely from the fright. He sighed in relief: “Yes… you’re breathing, thank heaven…” But then he turned on his X-ray vision and began examining you like a desperate radiologist. Your organs were intact, no internal fractures… though externally, of course, you looked like a train-wreck victim.

“She’s not waking up! Why isn’t she waking up?” he said, voice breaking, while cradling you in his arms. Panic was consuming him.

Clark began pacing in circles across the living room, holding you like a sack of sacred flour. His steps were so quick and clumsy he looked like a first-time father with a crying newborn in his arms.

“This is worse than when Luthor tried to blow up Metropolis! I threw myself at the door and she went flying! I’m Clark Kent, the most useless boyfriend on Earth! Who the hell hurts his girlfriend with a door? With a door!” he cried, nearly on the verge of tears.

Your body began to move slightly, reacting to his trembling voice. Clark noticed and spoke faster, almost stammering.

“Ok, ok, think! Smallville… Mom would know what to do… no, wait, the hospital! No, no, at the hospital they’ll ask what happened! What do I tell them? That I catapulted her myself? They’ll lock me up for life! They’ll take away my press card! They’ll deport me from the Justice League!”

You frowned, still half asleep, and murmured weakly: “Clark…?”

He froze. His eyes lit up with relief, and in two steps he laid you gently on the couch, like Snow White just awakening.

“You’re okay, thank heaven!” he exclaimed, gripping your hand as if you had just come out of a ten-year coma. “I swear I had a triple heart attack.”

You gave a faint smile, but Clark wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He smothered you in kisses: on your forehead, cheeks, nose, even your chin.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry… I’ll never touch a door again, I swear! Doors and I are finished! I’ll come through the window from now on, even if I get arrested for trespassing.”

You tried to laugh, but a groan slipped from your throat.

“Does it hurt? No, it can’t! Tell me where! Your back? Your neck? I’ll get ice! Or no, fire! What’s the right thing? I don’t know what’s right!”

“Of course it hurts, Clark,” you said through giggles and grimaces. “You launched me like I was a feather.”

He lowered his gaze, defeated, as if he had just committed a crime against humanity.

“I’m a monster…” he muttered, dramatically.

“Love…” you whispered, stroking his curls, trying to calm him. “It was an accident.”

Clark buried his face in his hands and sighed.

“An accident… with my girlfriend flying across the room. Do you know how ridiculous your scream sounded? If anyone recorded it, tomorrow I’ll be on the news: ‘Superman defeats his girlfriend with the apartment door.’”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even though it still hurt. “Clark, please, stop being so dramatic.”

But he didn’t lift his head. “I’ll never forgive myself. Not even if you forgive me. Who wants to date a man who throws his girlfriend across the living room? Nobody!”

You laughed again, carefully this time. “Come here, my enormous farm boy with brute strength, who almost turned me into purée.” You hugged him gently, and he leaned into you as if you both needed to fuse together.

The blow, luckily, wasn’t too bad. You ended up with a purple bruise on your abdomen that lasted three days, but nothing more than that. Clark, of course, was convinced they would wrap you like a mummy in the ER. When the doctor told him it was only a bruise, he nearly asked for a second international opinion.

And worst of all, he wouldn’t stop checking on you. Every day, every hour. He would lift your blouse without asking permission and examine you with his vision, as serious as a detective.

“Clark, I already told you it’s just a bruise…” you protested, while he tilted his head like a mad scientist.

“I’m going to keep an eye on it. I don’t care if it looks like a grape stain. That bruise won’t fool me!”

“Clark…” you said with resignation, laughing. “If you keep this up, you’re going to scare the poor bruise away and it’ll vanish out of sheer embarrassment.”

He looked at you very seriously and then sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “Promise me that if you ever see a door again, you’ll let me open it.”

“I promise to let you open all the doors… except the bathroom.”

“Deal!”

A week later, the bruise was almost gone. It had faded from a deep purple to a small, faint yellow mark, barely visible. That Saturday morning you were calm: you had cooked, eaten breakfast, and were now sitting on the couch. On the television flickered a cartoon with loud colors—the only thing moving at that hour besides a news broadcast you instantly recognized, the same one Clark always put on whenever he came over—so you left the cartoon show running in the background while you nestled into the cushions.

The door opened.

It was strange. No prior message, no warning. Even though Clark had the habit of entering your apartment as if it were his own, there was always a pattern, a call or at least a text. Not this time. This time was different. You squinted, studying the scene. The door turned on its hinges with deliberate slowness. You saw his hand on the knob, turning it with exaggerated caution, almost theatrical. You held back a laugh rising in your chest when you saw him peek his head in first, as if testing the waters. When his eyes found you on the couch, far from the entrance, his expression relaxed and he smiled, opening the door normally as if nothing odd had just happened.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. He seemed to be trying very hard not to repeat last week’s incident.

“Hi…” he said with a shy smile, as if he needed your permission to step in.

Clark wore jeans, a rolled-up white shirt, and carried several bags: probably more of his clothes and food to stock your fridge. He dropped everything carelessly on the floor and headed straight to you.

He stood before you, gently parted your legs, gave you a quick kiss, and without warning, lifted your blouse as naturally as breathing.

“Clark! What—?” you managed to protest, blushing.

He didn’t hear you. He was far too busy inspecting the small bruise still lingering on your abdomen. He brushed it with his fingers, focused, as though solving a medical case. Then he activated his x-ray vision… and that was when he made his mistake.

His thumb moved across the spot with such softness it made your skin prickle. His touch was warm and quiet. Inspecting, checking. And then, without meaning to, his gaze shifted. He had lifted the fabric too high, and in that unthinking motion, he had left your left breast completely exposed, without the shield of a bra.

He froze. Blinked. Swallowed hard.

“Sorry. I didn’t know…” he stammered, instantly looking away. “You weren’t wearing one.”

His cheeks flushed red. You felt the heat rising up your neck as well. He stared straight ahead, fixed on some extremely fascinating point on the opposite wall. But he couldn’t help it—every fraction of a second, his eyes flickered down to your chest, still half-exposed beneath the bunched-up blouse. The thin cotton fabric, soft and worn, didn’t hide much. And the morning chill, combined with the accidental brush of his fingers, had left your nipples hard, pressing clearly against the cloth in a way that now seemed indecent.

Clark drew in a deep breath, still unable to meet your eyes.

A shy but intentional smile curved on your lips as you leaned toward him, closing the distance between your faces. You kissed him, and this time it wasn’t quick or restrained; it was slow. His lips responded with the same contained urgency, and by the time he finally pulled back, his hands were already resting on your thighs, gently anchoring you against the couch.

He looked at you, and in his blue eyes you could see the inner battle he was fighting. His concern was tangible, almost a physical weight in the air between you.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. "The bruise still hasn’t completely faded."

His gaze drifted to your torso, as if he could see through the fabric to check the mark, but then returned to your eyes, defenseless. He was lost, and the sight of you—unguarded and surrendered—was driving him insane.

"It doesn’t matter," you whispered, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I’d rather you lose control while you fuck me than throw me against the floor just for opening a door too fast."

A bubbling laugh escaped you when you saw him shake his head, genuine remorse flashing across his face.

"Baby, that’s not…" he protested, the blush on his cheeks deepening into crimson. "With comments like that, I don’t feel like… like doing that," he muttered, almost in a sigh, and you laughed again, fascinated by his modesty.

"Doing what, Clark?" you teased, sliding your fingers along the line of his jaw, feeling the tension in his muscles. You were bewitched, completely caught by the charm of Clark Kent—by those eyes that looked at you with the devotion of a believer and the struggle of a man desperately trying, and failing, not to fall into the temptation you represented. And you knew it. You knew that if you asked him, he would do anything for you.

He held your gaze, and without a word of warning, he gave in. He slipped beneath your blouse, and you sank into the couch with a muffled moan. A brutal wave of sensations coursed through you when his hot mouth found your left breast. Your eyes rolled upward, showing the whites, and your breath faltered. All you could see was the fabric of your blouse puffed up, hiding his head, but your world shrank to the wet heat of his mouth, the precise pressure of his tongue circling your nipple, the rhythmic suction that made you arch your back and moan without restraint.

A sharp whimper tore from your throat when, in a surge of passion, his arm wrapped around your torso and pressed a little harder—right against the fading bruise. He froze instantly, as if he had touched red-hot iron.

He pulled back just enough for his eyes, filled with panic and desire, to meet yours through the gap of stretched fabric. The sight of his face, both worried and aroused, brought a tender, almost indulgent smile to your lips.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice rough, heavy with genuine concern.

"No," you gasped, catching your breath. "Not at all. Keep going, Clark. Please, make me come."

He shook his head, still embarrassed, but need outweighed modesty. He returned to your chest, this time with a more methodical, more deliberate approach. His mouth reclaimed your right nipple with a devotion that made you shiver. Meanwhile, his large, warm hands slid down to the waistband of your pajama pants. He pushed the fabric down, and you instinctively lifted your hips to help him, feeling the cotton give way and release you.

A deep, trembling sigh escaped your lips as, in the intimate space you had created, you felt the touch of his fingers—calloused, yet unbelievably gentle—gliding over your wetness before one, firm and sure, slipped inside you. Your legs opened completely, inviting him to go deeper, to claim that rhythm only the two of you knew.

"You're drenched, love," he murmured, his voice rough, laced with admiration that made you tighten around his finger.

You could barely nod, choking back a moan at the back of your throat. "Mhmh…" was all you managed, focusing on not falling apart too soon, on stretching out that perfect instant of anticipation.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, and the sound of your body’s natural slickness was obscenely loud in the silence. Another deep, shaky sigh left you just before the wave of orgasm began to crest—but he stopped, holding you at the edge with maddening mastery.

He emerged from beneath your blouse, hair tousled, lips shining. His hands moved with restrained urgency to his own pants, unbuttoning and pulling the zipper down with rough movements. He settled into the couch, pressing you into the cushions, exquisitely careful to avoid your torso. Instead, he hooked your thigh with his arm, lifting it, while your other leg bent against the sofa, spreading you completely open for him. With his free hand, he grasped his cock—already fully hard, glistening with precum. He slid it against your entrance, again and again, without entering, sending violent shivers through your body.

He smiled—a rare expression on him: a mix of Kent’s shyness and pure, shameless lust. Clark was shy, your Clark always, but he was also becoming a man who knew the power he held over you, and vice versa. Perhaps it was your doing; you had taught him, with patience and insistence, to enter a world of pleasure he had never dared to dream of, but now only wished to explore with you.

He brushed your clit with the tip of his cock again, fascinated by the tremor that followed. He tore off his glasses in one quick motion, tossing them aside without caring where they fell, so the heat of your bodies wouldn’t fog his vision. He gripped himself more firmly, his eyes fixed on your hips rising instinctively toward him, begging. His gaze traveled from your blouse, damp and stained with his saliva, to your glassy eyes, then down to where his cock pulsed against your soaked pussy, before lingering on your chest, where your hand clutched your breast through the fabric, teasing the hard nipple pressing against the cotton.

"God," he whispered almost to himself. "You’re so… delicious."

And then, with a slowness that made you cry out in frustration and pleasure, he pushed inside you.

Your head fell back against the couch, and a muffled cry tore from your lips. He adored how you molded to him, how your body—so open and so tight at once—always welcomed him, wrapped him, accepted him completely. Your hand, which moments before had played with your breast, now clung trembling to his shoulder. And then, with a deep, decisive thrust, Clark buried himself in you entirely.

He leaned over you, panting, watching every fiber of you tremble. Your hot breaths mingled, creating an intimate cloud around you. He was aroused beyond reason, losing rhythm for a moment, pounding hard enough to make your breasts bounce freely. He caught one in his free hand, kneading it roughly, and leaned close to your ear.

"So hard… just for me," he murmured, and though the words were shameless, the flush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment—an embarrassment he could no longer contain.

You tried to respond, but another brutal thrust stole the air, replacing words with a long, broken moan.

"Oh, Clark!" you managed, your trembling hand sliding along his cheek, moving with every thrust. "Lose control… I can take it," you added, a loving, defiant smile on your lips, though breathless.

"Really?" he asked, never slowing, his rhythm growing more erratic, more desperate.

"You could break me in two… and I’d thank you," you panted. He smiled then—a wide, rare smile you only saw in moments like this.

He would never hurt you; you knew that. But he would make you come, over and over, until you were dripping and speechless, until the tremors refused to stop. And he did. He brought you to your fifth orgasm that morning, now in bed, where the springs groaned under his weight and your strength. And just when you thought you couldn’t go further, he stopped.

Because that was his contrast. The man who could move mountains turned back into Clark Kent, the enormous, awkward farm boy from Smallville. He collapsed over you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his ragged breathing slowly evening out. You laughed weakly, teasing how he had practically made you fly across the room without realizing his strength.

But even as you teased, he would never take offense. Because you weren’t laughing at him, but with him. Because you loved him as he was—with all his overwhelming strength and his endearing clumsiness. Because, deep down, that was what he had always longed for: someone who loved him precisely for being Clark Kent, the small-town boy who sometimes broke doorknobs and needed glasses, but who loved you with an intensity strong enough to move the world.

And you were that someone. In the quiet space that followed the storm, wrapped in his arms, there was no place in the world you would rather be.