#batbugenergy

it’s impressive, honestly. you’ve seen politicians less reactive.

“oh—no, i—um. it’s nothing,” he says, and ducks his head, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.

you take the notebook from him. your fingers brush his, and he freezes.

you clock it immediately. the stiffness. the hesitation. the way his breath seems to stutter.

interesting.

“thanks, country,” you say brightly. “you just saved democracy. or at least my grocery list.”

he lets out a small, startled laugh, like he didn’t expect his body to make that sound.

and just like that, the dynamic is set.

you’re everything he isn’t.

you’re loud in the newsroom. not obnoxious—just alive. you talk with your hands. you argue like it’s a sport. you laugh like it’s a dare. you’re confident, unapologetic, and allergic to shrinking.

clark, meanwhile, writes like he’s trying not to be noticed. his articles are devastatingly precise. humane. kind. brutally honest in a way that never feels cruel.

he never raises his voice. he never interrupts. he never makes a scene.

and yet—somehow—you keep ending up assigned to the same stories.

“partner up,” perry orders one morning, waving his hands. “kent, you handle background. you—” he points at you, “—bring the heat.”

clark nods immediately. “yes, sir.”

you flash him a grin. “ready to bring the heat, smallville?”

he nearly drops his pen.

“i’m—not—uh—” he clears his throat. “yeah. of course.” he sounds like he’s bracing for impact.

which, honestly, is fair.

you notice things.

you notice how clark listens to you like you’re the only sound in the room. you notice how he laughs quietly at your jokes, even when you’re pretty sure they weren’t that funny. you notice how he turns red when you stand too close. you notice how he never quite meets your eyes when the conversation turns personal.

and, maybe most interestingly, you notice how careful he is with you.

not in a patronizing way. not in a fragile way.

more like he’s holding something precious he doesn’t believe belongs to him.

you’re working late one night, the newsroom dim and humming with that low electric fatigue that settles in after midnight.

clark sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. he looks more like himself this way, slightly less put together, slightly more real.

“you’re staring,” you mutter without looking up.

his pencil stops moving. “i—sorry. i wasn’t—” he falters, then admits softly, “you just… work very intensely.”

you glance up, smirking. “is that a complaint?”

“no!” he says quickly. “no, not at all, it’s—um—it’s impressive.”

that word lands heavier than it should.

you lean back in your chair, studying him. “clark kent, are you flirting with me?”

he goes scarlet.

“i—what? no. i wouldn’t—i don’t—” he looks like he might short-circuit. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

you laugh. “relax. i’m teasing. mostly.”

he tries to smile. it comes out crooked, shy, sincere.

you realize something then.

he’s not oblivious, he’s terrified.

there’s a rhythm to the way you work together.

you chase leads. he verifies facts.

you kick down doors. he makes sure no one gets hurt in the process.

you call sources at reckless hours. he sends follow-up emails that somehow sound like handwritten letters.

sometimes, your leg bumps his under the conference table, and he stiffens like he’s been struck by lightning. sometimes, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you asked him, point-blank, what he feels.

you don’t.

not because you’re scared.

but because it’s… fun. the tension. the slow burn. the way he seems to hover at the edge of saying something and never quite steps over the line.

one evening, after a long assignment, you end up walking out together.

metropolis hums around you. neon. sirens. wind curling down the streets.

“you ever get tired of this?” you ask him, gesturing at the city. “the noise. the chaos. the pressure?”

he thinks for a moment. “no,” he says quietly. “it reminds me that people matter.”

you blink at him.

god, he’s earnest.

“that might be the most clark kent answer in history,” you say, smiling.

he chuckles softly. “and is that… bad?”

“no,” you hum. “it’s refreshing.”

there’s a beat.

you catch him glancing at you, then looking away again like it physically pains him to hold eye contact.

“you know,” you say casually, “most people would’ve made a move by now.”

his heart stutters so hard you swear you can see it.

“a move?” he echoes.

you tilt your head. “yeah, you know coffee? dinner? a risky workplace flirtation? you’ve had plenty of openings.”

he swallows. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits. “or assume anything.”

you soften despite yourself. “that’s considerate,” you say gently. “but you’re allowed to want things, clark.”

he looks at you like that sentence is brand new. “i do,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

your breath catches.

he looks horrified at his own honesty.

“i mean—i—what i meant was—” he stumbles, face burning. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—”

you step a little closer.

“hey,” you say quietly. “if you’re too shy… you can just say so.”

his eyes flicker up to meet yours for half a second longer than usual.

“i’m… working on it,” he says.

and something about the way he says it makes your chest feel too full.

later that night, lying in bed, you think about clark kent.

the way his voice softens when he talks to you. the way he holds doors open like it’s a sacred duty. the way he looks like he’s constantly trying not to take up space, despite being physically incapable of doing anything else.

you wonder what it would take to make him brave. you wonder if he’s thinking about you too. you suspect he is.

he’s not very good at hiding it.

you start noticing how close clark kent stands to you.

not close close. never anything bold. never anything that could be called intentional. but closer than he stands to anyone else. close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when you lean over a document together. close enough that your elbow brushes his sleeve more often than coincidence would allow.

he always freezes when it happens.

not like he’s offended.

more like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t freeze.

you find that strangely compelling.

the story that really bonds you happens in the rain.

a whistleblower. corporate corruption; the kind of thing that makes people nervous, that makes phones go silent, that makes editors suddenly careful.

you and clark spend days chasing leads, cross-referencing financial trails, knocking on doors that open only a crack.

you work like a storm. he works like a steady current.

together, you’re dangerous.

late one night, soaked from a sudden downpour, you duck under the overhang outside the daily planet. your jacket is damp, hair frizzing, pulse still buzzing from adrenaline.

clark stands beside you, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat.

“you okay?” he asks quietly.

you exhale a breath that feels like steam. “exhausted, wired... ready to flip a table.”

he smiles, soft and private. “you always look like that right before you publish something incredible,” he says.

you blink. “that’s oddly specific.”

“i pay attention,” he says before he seems to realize how that sounds.

he goes red.

you laugh, gentler than usual. “you’re allowed to look, clark.”

“i know,” he says. then, quieter, “i just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

you tilt your head. “and if i told you i wasn’t?”

he looks at you. really looks at you.

for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look away.

rain rattles against the pavement. the city hums. the world keeps moving, oblivious to the small, electric moment happening between you.

“i’d still be careful,” he says.

something in your chest tightens.

“why?”

“because,” he says, voice barely above the rain, “i care what you think.”

the words hang there.

you feel them settle under your ribs.

you start texting more.

at first it’s strictly work. links, deadlines, notes.

then it’s memes. headlines that make no sense. a blurry photo of a terrible vending machine dinner.

clark replies faster than he probably should.

sometimes his responses are overly formal. sometimes they’re unexpectedly dry. occasionally, he makes a joke so quiet and sharp you wonder how many people miss it.

late one night, you send: ‘ur still up?’

a pause. ‘yes. i couldn’t sleep.’

you consider your next message, then type: ‘me neither. wanna admit why?’

three dots appear. disappear. reappear. ‘because i keep replaying conversations in my head.’

your breath hitches. ‘with who?’ though you already know.

a longer pause. ‘you.’

you stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot. ‘u know u can just say things the first time, right?’

a moment later: ‘i’m afraid i’ll say the wrong thing.’

you type: ‘try me.’

another pause. this one stretches.

Finally: ‘i like you. i just don’t always know how to exist near you without feeling like i’m doing something wrong.

your heart stumbles.

you type slowly this time. ‘you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just being you.’

three dots. ‘that’s what scares me.’

in person, it gets harder.

you catch him glancing at you when you laugh. when you argue. when you concentrate so hard your tongue peeks out between your teeth.

once, you lean over his desk to grab a file, and your shoulder brushes his chest.

he inhales like the air just vanished.

you pull back, studying him. “clark?”

he swallows. “yes?”

“you okay?”

“yes ma’am,” he says too quickly.

you step closer, lowering your voice. “you don’t have to flinch every time i get near you.”

“i’m not flinching,” he says, but it sounds like a confession.

you soften. “you look like you think i’m going to disappear.”

he meets your gaze, tentative and open. “sometimes,” he admits, “it feels like you belong to a world that moves faster than i do.”

you smile gently. “so keep up.”

“i’m trying,” he murmurs.

there’s a night when the power flickers in the newsroom.

backup generators hum. screens glow. outside, thunder mutters like distant applause.

you’re both still working. of course you are.

you bring him coffee. he thanks you like you’ve given him something sacred.

you sit on the edge of his desk.

“so,” you say lightly, “why haven’t you asked me out yet?”

he nearly chokes. “i—i didn’t think—”

“you didn’t think i’d say yes?”

“i didn’t think it was appropriate,” he says carefully. “or fair. or—”

you swing your legs slightly. “clark. look at me.”

he hesitates. then he does.

you hold his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“do you want to ask me out?” you ask.

he breathes in, slow and controlled. “yes,” 

you grin. “then ask.”

he pauses. looks terrified. then, quietly, honestly: “would you… like to get dinner with me sometime?”

there’s nothing flashy about it. nothing smooth. no bravado. 

it’s perfect.

“i would,” you smile. “very much.”

his relief is immediate and almost heartbreaking.

he smiles like he’s been given permission to breathe.

later, as you pack up to leave, he walks beside you again.

the city feels different now. brighter. expectant.

at the corner, you stop.

“hey,” you say softly.

he turns to you.

“if you ever feel too shy,” you say, “you can let me know.”

he smiles, warm and bashful and real. “and if i do?”

“then i’ll meet you halfway.”

his voice is steady when he replies, “i think… i’d like that.”

clark kent treats your first date like it’s a diplomatic summit.

he arrives early. of course he does. he’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s been pressed within an inch of its life, tie straightened three times too many, hair just slightly more tamed than usual.

you show up five minutes late on purpose, because you refuse to let him think this is an interview.

when he sees you, his breath stutters like he forgot how lungs work.

“you look… incredible,” he says, immediately flustered by the fact that he said it out loud.

you grin. “you clean up like a man trying very hard not to cause property damage.”

he laughs, relieved.

the restaurant is warm and dim and humming with soft conversation. candlelight glows between you. every little sound feels louder than it should—the clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices, the quiet hum of the city outside.

clark sits across from you, posture careful, hands folded like he’s afraid to knock something over.

you rest your chin in your hand. “you always this nervous smallville?”

he considers lying. he doesn’t.

“yes,” he says simply. “around you.”

your chest tightens. “that’s not exactly a reason to be afraid,” you say more gently.

“i know,” he says. “but it feels… important to get this right.”

“you don’t need to get it right,” you say. “you just need to get it honest.”

his eyes lift to yours. “okay,” he says quietly. “honest, then.”

conversation comes easily, which almost feels unfair given how tense the air between you is.

you talk about work. about your childhood. about the first stories that made you want to chase stories of your own.

clark listens like every word is something he intends to keep.

when you talk about ambition, he watches you with something like awe. when you talk about fear, he watches you with something like devotion.

at some point, you realize his knee is almost touching yours under the table.

not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.

you wonder if he notices. you suspect he notices everything.

after dinner, you walk.

metropolis at night feels like a living thing. lights pulsing, trains roaring, wind tugging at coats and hair.

clark keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert, like he’s constantly bracing for something.

“you know,” you say lightly, “you’re allowed to flirt.”

he nearly trips. “i—i don’t know how,” he admits.

you step a little closer. “try.”

he thinks for a long second. “you… um… make the world feel louder,” he says. “in a good way.”

you stop walking.

turn to face him.

“that might be the most clark kent flirtation i’ve ever heard,” you say softly.

he blushes, but he doesn’t look away this time. “i meant it,” he says.

you hold his gaze.

for once, he holds yours back.

you end up on a quiet street corner, traffic distant, the city’s noise softened into a low, steady hum.

the moment stretches.

you can feel it pulling tight between you.

“so,” you say quietly, “is this the part where you overthink everything?”

he smiles ruefully. “usually.”

“and?”

“i’m trying not to.”

your heart thrums.

he looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.

“i’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he admits.

“do what?” you whisper.

he hesitates. then steps closer.

not rushing. not overwhelming. just enough to close the space he’s been so afraid to claim.

his voice is low. “be brave.”

you tilt your head slightly, giving him the opening without forcing him to take it.

his hand lifts, hovering like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed.

“may i?” he asks.

your pulse spikes.

“yes,” you say.

his fingers brush your cheek. he looks like he might fall apart.

slowly, carefully, he leans in.

the kiss is soft.

not urgent. not hungry.

just warm and tentative and full of everything he hasn’t known how to say.

when he pulls back, he looks stunned by his own courage.

you smile. “well,” you murmur, “you survived.”

he lets out a breathless laugh. “barely.”

later, actually walking you home instead of wandering aimlessly, he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize the fact that this is real.

at your door, he hesitates again.

“thank you,” he says. “for… being patient with me.”

you step closer.

“clark,” you say gently, “if you’re too shy—”

he smiles. “—i’ll let you know,” he finishes.

“exactly.”

he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

as he walks away, you watch him go, heart buzzing.

you know this is only the beginning.

he’s still holding back; still keeping secrets, still afraid of taking up space.

and you’re already wondering what will happen when he finally stops.

dating clark kent feels like discovering a hidden room in a familiar building.

everything is quieter. softer. more deliberate.

he opens doors for you. walks on the street-side of the sidewalk. remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the story you once mentioned in passing, the song you hummed absentmindedly while fact-checking.

he never rushes you. he never assumes.

and yet, the longer this goes on, the more it feels like he’s holding back something enormous.

you notice it in the pauses.

in the way he sometimes goes still when sirens echo in the distance. in the way his jaw tightens when the news mentions disasters, crime, people in danger. in the way he sometimes looks at the sky like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

once, in the middle of a conversation, he just… vanishes.

you blink, check the hallway and the stairwell.

thirty seconds later, he returns, breath barely altered.

“everything okay?” you ask.

“yes,” he says too quickly. “i just… needed a moment.”

you believe him. you also know there’s more to it.

the feelings deepen anyway.

you sit on the newsroom roof one evening, city lights spilling out below you like stars that forgot how to behave.

clark brings takeout. you bring sarcasm.

“you ever think about the future?” you ask, leaning back on your hands.

he follows your gaze across the skyline.

“all the time,” he says.

“does it scare you?”

“only when i think about losing people,” he admits.

you glance at him. “people like me?”

his breath catches.

“yes,” he says without hesitation.

the honesty knocks the air from your lungs. you smile to hide it. “smallville, you’re getting bolder.”

“only because you make me feel like i’m allowed to be,” he says.

you almost call him out on it.

on the strange disappearances. on the impossible timing. on the strength he pretends not to have when he lifts things that should strain him.

but you don’t.

not because you don’t notice. because you trust him.

and because part of you wants to see if he’ll tell you on his own.

one night, the tension spikes.

a major story breaks. chaos, sirens, helicopters. the newsroom turns into a battlefield of ringing phones and shouted updates.

you’re chasing leads when the building shudders.

distant explosions. screams somewhere outside.

you feel fear curl in your stomach.

before you can even turn, clark is at your side.

“stay here,” he says urgently.

you grab his sleeve. “clark—”

his eyes lock onto yours, blazing with emotion he can’t quite hide. “i promise,” he says, voice low and steady, “i will come back.”

then he’s gone.

minutes pass. then more.

your heart hammers against your ribs.

when he finally returns, his hair is wind-tossed, his glasses slightly askew, suit rumpled in a way that makes no sense.

“you’re okay,” you breathe.

“yes,” he says softly.

but he looks like someone who just carried the weight of the world.

later, when the adrenaline ebbs, you corner him near the empty copy room.

“clark,” you say quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”

he stiffens.

“i’m not—”

“you disappear. you come back shaken. you act like the city’s pain is personal,” you press gently. “i’m not asking to accuse you. i’m asking because i care.”

he looks like he might break.

“i want to tell you,” he admits.

“then do it.”

he hesitates, voice trembling. “i’m afraid if i do… you’ll see me differently.”

you step closer.

“clark kent,” you say softly, “i already see you differently. that’s the point.”

his eyes shine with emotion he rarely lets surface. “you make me want to be honest,” he whispers.

“then be honest.”

he almost does.

you can feel it—right there, hovering on his tongue.

but fear wins.

“soon,” he says instead. “i promise.”

you nod.

“soon,” you echo.

the romance deepens anyway.

soft kisses at crosswalks. hands brushing in elevators. late-night phone calls where his voice sounds lower, more unguarded.

once, half-asleep, he murmurs, “you deserve someone brave.”

you smile into the dark.

“then keep practicing,” you whisper.

you don’t find out on a quiet day. of course you don’t.

you find out on a day when the sky fractures.

a crisis erupts downtown—panic, collapsing scaffolding, screaming sirens, people flooding the streets in fear. the newsroom explodes into motion, and so do you.

you grab your coat, your phone, and your resolve.

and then you realize clark is gone.

again.

you don’t think. you just move.

outside, wind howls between buildings, carrying dust and debris. emergency crews shout over one another. somewhere above, something massive groans under strain.

you push through the crowd, heart racing.

“clark?” you breathe, like the city might answer.

and then, 

a shockwave.

the world lurches. people scream. you stumble backward as part of a structure gives way overhead.

you brace for impact.

it never comes.

instead, arms catch you mid-fall. strong, unyielding, impossible.

you gasp as you’re lifted effortlessly out of harm’s way.

you look up.

clark.

not hunched. not hiding. not shrinking.

he stands full-height, coat torn at the shoulder, tie gone, the left frame of his glasses shattered. his face is tilted away, but you could recognize that tie anywhere—the one martha bought for him when he first got hired at the planet, the tie you used to tease him for. wind presses against him like it means nothing.

his face is bare of pretense. his looks… unmasked.

“clark?” you whisper.

he looks at you with something like fear and relief and love tangled together. “i’m sorry,” he says softly.

behind him, metal groans and settles. sirens wail. people stare.

you stare back at him.

and suddenly, everything makes sense.

the disappearances. the timing. the restraint. the weight he carries like it’s a duty carved into his bones.

“you’re—” your voice trembles. “you’re him.”

he doesn’t pretend not to understand. “yeah,” he says.

you laugh once, breathless and stunned.

“of course you are,” you murmur. “clark kent, mild-mannered reporter, secretly the literal impossible.”

he winces like he deserves that.

“i wanted to tell you,” he says. “but can we talk about this later, baby? please?”

“what’s there to talk about?”

“i have to much to tell you, i promise. i just… i was afraid.”

you search his face.

“afraid of what?” you ask quietly.

“of losing you,” he admits. “of you thinking everything about me was a lie.”

your chest tightens. “you idiot,” you whisper, voice thick. “the only thing that would’ve hurt is you thinking i couldn’t handle the truth.”

he looks at you like that sentence might shatter him.

later, when the city settles and the adrenaline fades, you sit with him on a quiet rooftop.

the skyline stretches around you like a held breath.

he stands at the edge, wind tugging at his hair, looking like a man who has carried too much for too long.

“i never wanted to deceive you,” he says. “clark kent is still me. i just… didn’t know how to be both with you.”

you step closer. “you’ve always been both,” you say. “you’re gentle. you’re kind. you’re awkward. you’re brave. you’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing.”

a faint smile flickers over his face.

“and i like all of that,” you add.

he turns to you fully, eyes bright with emotion.

“you’re not afraid?” he asks.

you shake your head.

“i’m not afraid of you,” you say. “i’m afraid for you.”

he exhales shakily.

“i’ve wanted to be honest with you for so long,” he admits. “but i didn’t think i deserved someone who could see all of this and still stay.”

you reach for him, resting a hand over his heart.

“you don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you say softly. “that’s my call.”

he laughs quietly, teary and relieved.

“you’re incredible,” he murmurs.

you tilt your head. “and you’re still too shy,” you tease gently. “even when you can literally lift a building.”

he smiles more fully now. “i’m braver with you,” he says. “you make me feel like i’m allowed to want things.”

“good,” you say. “because i want you.”

the words feel like stepping into open air.

he looks stunned. then certain. then impossibly tender.

he cups your face and kisses you like he’s finally stopped holding back.

not rough. not consuming.

just honest.

by the time school started again, laney had become the kind of constant you never questioned.

you walked home together every day, kicking dust and trading secrets like candy.

you shared lunches, traded bracelets, talked about how boring everyone else was.

it wasn’t long before her mother started calling you her “shadow.” you didn’t mind. if you were a shadow, at least you were hers.

your house was quiet—too quiet sometimes.

laney's wasn’t.

her mom yelled, and her little brothers screamed, and her dog barked nonstop. you loved it there anyway.

it felt alive in a way your home never did.

laney's room was always a mess of posters, nail polish bottles, and half-finished homework. you'd lie on her bed while she painted your nails unevenly and told you about the life she was going to have someday: a car, a job, maybe even an apartment in the city. you'd just nod and watch the light catch her hair, pretending you didn’t already know you’d follow her anywhere.

years passed, and everything changed except her.

you both grew taller, your voices softened, your laughter turned quieter but deeper.

you spent your summers in that same town, swimming in that same creek, except now you were old enough to talk about what you wanted from life, and sometimes, what you were afraid of.

laney was always braver.

one night, lying in her backyard under a sky swollen with stars, she whispered, “please don’t leave me... i’ll always need more.” you didn’t know what she meant, but you said you wouldn’t. you said you’d always stay.

and you believed it.

it wasn’t until you were sixteen that you noticed how much she needed to be seen.

not just by you—by everyone.

laney had a way of pulling the world toward her. the football players, the girls who wore lip gloss and perfume, the teachers who let her turn in homework late because she smiled when she apologized. you'd watch from the sidelines, quietly proud but quietly afraid, too.

you weren’t built for the same light she lived in.

still, she always came back to you. no matter who she sat with at lunch or who she laughed with in the hallways, she’d find you after school, take your hand, and say,

“come on. let's go home.”

and you would. always.

you spent nights on the roof of her house, drinking soda out of the same bottle, the metal taste of the cap sharp on your tongue. she'd hum songs from the radio, her voice low and tired, and you’d let your head fall against her shoulder. sometimes you thought you could feel her heartbeat, steady and real, like the rhythm of something permanent.

you told her once that she was your best friend, and she said, “you’re my sister.”

you laughed, but part of you wanted to cry. because you knew what she meant, and it meant everything.

when laney got her driver’s license, everything changed again. the town got smaller, the nights shorter. you'd drive around with the windows down, singing too loud to songs you only half knew, your laughter spilling out into the humid night. you thought maybe this was what forever felt like.

something reckless, alive, and a little bit scared.

but sometimes you caught her glancing at her phone when she thought you weren’t looking.

a name lighting up the screen.

a smile that wasn’t for you.

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t want to break the spell.

still, when she said his name out loud for the first time—caleb—it felt like the air went out of the room.

she told you how he made her laugh, how he said her eyes looked like sunlight. you nodded and smiled, and she didn’t notice how your hands were shaking.

later that night, lying alone in your bed, you thought about the way she said his name.

the softness in her voice. the same softness she used to save for you. she was his girl now.

and you thought: she was my girl first.

you didn’t say it out loud. you never would. but the thought stayed.

it stayed for years.

you didn’t realize when it started. 

nobody ever does.

it wasn’t a fight or a word left unsaid; it was the slow fade of a song you loved too much, the kind that lingers in your head long after it’s over. 

it was small things at first; missed calls, plans canceled with apologies that sounded rehearsed. 

you told yourself she was busy, that she’d call tomorrow.

she didn’t.

laney spent most of her time with him now. you saw them sometimes, walking through the halls with their fingers barely touching, like even the smallest connection was too much to hide. you told yourself you didn’t care. 

but you watched anyway. 

you watched the way she leaned into him, how he made her laugh. the same laugh she used to save for you.

you told yourself it was fine. that people change, that it’s normal. 

that it doesn’t mean she loves you less.

but one night, she sent you a photo of the two of them — her smile brighter than you’d seen in months, his arm around her shoulder — and you just stared at it until your eyes blurred. the accompanying text said “he makes me feel like home.”

you didn’t reply. you didn’t know what to say.

you thought about all the times you made her laugh, all the nights she fell asleep next to you, the secrets she told you like prayers whispered in the dark. and you thought, wasn’t i home once, too?

you still saw her, sometimes. at school. around town. but it wasn’t the same.

you’d ask if she wanted to hang out, and she’d smile that gentle smile—the one that always felt like a sorry—and say, “maybe next week?”

next week never came.

you told yourself she needed this. that you’d be there when she came back. but deep down, you knew the version of her you loved wasn’t coming back. she was changing. growing into someone new. someone you didn’t recognize.

still, you waited.

you waited for her texts. 

her calls. 

her laughter. 

you waited for her to come knocking on your door with her hair a mess and her eyes red from crying. 

you waited for her to need you again.

but she didn’t.

months passed. the creek dried up that summer, and you stopped going. the town felt smaller without her. 

everything did.

you tried to fill the silence with other people, other things. you took up painting for a while. you stayed after school to help with the yearbook. you joined the school newspaper, and got decent at writing about the latest cow tipping scandal. you made new friends who smiled at you but didn’t know the language laney had taught you—the quiet kind, made of glances and half-smiles and shared breaths.

they didn’t know how to exist with you like she did.

sometimes you thought about calling her. you’d pick up your phone, scroll through your texts, stop on her name. you’d type something—i miss you, or do you remember the creek?—then delete it before you hit send.

she was probably with him, anyway.

one night, you ran into them at the diner off highway 10. 

you were there with a group from school, laughing too loudly about something you didn’t care about, when you saw her.

she was sitting across from him in a booth, her hair tucked behind her ear, smiling at something he said. you froze. she didn’t notice you at first. but when she did, her face changed—just for a second. a flicker of something between guilt and recognition. then she smiled.

“hey,” she said when you walked over. her voice was soft. careful. “i didn’t know you’d be here.”

“yeah,” you responded, shrugging. “just hanging out.”

he smiled at you politely, the way strangers do when they know they’ve already taken something from you.

there was silence after that—thick, awkward. you wanted to ask her how she’d been. you wanted to ask if she still thought about you. but the words wouldn’t come.

instead, she said, “we should hang out soon.”

you nodded. “yeah, sure.”

you both knew it was a lie.

later that night, you drove home alone. the road was dark and empty, the only light coming from the gas stations and the neon signs that buzzed like dying stars. you thought about her, sitting in that booth, laughing with him, her hand resting on his wrist.

you thought about how much you missed her, and how much you hated missing her.

and you thought about how he loved her.

but she was my sister first.

the words burned. you didn’t know who you were saying them to—him, her, or yourself. maybe all three.

you didn’t cry. not yet.

instead, you pulled into the old creek road, parked, and got out. the air was cool, the moon bright enough to see your reflection in the still water. 

you sat on the rocks where you’d once skipped stones, and for the first time, you realized how quiet the world had become without her voice in it.

you wanted to call her. to tell her everything.

but you knew it wouldn’t change anything.

you stayed there until dawn, watching the sky lighten, listening to the cicadas fade away.

when you finally got home, your phone buzzed. a text from her.

“hey. just thinking about you. hope you’re okay.”

you stared at it for a long time. then you typed, i miss you.

you didn’t hit send.

the last summer before everything changed was the hottest one you could remember. the air sat heavy on your skin, syrup-thick and unmoving, the kind of heat that made everything slow and quiet. you didn’t see laney much that year. she got a job as a journalist at a newspaper outside of town, the one that always smelled like burnt coffee and fried chicken. caleb would pick her up after shifts, headlights cutting through the dark, and you’d watch from your window as they drove by, the sound of her laughter fading down the road.

you told yourself it was fine. you told yourself people grow up, that she’d come back when things settled down. but she didn’t. and when you left for college that fall, she didn’t come to say goodbye.

you still waited, though. for a text. for a call. for something.

it never came.

the city was louder than you expected. it wasn’t just the noise—it was the movement, the constant hum of life that never stopped. cars, trains, people shouting into the air like the world would listen if they were loud enough. you rented a tiny apartment on the seventh floor of a building that smelled like paint and old smoke. from your window, you could see the skyline, the towers of glass and light stretching up into the clouds.

sometimes, when you couldn’t sleep, you’d stand by the window and watch the sky. there were stories about him—the hero. 

superman. 

people said he could fly faster than sound. that he’d once lifted a collapsing bridge with his bare hands. that he’d saved an entire school from a fire uptown.

you saw him once, or at least you thought you did—a flash of red and blue cutting across the clouds, so high up it could’ve been a trick of the light. the city seemed smaller when he was there.

you almost smiled.

life moved quietly.

you got a job at a newspaper company that never seemed quiet enough. you made friends who came and went, names that blurred together over time. a few stayed: lois, jimmy, cat. people who refused to let you shake them off.

you kept yourself busy, but not full.

some nights, when the neon lights from the diner across the street painted your ceiling red and blue, you thought of laney.

you didn’t talk anymore, not really. there were still traces of her online—photos with caleb, a dog you’d never met, her hair shorter now. once, you saw a video of her at a local fair, spinning in circles under the lights, laughing with a joy so wide it hurt to look at.

you replayed it twice before closing your phone.

you wondered if she ever thought of you.

if she remembered the creek, the roof, the blanket.

if she ever whispered your name the way she used to when she was tired, soft and slurred like a secret.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. that you’d both grown up. that it was just part of life.

but there were nights when the quiet got too loud, and the memories pressed too close.

nights when you’d wake from a dream and swear you could still hear her saying, “please don’t leave me. i’ll always need more.”

and maybe she didn’t mean it forever.

maybe she just meant then.

the daily planet closed early one evening after a power outage. you stayed behind to stack the last of the boxes that cat had wanted for some exposé, the air thick with dust and the smell of wet paper. the city outside buzzed like it always did.

traffic, sirens, the faraway rhythm of music from some bar down the street.

you took the long way home, walking through the plaza. there was a crowd gathered by the big screen above the metro entrance, the one that played news twenty-four hours a day.

“—and in today’s coverage, superman intervened in a high-speed chase downtown, saving three civilians from an overturned vehicle—”

you stopped, watching the footage. it was grainy, the kind of news clip that looked more like myth than fact. a figure in red and blue, landing hard on the pavement, lifting a car like it weighed nothing. you watched the crowd cheer, phones raised to the sky.

and for the first time, you wondered what it felt like to be saved.

that night, you dreamed of laney again.

you were back in the creek, the water low and golden in the evening light. she was standing in the middle of it, skirt hitched up, her hands cupped around something small.

“look,” she said, smiling. “a tadpole.”

you laughed. “you’re gonna crush it if you’re not careful.”

“i won’t.” she looked up at you, eyes bright and endless. “i never hurt the things i love.”

but when you reached for her hand, she was already gone.

you woke to thunder. rain hit the window hard enough to rattle the glass. for a moment, you couldn’t tell if the sound in your chest was the storm or your own heartbeat. you sat there in the dark, the city alive outside, and whispered her name into the room. 

just once.

it felt like letting go.

you started keeping a notebook after that. little things. thoughts. lines that didn’t mean much on their own.

you didn’t know why you wrote them down. maybe you just needed to keep her somewhere, even if it wasn’t real anymore.

perry liked them.

he’d congratulated you on how “personal” they felt once. lines about waiting for some hero to come save you. 

he urged you to write more. stuff clark kent could use in his superman pieces.

so you did. you spent hours writing away, pouring your heart out in an empty notebook.

you didn’t know, but that was the night everything would change.

tomorrow, you’d take the same route home you always did—the subway, the crowded street, the crosswalk that never stayed green long enough. you’d be thinking about laney, like you always were when the world got too big. you’d be staring down at the pavement, lost in memory.

and then the earth would break open.

but that’s tomorrow.

tonight, you’re still here. sitting by the window, the rain still falling, the city pulsing like a living thing. and somewhere high above the skyline, a streak of red and blue light cuts through the clouds.

you look up just in time to see it fade.

and for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel so small.

it happens on tuesday. just like it was supposed to.

you’re late leaving work, rain again, streets slick with light and sound. the city feels like it’s breathing heavy tonight, traffic groaning, neon signs flickering in and out like tired stars. you pull your jacket tighter, turn down the side street you always do, the one that cuts through the plaza and past the flower stand that never closes.

you’re halfway across the crosswalk that never stays green long enough when the world explodes.

a sound like thunder, but sharper. the kind that shakes the bones first, and only later the air. you stumble back, heart in your throat, eyes searching for the source.

and then you see it: a building, maybe three blocks down, half of it gone in a cloud of dust and an explosion of fire. 

the sound follows like a roar, glass raining from the sky. 

people scream. 

cars screech. 

the city folds in on itself.

you can’t move.

you should run, but your body refuses to listen. you stand there, staring at the orange light swallowing the skyline, and for one impossible moment, you think of laney.

she’d hate this city, you think. too loud. too big. too easy to get lost in.

someone shoves past you, and that’s when you start to run.

the smoke spreads faster than it should. the air tastes like a mix of metal and rain. you don’t even know why you’re running toward it—maybe instinct, maybe something else. 

maybe you’re tired of standing still. 

you reach the corner just in time to see the building groan, tilting toward the street. the crowd surges back, shouting.

and then everything stops.

a flash cuts through the haze, bright as lightning.

superman drops from the sky.

he’s realer than you ever imagined—taller, solid, his cape whipping behind him in the wind. he lands hard, the concrete cracking beneath his boots. the air itself seems to hold its breath.

then he moves—faster than you thought he could, catching the edge of the collapsing structure and holding. the strain ripples through his shoulders, the ground trembling beneath his feet. 

you can hear people crying, praying, filming, calling out his name.

and somehow, amid all that chaos, his eyes find yours.

you don’t know how long you stand there, the world burning around you.

he shouts something—maybe “move!”—and it’s enough to break the spell. you turn, feet pounding against the pavement, lungs aching, until the sound of falling stone fades behind you.

you don’t stop until you reach the next block.

and then you collapse.

when you wake, you’re not sure where you are. the air smells of antiseptic and smoke, and the world hums with the low static of fluorescent light. your vision clears slowly—the inside of an ambulance, a paramedic pressing gauze against your temple.

“you’re okay,” she says softly. “you were lucky. that building came down faster than anyone expected.”

you blink. “superman—did he…?”

she smiles faintly. “he saved at least a dozen people. pulled a woman out from under a car. i think he’s still out there.”

still out there.

you nod, even though your throat feels tight. there’s a hollow in your chest, something that feels like awe but hurts too much to be only that.

because as the sirens wail and the lights blur outside, you realize what’s been gnawing at you all this time. 

you’ve been waiting to be saved—not from danger, but from yourself. 

from the empty spaces laney left behind. from the ache that settled so deep you stopped noticing it.

but he did save you.

maybe not in the way you expected, but enough. enough to make you believe again.

later, when they discharge you, you wander through the streets like a ghost. the city feels different—still loud, still endless, but alive in a way it hadn’t before. the wreckage is cordoned off, smoke curling into the night sky like a signal. you stop at the edge of the barrier, watching the workers sift through the debris.

you catch a glimpse of him then—high above, silhouetted against the searchlights, cape trailing behind him like a comet’s tail. people cheer when they see him. 

you don’t. you just watch.

you want to tell him thank you, though you’re not sure for what.

for saving you. for reminding you that people still reach for each other, even when the world falls apart. for giving you a reason to look up again.

you whisper it anyway.

just in case he can hear.

that night, back in your apartment, you open your notebook again. the last page is still blank, waiting. you pick up your pen, your hand trembling just slightly, and write:

i think i’ve been waiting for someone to catch me ever since she left.

you set the pen down. 

the rain’s stopped. 

somewhere outside, a siren fades into the distance, and for a heartbeat, you could swear you hear the rush of air, like wings slicing through the clouds.

you go to the window. the city stretches out before you—wounded, shining, alive.

a single streak of red and blue moves across the skyline, bright and fast, disappearing into the horizon.

you smile, quietly. you don’t know where he’s going, or what comes next.

you’ll dream of laney again, you know you will.

the creek, the tadpoles, the sun caught in her hair.

but when you wake, it won’t hurt as much.

and maybe that’s what saving really means—not fixing what’s broken, but reminding you that you’re still here.

still alive. still reaching. still looking up.

before you go to sleep, you draft an email to perry.

could you partner me up with kent next week? i think i want to try a superman piece.

clark has been in love with you for two years, three months, and eleven days.

he doesn’t keep track on purpose. it just… sticks. some moments lodge themselves into him deeper than others, impossible to shake loose. the first time you laughed at one of his stupid puns during a late deadline night. the way you say his name when you’re tired—dragging the a just slightly, like you’re leaning into it. the way you always steal his pen and then deny it with a straight face.

he knows better than to hope for anything more.

because you talk about him.

the doofus.

you never call him that, of course. you call him by his name, with that same softness you never quite aim at clark. you tell clark everything—how exciting it felt at first, how unpredictable, how passionate. you use words like intense and complicated like they’re virtues instead of warning signs.

clark listens.

he always listens.

he listens when you call him from the planet’s stairwell, whispering because you don’t want lois to overhear you crying over someone who very clearly does not deserve it. he listens when you sit across from him at lunch, poking at your salad and asking if you’re “being dramatic,” and he lies through his teeth and tells you you’re not.

because he’s a sucker.

for anything that you do.

the newsroom is chaos, as usual.

phones ringing, keyboards clacking, perry barking about deadlines while jimmy nearly trips over a cable again. you’re perched on the edge of clark’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle, spinning one of his pens between your fingers.

“you’re gonna break that,” clark says mildly.

you grin. “relax! i’ll buy you a new one.”

“you say that every time.”

“and yet,” you reply, tapping the pen against his notepad, “you keep letting me steal them.”

clark smiles, helpless. “yeah. i guess i do.”

you don’t notice the way his shoulders tense when your phone lights up. you don’t notice how his smile fades just slightly when he sees the name on the screen.

you hop down from his desk. “it’s him,” you say, unnecessarily, already stepping away. “i’ll be right back.”

clark nods, because that’s what he does.

he watches you walk toward the elevators, already answering, already softening your voice.

he tells himself—like he always does—that he’s just being a good friend.

you call clark later that night.

of course you do.

it’s nearly midnight, metropolis quiet in that way that only exists between sirens, and clark is sitting alone in his apartment with an untouched mug of tea when his phone lights up again.

your name.

his heart stutters, traitorous thing.

“you okay?” he asks immediately, sitting up straighter.

you laugh, but it cracks halfway through. “wow. you didn’t even let me say hi.”

he exhales. “i take that as a no.”

and then you’re crying.

full-on, breathless, hiccupping sobs, like you’ve been holding it together all day and now there’s nothing left to brace against. clark closes his eyes, jaw tightening, as he listens to you unravel.

“he says he needs space,” you say, voice thick. “that he’s not in the right headspace for a relationship. and i just—clark, what does that even mean?”

it means he doesn’t deserve you, clark thinks.

out loud, he says, “it means he doesn’t know what he wants.”

you sniff. “so it’s not me?”

“no,” clark says immediately. too quickly. “it’s not you.”

you breathe out, like that’s something you needed permission to believe.

“he says he still cares about me,” you continue. “that this hurts him too.”

clark’s grip tightens around his phone. “does it?” he asks gently.

you hesitate.

“i don’t know,” you admit. “he sounded… distant. like he was already gone.”

clark leans back against his couch, staring up at the ceiling.

you end up crying.

and he ends up lying. “it’s gonna be okay,” he tells you. “you’re gonna get through this.”

you sniff again. “you always say that.”

“because it’s true.”

there’s a long silence on the line. not awkward. just heavy.

“thank you,” you say finally. “for being a friend.”

the words land like a bruise.

“always,” clark replies, because he doesn’t know how to be anything else.

when the call ends, he stays there, phone pressed to his ear long after the screen goes dark.

going in circles. 

again.

the next few days blur together.

you’re quiet at work, distracted, staring at your screen like the words might rearrange themselves if you look hard enough. clark brings you coffee without being asked. you accept it with a tired smile.

“you’re too good to me,” you say.

he laughs softly. “it’s just coffee.”

but it’s not. it’s everything he can give without crossing a line you haven’t invited him over.

you vent to him between assignments, voice low and furious now instead of broken. how he didn’t text back. how he left you on read. how he posted like nothing was wrong.

“he treats you so bad,” clark says before he can stop himself.

you glance at him, surprised.

he clears his throat. “i mean—anyone would be upset.”

you sigh. “i know. i just—clark, why does it hurt so much when i know i deserve better?”

because you’re still hoping he’ll change, clark thinks.

because you haven’t looked at the person standing right in front of you, another voice adds, traitorous and aching.

he swallows. “because you cared,” he says instead. “and caring always costs something.”

you study him for a moment, expression softening.

“you’re really good at this,” you say. “talking me down.”

he smiles, small and sad. “lots of practice.”

you call him again that night.

and the night after that.

sometimes it’s tears. sometimes it’s anger. sometimes it’s just silence, punctuated by the sound of you breathing on the other end while clark stays awake, listening, anchoring you without asking for anything in return.

“i’ll call you tomorrow,” you say one night, voice sleepy. “like… ten?”

clark glances at the clock. 2:13 a.m.

“yeah,” he says. “ten’s good.”

when the line goes dead, he stares at his phone and lets himself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like if someday you called him first because you wanted him, not because you were hurting.

sometimes he’s so close to confession it scares him.

but you’re not ready.

and he knows it.

so he waits.

you don’t expect him to show up. that’s the thing—you never do.

you’re sitting on your couch in yesterday’s clothes, phone facedown on the coffee table like it personally betrayed you, when there’s a knock at the door. not loud. just firm enough to be real.

you almost don’t answer it.

when you do, clark is standing there with a paper bag in one hand and that same careful expression he always wears when he’s not sure how fragile you are.

“hi,” he says.

you blink at him. “clark?”

“i—” he clears his throat. “it’s eleven-thirty. you didn’t answer your phone.”

you glance over your shoulder at the couch, the blanket, the mess you haven’t had the energy to clean. “sorry. i just… forgot.”

he hesitates, then lifts the bag slightly. “i brought food. and, uh. coffee. decaf. i remembered.”

something in your chest cracks open.

you step aside without thinking. “you didn’t have to do that.”

“i know,” he says gently. “i wanted to.”

you let him in.

clark’s apartment has always been immaculate when you’ve visited. your place is… not.

there are tissues everywhere. a half-empty glass of water sweating onto your table. the quiet is thick, broken only by the hum of the city outside.

clark sets the bag down and takes it all in without comment. no judgment. just presence.

“you wanna talk?” he asks.

you shrug. “not really.”

“okay.”

you wait for him to push. he doesn’t.

he sits beside you instead, close enough that you’re aware of the warmth of him, the solidness. it’s grounding. infuriatingly comforting.

minutes pass.

then: “he texted me,” you say suddenly.

clark’s jaw tightens. you don’t see it. “yeah?”

“he said he misses me.” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “isn’t that hilarious?”

clark exhales through his nose. “what did you say?”

“nothing. i haven’t replied.”

a beat.

“i’m proud of you,” clark says.

you glance at him, surprised. “really?”

“yeah,” he says. “that takes strength.”

you swallow. “it doesn’t feel like it.”

“it will,” he promises.

you lean back against the couch, eyes burning. “i don’t understand how he can just… walk away. like i didn’t matter.”

clark turns toward you fully now. his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it—something restrained.

“you mattered,” he says. “you still do.”

you shake your head. “then why wasn’t i enough?”

clark almost says it.

the words are right there. you were enough. you still are. you’re just looking in the wrong direction.

instead, he says, “sometimes people don’t know how to hold onto good things.”

you close your eyes, and without really meaning to, you lean into him.

clark freezes.

your shoulder presses into his arm. your head tips closer, resting just beneath his collarbone. it’s such a small thing. such an intimate thing.

he doesn’t move away. he doesn’t pull you closer either. he lets you decide.

you start doing things together that aren’t strictly necessary.

late-night walks, because you “can’t sleep.” grocery runs, because you “don’t trust yourself not to buy ice cream for every meal.” you sit beside each other on the planet’s roof during lunch breaks, watching helicopters drift by.

people notice.

jimmy raises his eyebrows one afternoon. “you two dating now?”

you laugh. “what? no.”

clark’s smile falters for half a second before he schools it. “just friends.”

“oh,” jimmy says, unconvinced. “cool. cool cool.”

lois notices too.

she watches the way clark tracks you across the room, the way you lean toward him without realizing. one evening, when you’re not around, she crosses her arms and looks him dead in the eye.

“you’re in love with her,” she says flatly.

clark sighs. “i know.”

“and she has no idea.”

“she has an idea,” he corrects. “she just… doesn’t see it that way.”

lois softens. “you gonna tell her?”

clark glances toward your empty desk. “not like this.”

“why?”

“because she’s hurting,” he says quietly. “and i don’t want to be the guy who waits for her to break so i can swoop in.”

lois studies him for a long moment. then: “you’re too good.”

he smiles faintly. “yeah. i hear that a lot.”

you call him at exactly ten the next night.

“i’m not crying this time,” you announce.

clark laughs. “i’m glad.”

“i might scream, though.”

“still counts as progress.”

you pace your apartment, phone tucked against your ear. “he keeps liking my posts. is that a thing? is that a sign?”

clark bites his tongue.

“no,” he says carefully. “it’s a breadcrumb.”

“a what?”

“something small enough to keep you hoping,” he explains. “but not enough to mean anything.”

you’re quiet. “that sucks,” you say eventually.

“yeah,” clark agrees. “it does.”

you hesitate. “clark?”

“mm?”

“why are you always so… good to me?”

he stops dead in his tracks.

because i love you.

“because you deserve it,” he says instead.

you hum, thoughtful. “you know, if i ever date again, i want someone like you.”

clark closes his eyes. “that’s… nice,” he manages.

“but,” you add, oblivious, “i don’t think i could ever date you. it would be weird.”

weird.

the word settles between you like a verdict.

“oh,” clark says. “yeah. totally.”

you don’t hear the way his voice dips. “you’re my best friend,” you continue warmly. “i don’t want to mess that up.”

“of course,” he says.

after the call ends, clark sits in the dark for a long time, staring at nothing.

stuck.

again.

the breaking point comes on a thursday.

you show up at work late, sunglasses on, jaw tight. clark notices immediately.

“what happened?” he asks, low.

you shake your head. “i don’t wanna talk about it.”

he lets it go—for all of ten minutes.

when he finds you in the stairwell again, hands shaking, phone clenched in your fist, he doesn’t ask.

he just opens his arms.

you walk into them.

this time, he holds you.

really holds you—one hand steady at your back, the other resting carefully against your shoulder. you bury your face into his chest, breathing him in, and for the first time in weeks, you feel safe.

“he told me he’s seeing someone else,” you whisper.

clark’s heart breaks quietly, efficiently.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.

“he said it just happened,” you choke out. “like i was nothing.”

“you’re not nothing,” clark says fiercely, before he can stop himself.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your eyes are red, searching. “then why does it feel like i am?”

clark’s hands tighten just slightly.

because he treats you so bad, and i’m so good to you. because i’m right here. because i can take away your hurt.

he swallows. “you don’t belong to the people who hurt you,” he says slowly. “you belong with someone who chooses you. every day.”

something shifts in the air between you.

you stare at him, breath hitching, like you’re seeing him for the first time—not as the safe place to land, but as a possibility.

“clark,” you whisper.

he holds your gaze, heart pounding. this is it. the edge. the moment he’s been waiting for and dreading all at once.

but you pull back.

“i’m sorry,” you say suddenly. “i—this is too much. i need some air.”

you slip past him before he can respond.

clark stays in the stairwell long after you’re gone, hands still curved like they remember the shape of you.

someday, he tells himself.

someday it’s going to happen.

you don’t sleep.

you lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the look on clark’s face in the stairwell over and over until it stops being background noise and starts being… something else.

the way he held you. the way his voice changed when he said you weren’t nothing. the way his hands lingered like he didn’t quite trust himself to let go.

you sit up.

because suddenly, it feels obvious.

every late-night call. every coffee. every time he showed up without being asked. every careful step he took around your feelings, even when his own were clearly bleeding through the cracks.

you think of all the times you cried over someone who couldn’t even text you back—and the one person who never failed to answer.

“oh,” you whisper to the empty room.

oh.

clark doesn’t come into work the next day.

you notice immediately.

you tell yourself you’re not panicking. you’re just… concerned. because he’s reliable. because he always texts if he’s running late. because he would never leave you hanging.

you text him first. ‘hey. everything okay?’

three dots appear. disappear.

then: ‘yeah. just took the day off. needed it.’

your chest tightens. ‘do you want company?’

a pause. longer this time. ‘you don’t have to do that.’

that’s not an answer.

‘i want to,’ you type.

another long stretch of silence.

‘okay,’ he finally replies. ‘yeah.’

clark’s apartment looks exactly like you remember it. clean. quiet. safe.

he opens the door and for a second you just stand there, staring at each other like neither of you is quite sure what rules apply anymore.

“you okay?” you ask softly.

he nods. “yeah. just… tired.”

you step inside anyway.

you don’t sit on opposite ends of the couch this time. you sit close—close enough that your knee brushes his. neither of you moves away.

“i owe you an apology,” you say suddenly.

clark blinks. “you don’t owe me anything.”

“yes, i do,” you insist. “i’ve been… using you. not on purpose. but still.”

he exhales. “you were hurting.”

“i know. but you were hurting too.” you swallow. “weren’t you?”

clark looks at you for a long moment. “i didn’t mind,” he says finally.

“that’s not the same thing,” you reply.

silence settles, heavy but honest.

“clark,” you say. “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

his hands tighten together. “because you weren’t ready.”

you shake your head. “you don’t know that.”

he looks up at you then, eyes open and unguarded. “i do. because i’ve been waiting.”

the word lands between you, soft and devastating.

“how long?” you whisper.

he smiles faintly. “a while.”

you laugh weakly. “you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah,” he agrees. “i’ve been told.”

you take a breath. “say it.”

he freezes. “say what?”

“the thing you’ve been biting your tongue over,” you say gently. “the thing you never let yourself scream out. the thing we both know you want to say.”

clark closes his eyes. when he opens them again, there’s no hiding left.

“i love you,” he says. “i have for a long time. i didn’t want to be the guy who took advantage of your heartbreak. i just wanted to be here—until you didn’t need me anymore.”

your heart aches at the words.

“what if,” you say slowly, “i don’t want to stop needing you?”

clark’s breath catches.

you reach for him then, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve like you’re afraid he might vanish.

“i kept looking at the wrong person,” you continue. “i kept chasing someone who never chose me. and you were right here, choosing me every single day.”

his voice is barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to say this just because you’re hurting.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s how i know it’s real.”

you lean in—not rushing, giving him time to pull back if he wants to.

he doesn’t.

when you kiss him, it’s gentle. careful. like both of you are afraid of breaking something fragile and precious. his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like it’s something sacred.

when you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.

“i think,” you murmur, “you might be my cure.”

clark laughs softly, breath warm against your lips. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

it’s not fireworks right away.

it’s better than that.

it’s late-night talks that don’t end in tears. it’s hands brushing in daylight. it’s realizing that love doesn’t have to hurt to be intense.

one morning, weeks later, you wake up tangled in clark’s arms, sunlight spilling across the room.

“you know,” you say sleepily, “i used to think love was supposed to feel like heartbreak.”

clark kisses your hair. “i’m glad you were wrong.”

you smile, eyes closing again.

because this time, you finally see the truth.

he was right here.

that’s the thing about you: you listen. you always have. you absorb things the way other people deflect them. you don’t interrupt. you don’t escalate. you don’t announce yourself. you just stay.

people mistake that for indifference.

adrian doesn’t. at least, he says he doesn’t. but sometimes, late at night, when the others are gone and the city hums low through concrete walls, you can see the doubt itch under his skin.

you feel it now, in the way he lingers instead of leaving, in the way he watches your hands more than your face.

he leans back against the table. “so… you and chris were talking earlier.”

you finally glance up. just once. “we were arguing.”

“uh-huh.” he nods, lips pressed thin. “sounded friendly.”

“it wasn’t.”

“you laughed.”

you frown slightly, searching memory. “he said something stupid.”

“yeah, that tracks.”

you go back to your blades. adrian doesn’t move.

the silence stretches. you know better than to rush it. adrian fills quiet the way water fills cracks—eventually, inevitably.

“you like him?” he asks.

the question is casual. too casual. thrown like it doesn’t matter. it does.

“no,” you say.

he lets out a breath you don’t think he realized he was holding. “cool. coolcoolcool. because, you know, he’s kind of the worst. he’s my best friend, but i know the dude isn’t the greatest person. i mean... his dad is, well, you know. his dad is his dad.”

“i know.”

“also emilia might literally kill him.”

“yes.”

“and she’s your best friend.”

“yes.”

“and they’ve been doing that weird almost-dating-not-dating thing for, like, forever.”

“yes.”

he squints at you. “then why does it feel like you like him?”

you pause. not because you don’t know the answer—but because you do. “i don’t,” you say finally. “i listen.”

adrian blinks. once. twice. “…oh.”

you risk another glance at him. he looks almost startled, like something just clicked out of place.

“that’s it?” he asks. “you just... listen?”

“yes.”

“huh.” he rubs the back of his neck. “okay. well. that explains… some stuff.”

you wait. you always do.

he doesn’t elaborate.

later, when the team breaks for the night, you head for the roof.

you like the city from above. it feels honest up there: ugly, and glowing, and endless. painted faces, fill the places you can’t reach. you lean your elbows against the ledge and let your gaze drift downward, counting lights, counting breaths.

you don’t hear adrian approach. you rarely do. he’s quieter when he wants to be. “can i ask you something?”

you nod. 

“why do you never… react?”

you tilt your head. “react to what?”

“anything.” he gestures vaguely. “me. missions. chris being a dick. people almost dying. like—don’t get me wrong, you’re great in the field. scary, actually. but off-mission you’re just… flat.”

you consider this. “i don’t feel things loudly,” you say. “that doesn’t mean i don’t feel them.”

he watches your face, searching for something. “do you feel me?”

the question lands heavier than he intends. you don’t answer right away.

you think about the way he always sits next to you in the van, even when there are other seats. about how he talks at you because he knows you won’t shut him down. about how he notices when you’re tired before you notice yourself. you think about the way he jokes when he’s scared. the way he gets reckless when he feels invisible. you think about the wars he wages inside himself, shaping something like poetry out of noise and blood and need.

“yes,” you say. it’s quiet. honest. unadorned.

adrian laughs—but it comes out wrong. too sharp. “right, sure.”

you turn to face him fully. “i mean it.”

he shakes his head. “you say that to everyone.”

“i don’t.”

“you listen to everyone.”

“i don’t.”

he scoffs. “you literally listened to chris rant for twenty minutes about tactical formations like he invented them.”

“because emilia needed me to,” you say. “she asked.”

that stops him. “…she did?”

“yes.”

“oh.” his shoulders drop a little. “okay. that makes sense.”

you watch him process. you don’t rush him.

he stares out over the city now, jaw tight. “sometimes it feels like i’m screaming into the void,” he admits. “like—i do all this stuff. i joke, i talk, i bleed. and nobody actually sees me.”

you swallow. “i see you,” 

he laughs again, softer this time. “yeah, but you see everyone.”

“that doesn’t make it less real.”

he looks at you then. really looks. the words echo somewhere between you, unspoken but heavy. “i just want you to notice me,” he says, voice barely above the wind. “like—notice me.”

you don’t reach for him. you don’t make grand declarations. that’s not how you love. 

instead, you stay.

you stand there beside him, shoulder to shoulder, listening to his breathing even out, memorizing the way the city reflects in his eyes.

you hope—quietly, fiercely—that it’s enough.

the next mission goes sideways in the first three minutes.

it’s supposed to be a simple extraction—warehouse, low-level metahuman smugglers, grab the asset, get out. you’ve done worse half-asleep. but something is off the second your boots hit concrete.

you feel it in your chest before you see it.

“too quiet,” you murmur into comms.

“wow,” adrian says from somewhere to your left, voice bright through the channel. “look at you using words.”

you ignore him. you always do—until it matters.

chris barrels ahead anyway. he always does. big presence, big voice, bigger ego. emilia is covering the rear, tense and focused, and you know—you know—that’s the only reason she’s letting him take point.

“chris,” you say. “slow down.”

he doesn’t.

adrian clicks his tongue. “man has the situational awareness of a drunk raccoon.”

you almost smile. almost.

the ambush hits fast. gunfire ricochets, shrapnel screams, and the quiet shatters into noise and motion. you move without thinking—drop, roll, fire, advance. your world narrows to angles and timing and breath.

you register adrian at your side, fluid and reckless, knives flashing. you register chris taking a hit he shouldn’t have. you register emilia swearing viciously over comms.

you don’t register the way adrian keeps glancing at you until later. until after.

when it’s over and the warehouse smells like smoke and copper, chris is patched up and loud about it, emilia is pretending she wasn’t scared, and adrian is… quiet. that’s when you worry.

he’s sitting on a crate, helmet off, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it personally offended him. blood streaks one side of his jaw—someone else’s, you think. his hands are shaking.

you crouch in front of him.

“adrian,” you say.

he flinches. “oh. hey,” he says, too fast. “we done?”

“yes.”

“cool.”

you wait. he doesn’t look at you.

“chris almost got himself killed,” he mutters.

“yes.”

“and you ran to him.”

you replay the moment in your head. the calculation. the choice. “he was exposed,” you say. “you weren’t.”

“uh-huh.”

“you had cover.”

“right.”

“you were not in danger.”

he finally looks up at you then, eyes sharp and hurt and a little wild. “so you picked him.”

“no,” you say. “i picked the problem.”

his jaw tightens. “funny. feels personal.”

you search his face, slow and careful. “this isn’t about the mission,” you deduct.

he laughs, brittle. “wow. you’re so observant.”

“adrian.”

“what?” he stands abruptly, pacing. “you always do this. you say everything like it’s a report. like it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters.”

“does it?” he gestures toward where chris is loudly recounting his near-death experience. “because you seem pretty invested in him.”

“i am invested in the team.”

“see?” he throws his hands up. “that. that right there. you hide behind that.”

you stand too, matching his space but not his volume.

“i don’t hide,” you say. “i prioritize.”

“then prioritize me!” he snaps.

the words hang between you, raw and unfiltered.

emilia glances over, concern flickering. chris doesn’t notice. he never does.

you lower your voice. “this isn’t the place.”

“that’s convenient,” adrian says. “it never is.”

you don’t argue. you just step closer—enough that only he can hear you.

“i listen to you,” you say. “every time.”

he swallows. “you laugh at chris’s jokes,” he says quietly.

“they’re not jokes,” you reply. “they’re complaints.”

“that’s worse.”

you almost smile again. almost.

back at the video store, the tension doesn’t dissipate. it clings, heavy and sour.

adrian avoids you. he’s never done that before.

you notice it in the way he sits across the room instead of beside you. in the way he talks around you instead of at you. in the way his jokes sharpen, turn outward, aimed at anyone who isn’t you.

it feels wrong.

you don’t chase him. you don’t corner him. that’s not how you care. you wait.

it happens on a night that should have been calm.

no mission. no alarms. just the low hum of the video store settling into itself—emilia curled up on the couch with her knees tucked in, pretending she’s not watching chris pace; chris pretending he’s not watching her back. the air is thick with everything no one is saying.

adrian is perched on the arm of a chair, spinning a knife between his fingers, restless. too restless.

you notice. you always do. “you’re going to drop that,” you say.

he grins without humor. “you worried?”

“yes.”

that earns you a look—sharp, searching. he opens his mouth to say something, then stops.

chris chooses that moment to speak. “hey,” he says, gesturing between you and adrian. “you two good? you’ve been weird all night.”

adrian stiffens.

you answer calmly. “we’re fine.”

chris snorts. “you say that about everything.”

emilia shoots him a warning look. “chris.”

“what? i’m just saying—” he shrugs. “it’s hard to tell with her. she doesn’t exactly wear her heart on her sleeve.”

the words aren’t cruel. they still cut.

adrian’s knife stops spinning.

you feel it then—that subtle shift, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“i think,” adrian says lightly, too lightly, “that’s kind of her thing.”

chris raises his hands. “didn’t mean anything by it, man.”

“i know,” adrian says. “you never do.”

emilia stands. “okay, that’s enough. i mean ‘she’ is right here—” but it’s already too late.

“you ever notice,” adrian continues, eyes locked on chris now, “how she listens to you like you’re saying something important? like you matter?”

your chest tightens.

chris frowns. “what’s your problem?”

“my problem?” adrian laughs. “my problem is you always get all the attention and what do i get? i mean, c’mon man... no one takes me seriously. no one notices me!”

the room goes quiet.

you step forward. “adrian.”

he turns on you, hurt flashing into something sharper. “no—don’t. don’t do that calm voice thing. not right now.”

chris looks between you, confused. “is this about me?”

“yes,” adrian snaps. “no! i don’t know.”

emilia moves closer to you instinctively. “adrian, breathe.”

he doesn’t. “i’m tired,” he says, voice breaking through the bravado. “i’m tired of being the joke. of being the loud one. of watching her choose everyone else and pretending it doesn’t kill me.”

you flinch.

chris scoffs. “she doesn’t choose me.”

“she runs to you,” adrian fires back. “she laughs with you.”

“i don’t—” chris stops, glances at you. “do you?”

you don’t answer him. you’re watching adrian unravel, and you know—you truly know—if you don’t act now, you might lose him to the noise in his own head.

“i choose emilia,” you say suddenly.

everyone freezes.

you turn to chris. “she's my best friend, and you hurt her. constantly. whether you mean to or not.”

emilia sucks in a breath.

chris pales. “i—”

“i listen to you,” you continue, steady but firm, “because she needs me to. not because i want you.” then you turn to adrian. “i choose you because i want to.”

silence.

adrian’s eyes are wide, unguarded. “say that again.”

you step closer, placing yourself directly in front of him. no shields. no distance. “i choose you,” you repeat. “i always have.”

his laugh comes out broken. “then why does it feel like i’m begging?”

“because you don’t trust quiet love,” you say. “and i don’t know how to be loud.”

he stares at you, chest heaving. “i just want to be somebody to you.”

“you are,” you say. “you’re the one i notice first. the one i listen for. the one i wait with.”

something in him finally cracks.

he covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. you don’t hesitate—you reach out, anchoring him, fingers curling into his sleeves like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“i’m ready now,” he whispers. “i’ve been ready.”

you rest your forehead against his. “i know.”

the room exhales.

emilia turns away, discreet. chris looks like he’s been punched in the gut.

later—much later—when the video store is quiet and the city hums beyond the windows, you and adrian sit on the roof again.

this time, he leans into you without asking.

“hey,” he murmurs. “if i’m too much—”

“you’re not,” you interrupt.

he smiles into your shoulder. “you’re still kind of cold.”

“yes.”

“but you stay.”

“...yes.”

he hums, content. “i could use somebody like you.”

you close your eyes, listening to the rhythm of him, finally certain he feels heard.

the city never really sleeps. it just lowers its voice.

you notice that more after adrian starts staying the night on the roof with you. not every night. he’s still restless, still kinetic, still full of sharp edges—but some nights, when the noise in his head gets too loud, he finds you without saying a word.

and you let him.

tonight is one of those nights.

he’s stretched out beside you on the concrete, hands folded on his chest, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to read something written there just for him. you sit with your back against the ledge, knees drawn in, listening to his breathing sync with the city’s pulse.

“you ever miss home?” he asks suddenly.

you consider the question. “sometimes.”

“was it loud?”

“no,” you say. “it didn’t need to be.”

he smiles faintly. “figures.”

silence settles again—not awkward, not heavy. familiar. “i used to think,” he says after a while, “that if i didn’t make noise, i’d disappear.”

you glance down at him. “you don’t.”

“yeah. i know that now.” he turns his head toward you. “because you still see me when i’m quiet.”

you nod once. that’s your confession.

he sits up, leaning closer, elbows on his knees. “can i ask you something else?”

“yes.”

“do you ever want more?” his voice is careful, hopeful without pushing. “or is this—” he gestures vaguely between you. “—enough?”

you don’t answer immediately. not because you’re unsure—but because you’re precise.

“i want consistency,” you decide. “i want someone who stays. who doesn’t need to be louder to feel real.”

he swallows. “i can try.”

“you already do,” you reply.

he laughs softly. “god, you make everything sound like a vow.”

you look at him then, really look. the mess and the sincerity. the boy who made himself a weapon because he was afraid no one would hear him otherwise.

“i don’t say things i don’t mean,” you tell him.

his expression shifts—something warm and stunned and reverent. “okay,” he says quietly. “then… i mean it too.”

he reaches for your hand, slow enough that you could pull away. 

you don’t.

his fingers curl around yours, warm and solid. he squeezes once, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is real.

“i’ve been roaming around,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “always looking down at all i see.”

you tilt your head, listening.

“and i didn’t realize,” he continues, “that the person i needed was the one who never looked away.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles. it’s small. intentional.

he closes his eyes.

“you ready?” he asks.

“yes,” you say. “i’ve been ready.”

he smiles—soft, unguarded, finally at ease—and leans in. the kiss is gentle, unhurried, like something earned instead of taken. no spectacle. no urgency. just two people choosing each other in the quiet.

when you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“promise me something?” he whispers.

you nod.

“if i get loud again—if i spiral—remind me that you’re still here.”

you press a kiss to his temple. “i won’t need to remind you. i’ll just stay.”

he laughs, breathless and happy. “yeah. that tracks.”

you sit together until the sky begins to pale, until the city starts to wake again. when the others join you later, nothing looks different.

everything is.

because love doesn’t always announce itself. sometimes, it just listens.

mornings with adrian are louder than nights.

he hums when he brushes his teeth—off-key, committed. he narrates his every movement in the kitchen like he’s hosting a cooking show no one asked for. he argues with the coffee machine like it can hear him.

you sit at the small table, legs tucked beneath you, watching steam curl from your mug. you listen.

“okay, see, this is why i don’t trust technology,” he says, slapping the side of the machine. “back home i had a percolator that loved me.”

“it didn’t,” you reply.

“it did. it knew my vibes. hated my mom, but she’s also a bitch, so that makes sense.”

you sip your coffee.

he grins at you over his shoulder. “you’re smiling.”

“i always smile.”

“no, you don’t,” he says, triumphant. “that was a me smile.”

you don’t deny it.

he brings you breakfast—toast slightly burnt, eggs overcooked, presentation chaotic. he sets the plate in front of you like it’s an offering.

“fuel for the emotionally reserved,” he declares.

“thank you,” you say sincerely.

he softens every time you say it like that.

later, you sit on the couch while he cleans his weapons at your feet, helmet discarded, focus intense. he talks—not because he needs noise, but because he wants to share.

you listen—not because you have to, but because you choose to.

emilia drops by unannounced, takes one look at the two of you, and smirks. “wow. he’s… domesticated.”

adrian scoffs. “i am feral.”

“you folded his laundry,” she says.

“that was a tactical decision.” you hide your smile behind your mug.

at night, when the world goes quiet again, he curls into you like it’s instinct. his head fits under your chin perfectly, like he was made for this exact space.

“you still here?” he murmurs sometimes, half-asleep.

“yes,” you answer every time.

and he always relaxes. every time.

because he doesn’t need to be loud to be seen anymore. because you never stopped listening. because some love doesn’t shout.

it’s late in your shift—almost three in the morning—when the automatic doors slide open and let in a man who looks like he took a wrong turn somewhere between cosplay convention and midlife crisis. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually but strangely—like he dressed himself in the dark and decided confidence would carry him the rest of the way. he doesn’t look hurt. he doesn’t look sick.

he looks curious.

he approaches the desk with an easy grin, rests his elbows on the counter like you’re already friends.

“hey,” he says. “quick question.”

you blink. “are you a patient?”

“not right now,” he says cheerfully. “but, let us just say hypothetically—”

you sigh internally. hypotheticals never end well. “what’s your question?” you ask anyway.

he leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to tell you a secret. “which artery makes people bleed out the fastest?”

you stare at him.

he watches you stare. completely unbothered.

“…excuse me?”

“like,” he continues, gesturing vaguely with his hands, “if someone were to get stabbed—accidentally, obviously—where would be the worst place? time-wise.”

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “sir,” you say carefully, “if you’re asking about harming someone—”

“no, no,” he interrupts. “not harming. research.”

“research for what?”

he thinks about it for a moment, then smiles wider. “writing, in a mary shelley-esque bet.” that tracks, somehow.

you give him a flat look. “we can’t answer questions like that.”

“oh. okay.” he nods, unfazed. “what about freezer burn?”

you pause. “…what about it?”

“what temperature does it start at?”

you rub your temple. “why?”

“details matter.”

you consider calling security. but evergreen trauma medical center doesn’t really have security—just a bored cop who naps in his cruiser outside the diner. and the man in front of you doesn’t feel threatening. he feels… earnest. like a golden retriever with homicidal curiosity.

“i can tell you about frostbite,” you say. “freezer burn isn’t something we covered in school.”

“perfect.”

and just like that, you’re explaining tissue damage and temperature thresholds to a stranger whose eyes light up every time you say something technical. he listens like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard, nodding along, asking follow-up questions that are way too specific for comfort.

when you finish, he beams. “you’re really smart,” he says.

“…thanks.”

“i’m adrian,” he adds, holding out his hand.

you hesitate, then shake it. “you can’t keep coming in here just to ask questions.”

he grins. “watch me.”

he leaves a few minutes later, waving like he’ll see you tomorrow.

you assume you won’t.

you’re wrong.

adrian becomes a fixture.

he always comes in late—after the rush, when the ER is quiet enough that you can hear the heart monitors beep in rhythm. sometimes he brings coffee. sometimes he brings pastries from the bakery downtown. he never pretends to be a patient. he never crosses a line.

he just asks questions.

sometimes they’re harmless.

“what happens if you stay awake for too long?”

“can adrenaline really make you lift a car?”

“do people feel pain differently when they’re scared?”

other times… not so much.

“how long can someone survive with internal bleeding if they don’t know it’s happening?”

“what’s the difference between a bruise from a fall and one from being grabbed?”

“is it possible to snap a neck without killing someone?”

you start answering selectively. carefully. you tell yourself he’s a writer. a true crime author, maybe. or a screenwriter. you’ve met weirder. hell, you’ve dated weirder.

you don’t notice when the ER starts to feel… safer.

it was always safe, technically. evergreen doesn’t see much violent crime, aside from the random attacks from the masked crusader who calls himself vigilante (who names themself after their job?). but little things change.

dr. shen mentions a patient who made a crude comment, who lingered too close, who made her uneasy in a way she can’t quite explain. you nod sympathetically, offer solidarity. a few weeks later, you see his face on a missing person poster taped to a lamppost outside the grocery store.

you feel a flicker of discomfort. then you shrug it off. people leave town all the time.

nurse callahan complains about a regular who gets handsy when he’s drunk. you roll your eyes with her, promise to keep an eye out next time. there is no next time.

the woman with the bruises—the one who always says she fell, who avoids eye contact, who comes in every few weeks like clockwork—stops coming in altogether. months pass before you see her again, laughing in a coffee shop, hair freshly cut, eyes bright. she tells you her husband left town suddenly. just packed up and vanished.

you smile. wish her well.

your mother’s voice echoes in your head: bad things happen to bad people.

you don’t connect the dots. you don’t notice the red visor watching from rooftops when you clock out at ungodly hours after swapping shifts with other nurses.

you don’t notice how adrian’s posture changes when you vent about a patient who scared you. you don’t notice how carefully he listens.

but adrian notices everything.

you start to look for him without meaning to.

it’s subtle at first—just a flicker of disappointment when the doors don’t slide open at the usual time slot, a moment of anticipation when they do. adrian never comes in during chaos. he always waits until evergreen settles into its nightly hush, when the ER lights feel too bright for how empty the waiting room is.

tonight, he’s late.

you’re halfway through charting when you hear footsteps and glance up instinctively. he’s there, leaning against the counter like he belongs behind it, not in front of it. he’s wearing a hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it too many times.

“hey,” he says.

you relax without realizing you were tense. “you’re late.”

“yeah.” he grins. “got… held up.”

you don’t ask by what.

he peers past you at the quiet ER. “slow night?”

“always,” you hum in response. “that’s evergreen for you.”

“good,” he says softly. then, louder: “so! question.”

of course. you close the chart and face him. “if this is about arteries again—”

“nope.” he raises his hands in surrender. “this one’s about bruises.”

you pause. “bruises.”

“yeah. like—” he gestures vaguely at your arm. “how long does it take before they show up? after someone gets grabbed.”

your stomach tightens. “depends,” you say slowly. “force, location, the person. why?”

he shrugs, too casual. “just wondering how people miss them.”

you don’t like the way he says that. like it’s personal.

before you can respond, dr. shen walks past, clipboard tucked under her arm. adrian’s gaze flicks to her automatically—sharp, assessing. noticing the way her shoulders stiffen when she spots him, the way she speeds up.

he notices things.

“you okay?” he asks you, eyes still tracking her retreat.

“yeah,” you say, though you’re not sure why he asked. “why?”

he hums. “she seems… tense.”

you snort. “that’s residency.”

“mm,” he says, unconvinced.

he asks a few more questions—lighter ones this time, about sleep deprivation, about why some people faint at the sight of blood and others don’t. eventually, your shift ends.

“you walking out?” he asks.

you nod, grabbing your bag. “yeah.”

“i’ll walk with you,” he says, like it’s a given.

outside, the air is cool and still. the parking lot is mostly empty, streetlights buzzing softly. you don’t think twice about letting adrian fall into step beside you. he keeps a respectful distance. always does.

“you ever feel unsafe here?” he asks suddenly.

the question catches you off guard. “what?”

“in evergreen,” he clarifies. “at work.”

you think about it. about missing posters. about hands that lingered too long. about bruises explained away.

“…not really,” you say. “why?”

“no reason.” he smiles. “just curious.”

he stops at the edge of the lot. watches you unlock your car.

“night,” he says.

“night, adrian.”

you don’t notice the way he waits until you’re inside before he leaves.

the first time you almost connect the dots, it’s because of nurse callahan.

she corners you in the break room, eyes wide, voice low. “did you hear?”

“hear what?”

“that guy,” she says. “the drunk who kept grabbing me. they found his car abandoned outside town.”

your heart stutters. “what?”

“yeah. keys still inside. wallet too.” she shivers. “creepy, right?”

you force a laugh. “guess he skipped out on some debts or something.”

“guess so,” she says. then, quieter: “good riddance.”

that night, adrian comes in whistling.

you watch him more closely than usual as he leans on the counter, asks you about concussions. he seems lighter. happier.

“busy night?” you ask.

“nah,” he says. “pretty productive, though.”

your pulse ticks up. “productive how?”

he grins. “oh, you know. got some stuff done.”

you study his face. there’s no guilt there. no hesitation. just an easy warmth directed entirely at you.

you tell yourself you’re imagining things.

it becomes a pattern.

every time someone at work scares you—really scares you—something happens to them.

a man who threatens a tech disappears.

a belligerent drunk who throws a chair gets arrested for something unrelated and never comes back.

you never see adrian do anything. you never hear him confess. but he always seems to know.

“you okay?” he asks one night, after you finish recounting a patient who made your skin crawl.

“yeah,” you say, tired. “just… people suck sometimes.”

“they don’t have to,” he says mildly.

you laugh. “that’s optimistic.”

he tilts his head. “is it?”

there’s something in his eyes then. something sharp behind the friendliness. like a blade wrapped in velvet.

you should be afraid.

instead, you feel safe.

the night everything clicks is quiet. too quiet.

you’re walking out later than usual, parking lot empty, when you hear footsteps behind you.

you tense.

“hey,” adrian says quickly. “sorry! didn’t mean to scare you.”

you exhale, embarrassed. “you didn’t.”

he falls into step beside you, closer than usual. you can smell metal on him. iron. 

blood.

you stop.

he stops too. instantly.

“adrian,” you say slowly. “are you hurt?”

he blinks. “what?”

“you smell like blood.”

a beat. then he smiles. “oh,” he says lightly. “yeah. that!”

your heart starts pounding. “that what?”

he studies your face, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. then he sighs. “i was hoping you wouldn’t notice yet.”

your breath catches. “notice what?”

he steps closer. not threatening. intimate. “that i take care of things,” he says softly. “for the doctors and nurses here. for you.”

the parking lot feels suddenly very empty.

“what does that mean?” you whisper.

he reaches out—slowly, giving you time to pull away—and brushes his thumb against your wrist, right over your pulse.

“it means,” adrian says, voice warm, reverent, “that nobody who hurts you gets to keep doing it.”

the world tilts.

“you’re joking,” you say. “this is—this is some writer thing, right?”

he chuckles. “oh, i am a writer.”

your stomach drops. “of what?”

“justice,” he says brightly. and then, like he can’t help himself, he adds: “also murder.”

your pulse is a roar in your ears. “you’re serious?” you breathe.

he nods. “yeah.”

silence stretches between you.

“you’ve been watching me,” you say.

“protecting,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”

“there really isn’t.”

he shrugs. “agree to disagree.”

you should run. instead, you ask, “why me?”

his expression softens in a way that’s almost frightening. “because,” he says, like it’s obvious, “you save people. you care. you listen. and the world keeps trying to hurt you anyway.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“i won’t let that happen.”

your knees feel weak.

“you’re not scared,” he observes, delighted.

“i should be,” you whisper.

“but you’re not.”

“no,” you admit. “i’m not.”

his smile is slow. possessive. “good! because i really like you.”

you don’t sleep that night.

you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over until they lose meaning and then regain it all at once.

“i take care of things for you.”

every instinct you have—every training, every ethical boundary—screams that you should report him. that you should quit. that you should run as far away from evergreen as possible.

but another part of you, quieter and far more dangerous, keeps inventory.

you’ve walked to your car alone for months without fear. no one touches you at work anymore. the people who made your skin crawl are gone.

and adrian never once crossed a line with you.

when he shows up the next night, you’re already waiting.

he hesitates when he sees your expression—guarded, serious, no hint of your usual tired amusement.

“...okay,” he says carefully. “you look like you’re about to either punch me or ask me out. i’m hoping for the second one.”

“sit,” you say.

he does exactly as you tell him to. he always does.

you fold your arms. “how long?”

he exhales. “how long what?”

“how long have you been doing this,” you say. “for me.”

he doesn’t joke. doesn’t deflect. he looks at you like this matters.

“a few months,” he admits. “since the guy who cornered you by the supply closet.”

your stomach drops. “you saw that?”

“i heard it,” he says. “your voice changed.”

that sends a chill straight through you.

“you followed me,” you say.

“i watched,” he corrects. “there’s a difference!”

“stop saying that.”

he winces. “okay. yeah. fair.”

you lower your voice. “how many people, adrian?”

he tilts his head, considering. “that’s… a loaded question. i mean, i've got a bet going with my friend about who can get the coolest one, so i keep trying stuff. and because i’ve liked, saved the world a couple times, and i’ve been to alternate dimensions—”

“answer it.”

“do you want the number,” he asks gently, “or do you want to keep sleeping at night?”

your jaw tightens.

“that’s what i thought,” he murmurs.

you should feel disgust. horror. fear.

instead, you feel something dangerously close to relief.

“you don’t get to decide who lives or dies,” you say, even as your voice wavers.

he nods. “you’re right.”

that surprises you.

“i don’t want to,” he continues. “but someone has to. and i’m really good at it! it’s like a total win-win situation for everyone.”

you swallow. “what if you’re wrong?”

“i’m not,” he says immediately. then softer: “but if i ever was… i’d stop.”

you meet his eyes. “for what? or even who?”

“for you.”

the weight of that settles heavy in your chest.

“you scare me,” you admit.

his mouth quirks. “yeah, no, that tracks. like, i totally see where you’re coming from. i’d honestly be a little more worried for you than usual if you weren’t scared of me!”

“but,” you add, barely audible, “you make me feel safe.”

something in adrian’s expression breaks open at that—something raw and unguarded. “i work really hard at that,” he says quietly.

silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid.

“you can’t keep doing this,” you whisper.

“i can,” he says. “but i won’t if you tell me not to.”

you search his face for a lie. find none.

“…i don’t want to know,” you say finally.

his brows knit together. “what?”

“i don’t want details. i don’t want names. i don’t want blood on my hands by association.” you steady yourself. “but i won’t turn you in, because you’re him aren’t you? you’re that vigilante guy. you take down the actual bad guys.”

relief floods his face so fast it almost knocks him over.

“also,” you continue, heart pounding, “if i say someone scares me—really scares me—you don’t act unless i ask. those are my terms.”

he nods immediately. “deal.”

“you swear?”

“i swear,” he says. “on… you? i really hate my mom, so if i swear on her that means nothing. but on you, it means something.”

that shouldn’t mean anything.

it does.

evergreen never notices the difference.

that’s the thing about safety—it’s invisible when it works.

life settles into something that almost looks normal. you work. you sleep. you come home. adrian starts showing up at your place with alarming regularity, like a stray cat that figured out your schedule and decided it lived there now.

he learns your routines.

which mug you always reach for first. how you kick your shoes off by the door. the way you hum under your breath when you’re exhausted but trying not to be.

“you know,” you tell him one night, watching him fold laundry like it’s a sacred ritual, “most people would find this creepy.”

he glances up, visor-less, soft-eyed. “most people don’t deserve you.”

you snort. “that’s not how that works.”

“sure it is,” he says. “you’re the baseline.”

he makes dinner. nothing fancy—pasta, mostly—but he insists on cutting vegetables with surgical precision. you watch his hands more than you should.

“you ever wish things were simpler?” you ask.

he considers. “no.”

“really?”

“simple usually means someone’s lying,” he says. “this is honest.”

that shouldn’t be comforting. it is.

the first time you come home shaken—really shaken—you don’t even have to explain.

adrian’s already there, sitting on your couch, helmet resting beside him like a promise. he looks up the moment the door opens.

“what happened?”

you drop your bag. your hands are trembling.

“new attending. he grabbed me,” you say. “not—bad. but enough.”

his jaw tightens.

“i told him to stop,” you add quickly. “he laughed.”

adrian stands slowly. carefully. like he’s afraid sudden movement might scare you. “what do you need?” he asks.

the room feels very still.

you think of ethics. of rules. of the version of yourself that existed before adrian chase. then you think of walking to your car alone.

“i don’t want to see him again,” you say.

adrian nods. once. “okay.”

you don’t ask questions.

the next day, the man doesn’t show up for his shift. or the next.

or the next.

you feel the familiar twist of guilt—and the equally familiar release that follows.

some nights, adrian comes back bloodied and buzzing with energy, curls up beside you like nothing happened. other nights, he stays home, lets the city fend for itself.

those nights are your favorite.

you lie in bed together, his arm heavy around your waist, your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns into his skin.

“you ever think about stopping?” you ask once.

he hums. “do you want me to?”

you consider it. the quiet. the safety. the way the other women at work suddenly have nothing to fear either. “no,” you admit.

“then no,” he says simply.

he presses a kiss to your temple. “i’m yours. that’s the rule.”

you should argue.

instead, you smile and close your eyes.

evergreen remains peaceful.

the ER stays quiet.

and sometimes—when you leave work late and the night air feels too open—you catch the faint reflection of red in a darkened window. watching.

guarding.

loving.

you don’t wave. you don’t have to. adrian already knows you’re safe.

it’s subtle—blink-and-you-miss-it subtle—but you’ve worked beside him long enough to notice the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands hover uselessly over his keyboard like he’s forgotten what they’re for.

you watch him swallow.

someone turns up the volume on a laptop. tinny alien acoustics fill the room—crystalline echoes, a language that isn’t meant for human throats. subtitles crawl along the bottom of the screen.

—to fulfill his destiny— —earth will kneel— —he will lead them—

a nervous laugh breaks out near the copy desk. someone mutters, “well. that’s not great.”

clark stands so abruptly his chair skids backward.

“i—uh,” he says, already grabbing his coat. his voice cracks, just a little. “chief probably wants—”

“clark,” perry calls from his office doorway, phone already glued to his ear. his gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. “don’t go far.”

you and clark lock eyes for half a second.

something passes between you then—panic, maybe, or something quieter and worse. a shared understanding that the ground just shifted and neither of you knows where it’s going to settle.

you’ve taken walks around the world with him before. late nights, stakeouts, quiet coffee runs where the city feels like it’s holding its breath. you’ve watched him carry the weight of things he never talks about. you’ve watched him watch the world like he’s afraid it might slip out of orbit if he blinks.

you feel it now, that same slow pull toward the dark side of the moon.

and there’s nothing you can do.

an hour later, you’re rushing to the rooftop of the daily planets, emotions so jumbled inside you feel like you might spontaneously combust.

the city sprawls beneath you, loud and alive and utterly unaware of how fragile its faith is.

superman lands behind you without a sound.

you don’t turn right away. you already know he’s there—the air changes when he arrives, like the world is paying attention.

“thanks for agreeing to this,” you say instead, steady. professional. you hold your recorder like a shield.

“you asked,” he replies. it’s clark’s voice, stripped of softness. lower. measured. every syllable carefully weighed like it might be used as evidence later.

you turn.

he looks the same. of course he does. blue suit, red cape, emblem bright against his chest like a target. but there’s something in his eyes tonight—something raw and unsettled, like a fault line just under the surface.

you’ve seen him upset before. controlled anger. righteous fury. this is different.

this is hurt.

“let’s get into it,” you say, because that’s your job, and because if you hesitate you might never start. “earlier today, a recording surfaced—”

“i’ve seen it,” he says quickly.

you nod. “the video appears to show your biological parents claiming they sent you here to dominate earth. people are scared.”

his jaw tightens.

“are you?” the question slips out before you can stop it.

he studies you for a long moment. when he speaks again, it’s quieter. “no,” he says finally. “i’m not scared. i’m angry.”

you inhale slowly. “because it’s not true.”

“because they’re wrong,” he says, heat flashing now. “because they don’t get to decide who i am.”

the wind tugs at his cape, restless.

you glance at your notes. you already know what’s coming next. the questions people are asking. the ones trending. the ones no one else will dare ask to his face.

you brace yourself.

“people want to know,” you say carefully, “what would happen if the video was true.”

his eyes snap to yours.

“what if,” you continue, heart hammering now, “you woke up one day and decided humanity wasn’t worth saving anymore?”

a muscle jumps in his cheek. “i wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

“but what if you did?”

silence stretches between you, thin as wire.

“i’ve spent all these years, saving metropolis and other cities and countries, proving that i won’t,” he says, voice tight. “why is that not enough?”

you hate this part. you hate that you’re the one holding the knife. you hate that he’s looking at you like you’re the one twisting it. “because people are asking if your morality is conditional,” you say. “if it depends on how we treat you. on whether we disappoint you.”

“i’m not a god,” he snaps.

the sound echoes off the buildings below.

you don’t flinch—but something in your chest does. “i never said you were.”

“no,” he says bitterly. “but they do. every day. either i’m their savior or their executioner. there’s no room for anything in between.” he turns away from you, hands clenched at his sides.

you watch him like this—broad shoulders bowed just slightly, like the weight finally got to him—and something in you aches.

you remember the way clark once stayed up all night helping you fact-check a piece that wasn’t even his. the way he brings you coffee exactly how you like it without ever asking. the way he listens—really listens—like every word you say matters.

you took those things for granted.

“so let me ask you this,” you say softly. “if the world turns on you… if they decide you’re a threat—”

he laughs, sharp and humorless. “they already have.”

“if they push you,” you press, “and they push you… what happens when you finally break?”

he spins back toward you. “is that what you think?” he asks. “that i’m one bad day away from becoming a monster?”

the question lands hard.

you meet his gaze and don’t look away. you’re not sure what to say at first. how do you talk to a god that won’t accept he is one? a god that you can only see as your sweet, nonviolent coworker? “i think you’re strong,” you decide. “and i think you’re human in all the ways that count. and that means you can be hurt.”

his expression falters.

“i think,” you continue, quieter now, “that scares people more than anything.”

the city hums below you. traffic. sirens. life going on, blissfully ignorant.

he exhales, long and shaky.

“i’ve saved this world more times than i can count,” he says. “i’ve picked it up and put it back on solid ground when it stumbled. and still—” his voice breaks. “still they’re asking if i’m their doom.”

you step closer without thinking.

“if you go crazy,” you say, the words trembling on the edge of something too personal, “will you still be superman?”

he looks at you like you’ve just reached inside his chest. “and if i’m alive and well,” he asks quietly, “will you still look at me the same way?”

your heart stutters.

this is the part you’re not supposed to cross. the line between reporter and subject. between truth and something far more dangerous.

you lower your recorder.

“i already do,” you breathe.

for a moment, the world holds its breath.

then—somewhere far below—a cheer rises. someone’s seen him. someone still believes.

superman closes his eyes.

and you realize, with startling clarity, that you might be the only thing keeping him tethered right now.

not his strength.not his powers.

you.

the interview detonates exactly the way you knew it would.

by the time you get back to the daily planet after your break, the building is vibrating—phones ringing off the hook, producers shouting from screens, interns sprinting like they’ve been drafted into a war they didn’t sign up for.

your byline is everywhere.

SUPERMAN DENIES LEAKED KRYPTONIAN CLAIMS: “THEY DON’T GET TO DECIDE WHO I AM.” 

you don’t read the comments. you don’t need to.

you can already hear them in your head.

what if he snaps? what if he’s lying? what if we’re already doomed?

clark is at his desk when you step off the elevator.

clark kent. rumpled suit. glasses slightly crooked. mild-mannered, kansas-born reporter who spills coffee and apologizes too much.

no one is looking at him. no one connects him to the man whose voice cracked on a rooftop an hour ago. that’s the thing that makes your chest ache the most.

you pass his desk without stopping. if you look at him—if you really look—you’re not sure you’ll be able to pretend. and pretending is the only thing keeping him safe.

“hey,” he says softly anyway.

just your name. quiet. almost lost under the noise.

you stop.

from the outside, it probably looks like nothing. two coworkers pausing mid-chaos. a beat too long, maybe—but no one’s counting.

you turn just enough to face him.

his eyes search your face, blue and worried and unmistakably clark, not superman. not the symbol. not the headline.

you lower your voice. “you okay?”

a pause. then, just as quietly: “are you?”

you almost laugh. you almost cry. “i did what i had to,” you sigh.

“i know,” he replies.

the way he says it—no accusation, no resentment—hits harder than if he’d been angry. you grilled him on a rooftop in front of the world. you asked the questions that made his hands shake. and he still trusts you.

that trust feels heavier than anything you asked him to lift.

lois lane materializes at your side like she always does when things get interesting.

“well,” she says, eyes sharp, voice breezy, “you officially broke the internet. again.”

you glance at her.

she’s watching clark too—not like the others, not casually. there’s calculation there. knowing. she knows. she’s known for a while now. longer than you have.

“you didn’t go easy on him,” she adds, tone carefully neutral.

you don’t look away. “i couldn’t.”

clark swallows.

lois studies your face for a second longer, then nods once. approval. or maybe understanding.

“perry wants a follow-up,” she says. “later. not today.”

she turns to clark. “you good?”

he forces a smile. “yeah. just—processing.”

lois squeezes his shoulder, quick and familiar, then walks off.

when she’s gone, the space she leaves behind feels too exposed.

clark clears his throat. “listen, about earlier—”

“don’t,” you interrupt, too fast. you soften your tone. “we can’t. not here.”

his mouth tightens in agreement. he glances around the bullpen, at the oblivious coworkers, the glowing screens, the normalcy that feels almost obscene now.

“tonight?” he asks. “the roof?”

you hesitate.

that rooftop is dangerous. it’s where the masks come off. where you stop pretending he’s just your coworker and you’re just doing your job.

but he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, and you know—you know—that he won’t let anyone else see it.

“tonight,” you agree.

the city is quieter after everyone has returned to their homes.

the roof smells like rain and concrete and ozone, like the air after something powerful has passed through.

clark is already there when you arrive. 

not superman. just clark. no cape. no boots. just a jacket pulled tight against the cold, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

that’s what guts you the most, every time.

the world thinks superman doesn’t need anyone.

clark kent looks like he needs you desperately.

“they’re still running it,” he says without turning around. “every channel. every site.”

you step up beside him, careful to keep space between you. “they will for a while.”

“i know.” he exhales. “i just didn’t realize how loud it would be.”

you watch the city lights flicker below, like a galaxy turned upside down.

“i keep thinking about what you asked,” he admits. “about breaking.”

you say nothing.

“if i did,” he continues quietly. “if something inside me, you know, changed.” he swallows. “would you be afraid of me?”

the question lands soft and devastating.

you turn toward him fully now. “clark.”

he flinches at his name—not because it hurts, but because it means you see him. not the myth. not the power.

“you’ve been called strong,” you say. “you’ve been called weak. you’ve been called everything in between.”

he lets out a shaky breath.

“but i know your secrets,” you continue. “and i’ll keep them. not because you’re superman—but because you’re you.”

he finally looks at you.

up close, his eyes are glassy. tired. human.

“you took for granted all the times i never let you down,” he says softly, like he’s confessing something. “and i didn’t even realize it.”

“you never let me down,” you say.

his laugh is quiet and broken. “you grilled me and then published an article within an hour.”

“and i still stood by you,” you reply. “both can be true.”

something shifts between you then. the tension that’s always been there—the glances held too long, the conversations that drifted dangerously close to personal—tightens, sharp and electric.

“you’re my anchor,” he says before he can stop himself.

the words hang there, fragile.

“you’re not supposed to need one,” you say, unsure of what else to add on. no words feel adequate at the moment.

“i know,” he replies. “that’s what scares me.”

he steps closer. not touching. never crossing that final line. but close enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, steady and impossible.

“if i go crazy,” he murmurs, barely audible now, “will you still call me superman?”

you don’t answer right away. you reach out instead—slow, deliberate—and take his hand.

it’s warm. solid. real.

“if you go crazy,” you say, “i’ll still call you clark.”

his breath catches.

“and if i’m alive and well?” he asks.

you squeeze his hand. “i’ll be right here. holding on.”

for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to shove him into a destiny he never chose—clark kent leans into you like he’s allowed to rest.

and you realize, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that you’re his kryptonite.

not the thing that kills him.

the thing that keeps him human.

the first crack happens three days later.

it’s small. practically microscopic. the kind of thing only people who are looking for failure would notice.

superman is pulling a collapsed commuter train out of the river when his grip slips. just for half a second.

no one dies. no one is even seriously hurt. the train scrapes the concrete embankment harder than it should, metal screaming loud enough to rattle windows six blocks away. a dozen phones catch the moment from different angles—his jaw clenched, his arms shaking, the unmistakable hitch in his motion.

by the time he sets the train down safely, the damage is already done.

SUPERMAN STUMBLES DURING RESCUE. FIRST SIGN OF FRACTURE? IS HE LOSING CONTROL? IS OUR CAPED CRUSADOR NOW A DANGER TO US ALL?

you read the headlines from your desk, stomach hollow.

across the bullpen, clark spills coffee all over his notes.

“sorry—sorry,” he murmurs, blotting at the paper like it personally offended him.

no one notices. no one ever does. that’s the cruelest part.

they’re dissecting superman’s body language on every screen in the office—slowing the footage down, circling the slip in red like it’s a crime scene—while clark kent sits ten feet away, quietly unraveling.

lois drops into the chair beside you, expression tight.

“he didn’t lose control,” she says under her breath.

“i know,” you reply.

“he hesitated,” she continues. “that’s different.”

you glance at her. “you think they’ll care?”

lois exhales sharply. “no. i think they’ve been waiting for this.”

across the room, perry barks orders into a phone. “no speculation—stick to verified facts—no, i don’t care what the blogosphere is saying—”

your screen lights up with a dozen emails at once.

what if the video is true? what if he’s weakening? what happens when superman decides we’re the problem?

you close your laptop. you already know who’s going to answer those questions.

and you already know how much it’s going to cost him.

he doesn’t text you. he doesn’t call.

by the time night falls, the silence is so loud it feels intentional.

you find him anyway.

the roof is empty when you arrive—too empty. the air feels wrong, like a held breath that’s gone on too long.

“clark?” you call softly.

nothing. then—wind.

not the dramatic kind. not the thunderous arrival metropolis is used to. just a quiet displacement of air behind you.

“i didn’t want you to see that.”

you turn.

superman stands a few feet away, cape hanging heavy from his shoulders like it’s soaked through. his hands are clenched, knuckles white.

“see what?” you ask.

he laughs, short and bitter. “that.”

he gestures vaguely. at the city, the headlines, himself.

“i froze,” he says. “for a second, i froze. and all i could think was: they were right.”

you step closer. “no, they weren’t.”

“i’ve never hesitated before,” he insists. “never. and now? after the video… after the questions—” his voice drops. “what if something did change?”

your chest tightens. “you didn’t freeze because you wanted to hurt anyone,” you say. “you froze because you were afraid of proving them right.”

his eyes flick to yours. “and that’s better?”

“yes,” you respond immediately. “because it means you care.”

he looks unconvinced. “i keep hearing your voice,” he admits. “on the roof. asking me what happens when i break.”

you swallow. “clark—”

“what if that was it?” he interrupts. “what if that moment, that slip, that was the beginning?”

he looks enormous standing there, impossibly strong, and somehow more fragile than you’ve ever seen him.

you reach for him before you can talk yourself out of it.

your hand lands on his arm. he stills instantly.

you’ve touched him before—accidentally, casually—but this is different. intentional. grounding.

“you’re not breaking,” you say firmly. “you’re hurting. there’s a difference.”

his breath stutters.

“you don’t get to decide that alone,” you continue. “not when the rest of us keep putting the weight of the world on your shoulders and calling it destiny.”

for a long moment, he says nothing.

then, quietly: “i don’t know how to do this without being superman.”

the confession slices straight through you.

“you don’t have to do it without being him,” you say. “you just don’t have to be only him.”

his eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission. for something dangerous.

“i’m so tired,” he whispers.

you step closer. close enough now that the space between you feels meaningless. “i know,” 

his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours.

the city disappears.

there’s no symbol. no headlines. no destiny written in alien glass.

just two people standing on a roof, holding each other up.

“if i lose them,” he murmurs. “if the world decides i’m the enemy—”

“then i’ll still be here,” you say. “and lois will. and the people you’ve saved who don’t have platforms or hashtags.”

he lets out a shaky breath. “you shouldn’t have to do this.”

“too late,” you reply softly. “i already am.”

his hands hover at your waist—not touching, always careful.

“you’re dangerous,” he says, almost smiling. “you know that?”

you huff quietly. “funny. they say the same about you.”

“no,” he says. “you’re worse.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you make me want things,” he admits. “normal things. impossible things.”

your heart pounds. “like what?”

he hesitates. “like staying,” he says. “like choosing.”

the word lingers between you, electric.

before either of you can say more, his head snaps up.

sirens. far off—but urgent.

he pulls back, duty already reclaiming him.

“i have to—”

“i know,” you sigh.

he looks at you like he wants to apologize for a hundred things he hasn’t done yet.

“i’ll be back,” he promises.

you nod. “i’ll be here.”

he hesitates one last time.

then—so gently it almost doesn’t count—he presses his forehead to yours again.

and he’s gone.

the next morning, perry assigns you another superman piece.

you argue. briefly. futilely.

“they trust you,” he says. “whether they should or not.”

you sit at your desk afterward, staring at the blinking cursor.

across the room, clark types furiously, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red like he didn’t sleep.

no one connects the dots.

except lois, who watches you both like she’s counting heartbeats.

your phone buzzes.

‘did i mess everything up?’

you type back without hesitation. ‘no. you picked people over fear.’

a pause. then: ‘is that enough?’

you look up at him. at the man pretending to be ordinary. at the god pretending not to hurt.

you type: ‘it always has been.’

he looks at his phone. then, just for a second, he smiles.

and you realize the world may never stop testing him.

but as long as he keeps choosing humanity—as long as he keeps choosing you—he won’t float away to the dark side of the moon.

the leak hits at 9:12 a.m.

it’s not alien footage. it’s not another think piece dissecting superman’s microexpressions. it’s worse because it’s human.

ANONYMOUS SOURCE QUESTIONS SUPERMAN’S DUAL PRESENCE AT RESCUES AND DAILY PLANET. COINCIDENCE OR COVER? 

you feel it before you understand it. that cold, instinctive drop in your stomach. the kind that comes from knowing someone tugged the wrong thread.

across the bullpen, clark’s fingers stop moving.

he doesn’t look at the screen. he doesn’t have to. you can see the tension coil through him, sharp and immediate, like a muscle memory from disasters no one else remembers.

lois is on her feet in an instant.

“that’s thin,” she snaps, already skimming. “circumstantial at best.”

“it’s enough,” perry mutters from his office doorway. “enough to make noise.”

the article doesn’t say clark kent is superman. it doesn’t have to.

it points out overlapping timelines. near misses. a reporter mysteriously absent during three major incidents. it suggests—not accuses—that superman might have a “civilian anchor point” in metropolis media.

you close your eyes.

someone, somewhere, is learning how to look.

clark finally exhales, slow and controlled. he pushes back from his desk and stands.

“i’m grabbing coffee,” he says mildly.

no one questions it.

you’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved. “i’ll come.”

from the outside, it looks normal. coworkers. friends. two reporters escaping the chaos for caffeine. but when the elevator doors close, the air shifts—heavy, electric.

“that was close,” you murmur.

clark stares at the floor. “too close.”

“you’re still safe,” you say quickly. “they don’t know. they’re guessing.”

“guessing turns into patterns,” he replies. “patterns turn into certainty.”

the elevator dings.

you don’t go to the cafe.

you go to the stairwell instead, pushing through the door and into the echoing quiet. the concrete walls smell faintly of dust and oil, the city muffled to a distant hum.

clark stops two steps in.

“i can’t keep doing this,” he says.

the words hit harder than any headline.

you turn to face him. “doing what?”

“lying,” he says. “hiding. watching you take hits meant for me.”

“that’s not—”

“it is,” he insists. his voice isn’t loud, but it’s shaking now. “every time you write about me, every time you defend me, you’re standing in front of the world while i stay behind the curtain.”

“that curtain keeps people alive,” you say.

“it’s starting to get people hurt,” he counters. “what happens when they connect you to me instead?”

the thought twists your chest. “clark,” you say softly. “look at me.”

he does.

“you are not ruining lives by existing,” you tell him. “you’re not betraying anyone by protecting yourself.”

“i’m tired of being afraid,” he admits.

the confession cracks something open between you.

you step closer. “then don’t be afraid alone.”

he laughs weakly. “that’s the problem. i don’t want you anywhere near this.”

“and yet,” you say, “here i am.”

he watches you like he’s memorizing your face. “if i stopped,” he says quietly. “if i walked away from being superman—”

your breath catches. “you can’t mean that.”

“i do,” he says. “at least for a while. let them breathe. let the noise die down.”

“and what about you?” you ask. “what happens to the part of you that needs to help?”

his jaw tightens. “i don’t know.”

you reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “running won’t make them stop,” you say. “and it won’t make you happier.”

he closes his eyes at the touch. “you’re my weakness,” he murmurs.

you smile sadly. “no. i’m your reminder.”

he opens his eyes. “of what?”

“that you get to choose,” you say. “not krypton. not earth. you.”

for a moment, it looks like he might kiss you. the tension is unbearable—every unsaid thing vibrating between you, dangerous and inevitable.

then lois’s voice echoes faintly from the stairwell above. “kent? you vanish again and i start assuming secret tunnels.”

clark exhales, stepping back.

the moment slips through your fingers like sand.

that night, superman doesn’t appear.

not when a bridge locks up during rush hour. not when a warehouse fire eats half a block. other heroes respond. planes divert. systems compensate.

but the absence is louder than any cape.

WHERE IS SUPERMAN? HERO NOWHERE TO BE SEEN—HAS HE ABANDONED US? DID HUMANITY PUSH HIM TOO FAR? 

you watch the city from your apartment window, phone clenched in your hand.

no texts. no calls.

you try not to imagine him somewhere alone, wrestling with the kind of silence that eats people alive.

when the knock comes, it nearly stops your heart.

you open the door.

clark stands there, soaked to the bone, glasses fogged, hair plastered to his forehead like he ran through a storm instead of flew above it.

“i needed—” he stops, swallowing. “i needed to see you.”

you pull him inside without a word.

the door clicks shut. the world narrows.

he paces once, then stops, hands braced on the back of your couch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“i didn’t go,” he says. you can hear the guilty clinging to his words.  “i heard the calls. i felt them. and i stayed.”

your chest aches. “why?”

“because i was angry,” he admits. “because part of me wanted to prove i could walk away.”

“and?”

“and i hated it,” he says. “every second.”

you step closer.

“i kept thinking about what you said,” he continues. “about choosing. about not being only one thing.” he looks at you then—really looks—and something decisive settles in his expression. “i don’t want to stop being superman,” he says. “and i don’t want to keep pretending i don’t need anyone.”

your heart pounds.

“i don’t want to lose you,” he finishes.

the words are quiet. terrifying. honest.

you close the distance between you. “then don’t.”

he reaches out, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. his hand cups your cheek, warm and steady.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

you don’t.

when he kisses you, it’s not explosive—it’s reverent. like he’s afraid this moment might shatter if he breathes wrong.

you kiss him back anyway.

he exhales against your mouth, relief and longing tangled together, and for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to rewrite his story—clark lets himself be held.

later, when he rests his forehead against yours, you feel the weight shift again.

“tomorrow,” he says softly, “i go back.”

you nod. “tomorrow, i write the truth.”

he doesn’t say it like that, of course. bruce wayne does not articulate devotion so plainly—not out loud. but he shows it in the way he watches you string lights along the bannister of wayne manor, fingers careful, expression intent, as though this is a mission that matters. he shows it in the way he adjusts the thermostat before you even comment on the chill, or how a mug of something warm appears at your elbow without you ever asking. he shows it in how, somehow, december never ends.

it starts in november, because you start humming before thanksgiving even passes. softly at first, unconsciously—tunes that carry bells in their bones, melodies that feel like snowfall. bruce notices immediately. he always does. he catalogues the shift the way he does everything else: the way your shoulders relax when the first wreaths go up in gotham, the way your eyes linger on storefront windows glowing gold against early night.

“you’re early,” alfred says mildly one evening, when you’ve already begun pulling boxes from the storage closet.

you grin, unapologetic. “christmas waits for no one.”

bruce watches from the doorway, jacket still on, tie loosened. something in his chest tightens—not painfully, just enough to remind him that he is alive, that there are things in this world that do not require armor. he makes a mental note.

that night, while you sleep curled against his side, he is awake long enough to order new lights. warmer ones. softer. he has alfred move the schedule around so the tree arrives sooner. he reroutes a charity gala so it doesn’t conflict with the night you like to bake cookies, because you mentioned—offhand, weeks ago—that last year you missed it. bruce wayne does not forget offhand comments.

by the time december actually arrives, wayne manor has transformed.

there are garlands draped along the railings, evergreen and silver and deep red. candles glow in every room (electric, flame-less, safe, because bruce worries even when he pretends he doesn’t). the tree in the main hall reaches nearly to the second floor, branches heavy with ornaments collected over years you didn’t even realize were becoming traditions.

some are old—dick’s first clumsy ornament from when he was small enough to sit on bruce’s shoulders. jason’s is darker, sharper, something handmade that still bears the faint scars of anger and survival. tim’s are clever, mechanical little things that spin or click if you touch them just right. damian’s are… precise. meticulous. there is one shaped like a tiny sword, and bruce pretends not to notice the way it makes you smile.

you add your own touches everywhere. ribbon tied where it shouldn’t be. a snow globe on the piano. a knitted throw tossed over the arm of bruce’s favorite chair.

bruce lets you rearrange everything.

this is not something anyone would expect of batman. but you are not anyone.

family starts arriving in pieces, like chapters returning to the same book.

dick comes first, sweeping in with cold air and laughter and a hug that lifts you briefly off your feet. “you made it snow in here,” he says, eyes wide as he takes in the decorations. “big man’s gone soft.” bruce doesn’t argue.

jason shows up late one night, unannounced but expected. he lingers in the doorway, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes flicking over the lights, the tree, the quiet warmth of the manor. 

you’re the one who steps forward first, handing him a mug without comment. “thought you might be cold,” you say.

he stares at you for a moment, then exhales. “yeah,” he mutters. “thanks.”

tim arrives with a duffel bag and a laptop and a look of fond disbelief. “you know,” he says, glancing between you and bruce, “this place used to feel like a museum in december.”

bruce lifts an eyebrow. “used to.”

damian is already home, of course—hovering at bruce’s side like a shadow that has learned how to smile when you ruffle his hair. he pretends to scowl every time you insist on including him in cookie decorating, but he always chooses the most elaborate designs.

every night feels like something sacred.

there are dinners that stretch long past midnight. arguments and laughter and stories retold for the hundredth time. you sit at the table beside bruce, your knee brushing his, and every time you lean in to say something quietly to him, he listens like the world has narrowed to your voice alone.

later, when the manor grows quiet again, bruce finds you in the living room, curled on the couch beneath a blanket, tree lights reflected in your eyes.

“too much?” he asks quietly.

you look around. the warmth. the glow. the unmistakable feeling of being held by something larger than yourself. “never,”

bruce nods, as though confirming a hypothesis.

from that moment on, he stops pretending this is temporary. if christmas makes you feel safe—if it makes you feel full, and loved, and alive—then bruce wayne will give it to you. every day. and if the world insists on moving forward, on hard edges and dark nights and battles that never quite end? bruce will make sure that when you come home, it is always december.

by january, gotham has moved on.

storefronts shed their lights. trees disappear from curbs. the city exhales, weary and gray, returning to itself like it always does—sharp edges, colder nights, the unspoken understanding that hope is a seasonal luxury. wayne manor does not follow.

you notice it first in the mornings.

the kitchen still smells faintly of cinnamon when you come downstairs, even though alfred insists it’s just habit now. a small wreath remains on the pantry door. the lights on the bannister don’t come down—they simply dim, warmer, subtler, like a secret meant only for those who know to look.

bruce watches you notice. he watches the way your steps slow, the way your mouth curves into something softer than a smile. he files it away with the same precision he uses for patrol routes and emergency protocols.

if it makes you linger, it stays.

you find him one afternoon in the study, papers spread across the desk, cowl nowhere in sight. he looks… peaceful, for once. when you lean against the doorway, he glances up immediately.

“what?” he asks.

you gesture vaguely. “it still feels like christmas.”

he studies you for a long moment, unreadable. then: “is that a problem?”

you shake your head, laughter quiet. “no. it’s just… nice.”

that’s all it takes.

bruce wayne does not do things halfway.

by february, it’s deliberate.

he schedules family dinners on sundays, regardless of how busy gotham gets. he makes sure dick is invited even when blüdhaven needs him, that jason knows he’s welcome even if he never rsvp’s, that tim doesn’t forget to sleep, that damian has something resembling a normal childhood—even if it’s wrapped in discipline and expectations.

you sit at the head of none of it and somehow at the center of all of it.

bruce notices how you thrive when the house is full—how you move easily between conversations, how you listen more than you speak, how you remember things about each of them that even bruce sometimes misses. you are the connective tissue, the quiet warmth holding sharp, complicated people together.

he doesn’t say thank you. he shows it.

there are mornings when you wake to find the curtains already open just enough to let the light in the way you like it. there are evenings when the fireplace is lit before you even mention being cold. once, you come home late, exhausted, and find the living room transformed—candles glowing, soft music playing, a mug waiting for you on the table.

“bruce,” you say, half-laughing, half-overwhelmed. “it’s march.”

he shrugs out of his jacket, gaze never leaving you. “did you have a bad day?” you nod. “then it’s december.” he says it like a fact.

songs start following you after that—not audibly, not quite. more like a feeling. a rhythm beneath your days. the way joy becomes sustainable when it’s not rationed, when it’s allowed to exist on ordinary tuesdays and not just special occasions.

spring comes to gotham whether bruce wants it to or not. the snow melts. flowers bloom in the gardens outside the manor.

bruce keeps the lights.

he takes you out less in public now, not because he wants to hide you, but because he’s learned that you prefer the quiet. instead, he brings the world to you. private ice skating sessions—synthetic rink installed in one of the lower levels because you once admitted you’d never learned. movie nights with old black-and-white films dusted in fake snow. a record player he restores himself, just because you like the crackle.

“you don’t have to do all this,” you tell him one night, fingers laced with his as you sit by the fire.

bruce turns to you fully. his expression is bare in a way few ever see—guard lowered, eyes soft, the man beneath the armor entirely present. “i want to,” he says. it’s not dramatic. it’s not loud. it’s everything.

the boys notice, of course.

dick teases him first. “so,” he says one evening, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, “are we just… living in a hallmark movie now?”

jason snorts. “don’t knock it. place hasn’t felt this good in years.”

tim watches bruce watch you and smiles to himself.

damian, ever observant, says quietly, “father is happier.”

bruce does not deny it.

because the truth is—this isn’t about christmas. it never was. it’s about you loving something without reservation, and bruce learning—slowly, carefully—that he is allowed to love you the same way. unconditionally. every day.

and as the months pass, and the calendar insists on moving forward, bruce wayne keeps proving one thing over and over again: if christmas is the season where you feel most yourself—then he will make sure you never have to leave it.

summer in gotham is unforgiving.

heat presses down like a second atmosphere. nights buzz with unrest, tempers short and shadows restless. batman’s work never slows—if anything, it sharpens, demanding more of bruce than it ever has.

and still, every morning, you wake to something gentle.

the curtains drawn just enough. cool air circulating before the heat can reach you. a glass of water on the nightstand, already chilled, because bruce knows you forget to hydrate when you’re distracted.

you don’t ask how he manages it all. you just live in it.

by june, the family is scattered again—dick back in blüdhaven, jason gone for stretches at a time, tim juggling school and responsibilities that would crush anyone else, damian attending summer training programs bruce pretends are normal.

you and bruce are alone in the manor more often now.

it’s quieter. intimate.

you catch him watching you when you think he isn’t—when you’re reading on the couch, when you’re barefoot in the kitchen, when you hum softly to yourself without realizing it. his gaze follows you with the same intensity he gives to the city from the batmobile—but softened, reverent.

one afternoon, you find him in the batcave earlier than expected.

you’re used to the cave—its shadows, its hum, its weight. still, this is different.

there are lights strung along the edges of the platforms. subtle. warm. impossible. a small tree stands near the computer bank—not evergreen, but something metallic and modern, decorated with silver ornaments that reflect the cave’s glow like stars.

you stop short. “bruce.”

he steps closer, suddenly uncertain in a way that disarms you. “you said once,” he begins, “that summer makes things feel… temporary.”

you did. months ago. barely a thought, barely a confession.

“i don’t want you to feel that way,” he says quietly.

your chest tightens. “you put christmas in the batcave,” you say faintly.

“i put you in the batcave,” he corrects. you laugh, breathless and a little overwhelmed, and before you can say anything else, he reaches for your hand—grounding, steady, real. “you make this place lighter,” he says. “you make me lighter.”

bruce wayne does not speak lightly.

the next time the family is all together, it’s your fault.

or rather—your idea.

you mention, half-joking, that summer holidays should exist. that joy shouldn’t be limited to one season. that maybe people would be kinder if they remembered what it felt like to be held by something warm and familiar.

bruce hears a plan.

in july, wayne manor hosts the most absurd event gotham has ever seen.

the grounds are transformed overnight. lights strung through trees. artificial snow drifting lazily from hidden machines. long tables set with comfort food and desserts and hot cocoa—even in the heat. music floats through the air, gentle and nostalgic.

a banner hangs at the entrance: CHRISTMAS — NO DATE REQUIRED

dick laughs so hard he nearly falls over. “you did this,” he accuses you, delighted.

jason shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “this is unhinged.”

tim is already calculating the logistics. “the energy output alone—”

damian stands beside bruce, arms crossed, eyes bright. “it is… acceptable.”

bruce watches you the entire night.

he watches the way you move through the crowd, glowing, at ease. the way laughter comes easily to you here, the way you look like you belong—like you’ve always belonged.

at some point, you find bruce standing apart from the noise, watching. “you okay?” you ask.

he nods. “i am.” he means it.

later, when the night winds down and the family drifts inside, bruce stays with you beneath the lights. Gotham hums in the distance. snow melts harmlessly into the grass.

“thank you,” you say softly.

“for what?”

“for loving me the way i love things.”

bruce turns to you then, fully. his voice is low, steady, certain. “you taught me how.”

he kisses you beneath artificial snow in the middle of summer, and it feels like a promise—not fleeting, not fragile.

permanent.

and when august arrives, and the world insists again on heat and noise and inevitability, bruce wayne remains unmoved.

because as long as you are beside him—it will always feel like christmas.

autumn arrives softly, the way it always does—without asking permission.

the air sharpens. leaves turn and fall. gotham exhales heat and inhales something quieter, heavier. it’s your favorite kind of in-between, and still, something in you tightens. you don’t say it out loud.

but bruce notices. he notices the way you linger by the windows longer. the way you grow thoughtful when the nights come earlier. the way your smile falters, just barely, when someone mentions how fast the year has gone.

bruce wayne does not miss what hurts.

one evening, you’re curled on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, the house dim and calm. a soft instrumental plays somewhere in the background—something nostalgic, something that feels like memory without pain. bruce sits beside you, close but not pressing. he waits.

“what happens,” you ask quietly, eyes fixed on the fire, “when christmas comes again?”

he turns fully toward you. “what do you mean?”

you swallow. “what if… what if it stops feeling special? what if i’m just chasing a feeling that can’t stay?” the words tremble, betraying more than you intend.

bruce’s chest tightens—not with fear, but with resolve. “you think i’ve been doing this because it’s seasonal,” he says gently.

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. 

bruce reaches for your hands, thumbs brushing warmth into your skin. his voice lowers, steadies.

“you’re not loving christmas,” he says. “you’re loving constancy. safety. belonging.”

you look at him then, really look.

“and so am i,” he continues. “you just learned how to name it sooner than i did.”

you blink, emotion rising fast and unguarded. “bruce…”

“i don’t replicate december because you like decorations,” he says. “i do it because when the world is gentle, you are gentle with yourself. and i want you to have that every day.”

you breathe out, shaky.

“you are not a season,” he says firmly. “you are my life.”

the words land with the weight of a vow.

that weekend, the family comes home again.

dick brings cider. jason brings pie he definitely did not bake himself. tim brings research he absolutely doesn’t need to share but does anyway. damian brings you a scarf he pretends he didn’t choose specifically because it reminded him of you.

you sit together in the living room, autumn light slanting gold through the windows, fire crackling low.

dick watches bruce watch you and finally says it. “you know,” he says lightly, “this isn’t subtle anymore.”

bruce doesn’t even pretend not to understand. “good.”

jason smirks. “about time.”

tim smiles, soft and knowing.

damian studies you for a moment, then speaks clearly: “you are part of this family.”

your throat tightens.

bruce reaches for your hand—not to steady you, but to share the moment. his thumb brushes your knuckles, grounding, certain.

later that night, when the manor is quiet again, bruce leads you outside.

the garden is transformed—not with lights this time, but with lanterns glowing softly among the trees. autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. the air smells like earth and warmth and something deeply familiar.

“you once asked me,” bruce says, stopping beneath a tree heavy with amber leaves, “if i ever get tired of carrying the weight of things.”

you nod. you remember.

“i don’t,” he says. “not when it’s worth it.” he turns to face you fully, eyes dark and unwavering. “you are worth every version of the future,” he says. “every season. every day.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your skin.

“i will give you christmas,” he murmurs, “as long as you want it. but even when the lights go out, even when the year turns again—” his hand tightens gently around yours. “i will still be here.”

you lean into him, heart full and aching and safe all at once.

december comes back gently.

not with urgency, not with spectacle—just a quiet inevitability, like something returning to where it belongs.

the first snow falls overnight, dusting gotham in white. you wake before bruce, padding barefoot to the window, breath fogging the glass as you watch the world soften. for a moment, you’re twelve years old again in your heart—hopeful, open, believing without shame.

behind you, the bed shifts.

bruce wraps himself around you without a word, chin resting against your shoulder, arms solid and warm and unmistakably real.

“it’s back,” you whisper.

he nods against you. “it never left.”

wayne manor blooms again—but this time, it feels different. not bigger. not brighter. deeper.

the decorations return with familiarity instead of urgency. the tree goes up slowly, deliberately, each ornament placed with care. you catch bruce holding one in his hand longer than necessary—a small, simple piece you bought together months ago, unremarkable except that it is yours.

he hangs it near the center.

the family comes home, as they always do.

dick arrives first, snow in his hair, joy in his grin. jason follows, quieter but present, staying longer than he ever plans to. tim settles in like he never left, half-work, half-home. damian is already there, proud and composed and unmistakably bruce’s son—your son, too, in all the ways that matter.

dinner is loud and warm and imperfect. there’s laughter, and teasing, and arguments that end in smiles. you sit beside bruce at the table, his hand resting on your knee like it’s always been there, like it always will be.

at some point, dick raises a glass. “to… whatever this is,” he says, gesturing around. “to family. and to making it work.”

“to christmas,” jason adds, smirking.

tim smiles. “all year.”

damian lifts his glass last. “to home.”

bruce looks at you. his eyes say everything.

later, when the manor grows quiet and the world feels hushed beneath falling snow, bruce leads you back to the living room. the tree glows softly, lights reflected in the dark windows like constellations.

“you’re thinking,” you hum.

he nods once. “i usually am.”

you turn to face him fully. “good thoughts?”

“the most important one i’ve ever had.” he reaches into his pocket—not hurried, not dramatic. Just steady.

your breath catches anyway.

bruce kneels—not because he feels he has to, but because he wants to meet you where you are. the ring is simple. elegant. timeless. something chosen with intention, not excess.

“you once told me,” he says quietly, “that christmas feels like a promise. rhat it reminds you the world can be kind if people decide to be.”

your vision blurs.

“i can’t promise you a world without darkness,” he continues. “i can’t promise you safety every second of every day.” he takes your hands, grounding, certain. “but i can promise you this,” he says. “i will choose you. every morning. every night. in every season.” his voice softens—not weak, never weak, just honest. “i will give you warmth when the world is cold. light when it’s dark. and when christmas fades everywhere else—” he squeezes your hands gently. “i will keep it alive with you.” he looks up at you, bruce wayne laid bare. “stay,” he says. “for the whole year. for all of them.”

you laugh through tears, heart breaking open in the best way. “yes,” you breathe. “always.”

he stands and pulls you into his arms, holding you like something precious, something permanent. outside, snow falls heavier, blanketing gotham in quiet.

bruce presses a kiss to your temple.

mistletoe appears later—alfred swears it was always there.

the days that follow are full and slow and real. baking. decorating. quiet mornings and loud evenings. bruce beside you in every moment, never distant, never halfway gone.

on christmas morning, you wake to sunlight and laughter and the smell of coffee. bruce is already awake, watching you like this is the gift he’s been waiting for.

“what?” you ask softly.

he smiles—a rare, unguarded thing. “this,” he says. “this is what i was fighting for.”

and you realize something then, standing in the warmth of wayne Manor with snow at the windows and love in every corner:

christmas was never about the day. it was about being chosen.

about being held. about knowing that no matter how the year turns, no matter what darkness waits beyond the door—you will always come home to light.

his voice cuts through your thoughts like a thrown knife—too loud, too cheerful for the hour. you don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. adrian chase, vigilante, menace to teamwork everywhere.

you drop your bag onto the desk harder than necessary. “i was already here when emilia texted,” you say flatly. “some of us actually show up on time.”

“yeah, but you could’ve left,” adrian says, spinning lazily in his chair to face you. he’s already ditched half his gear, helmet tucked under the desk, boots kicked off like this is his living room. there’s a bandage peeking out from under his sleeve, and you hate that your eyes go straight to it. “i mean, desk duty is technically optional if you pretend your phone died.”

“it’s not optional,” you say. “she literally locked our access badges to the building.”

“oh.” he blinks. then grins. “classic emilia.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t notice—or he does and doesn’t care. that’s the thing about adrian. he’s either oblivious or immune to irritation. possibly both.

desk duty. you still can’t believe it.

one screwed-up mission—his screwed-up mission—and suddenly you’re both benched, bruised, and sentenced to paperwork purgatory while emilia harcourt makes a point about consequences. you’d almost respect it if it didn’t mean spending another night trapped in a room with him.

he clears his throat. “hey, uh, for the record—again—i’m really sorry about earlier.”

you don’t look at him. you log into your computer, fingers moving out of muscle memory. “you’ve said that.”

“i know. i just want to make sure you know i mean it.”

“you also said that.”

“i just—” he stops, scratching the back of his neck. the chair squeaks as he leans forward. “i really didn’t mean for you to get hurt. i thought i had the angle right.”

“you never have the angle right,” you mutter.

“ouch.”

you glance over despite yourself. he’s smiling, but there’s something tentative about it, like he’s bracing for a hit you never quite deliver. he always looks like that after missions go bad—like a dog expecting to be kicked and not understanding why it hasn’t happened yet.

it’s infuriating.

you sigh, rubbing your temples. “adrian. i’m not mad that you messed up. i’m mad that you never think before you act.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly. “i think all the time.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay,” he amends, “i think after i act. but sometimes that’s better, right? like jazz.”

“this is not jazz,” you say. “this is getting stabbed because you charged in without backup.”

“i said i was sorry,” he repeats, softer now.

the room falls into an uneasy quiet. outside, the snow thickens, flakes swirling sideways past the glass. the weather app on your phone buzzes, ignored in your pocket.

you shake your head and turn back to the screen. “just… drop it. we’re alive. emilia didn’t kill us. let’s get through the night.”

he perks up at that. “so we’re cool?”

you hesitate. then: “we’re… fine.”

his grin returns, full force this time. “awesome! best friends survive another mission.”

you snort despite yourself. “we are not best friends.”

he looks genuinely surprised. “really? huh. i mean, we hang out all the time. we fight crime together. we almost died together. that’s like… best-friend stuff.”

“that’s coworker stuff.”

“agree to disagree,” he says cheerfully, spinning back toward his computer. “anyway, snowstorm, huh? very hallmark.”

you glance at the windows again. the storm is picking up fast, the city disappearing under layers of white. there’s something oddly peaceful about it, the way the world seems to slow when the snow gets heavy enough.

your phone buzzes again. this time you check it.

SEVERE WEATHER ALERT: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS. TRAVEL IS NOT ADVISED.

you swallow. “looks like we’re stuck.”

adrian swivels back around. “what?”

“blizzard warning,” you say. “roads are closing. public transit’s already shut down.”

he blinks. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. “you’re saying we’re snowed in.”

“i’m saying we’re trapped in a crappy, old building with bad heating and worse company.”

“wow,” he says, hand to his chest. “and here i was thinking this could be fun.”

you roll your eyes. “you would.”

he shrugs. “hey, if the fire’s warm—”

“there is no fire.”

“—let it snow,” he finishes anyway, completely unfazed.

you freeze. “...did you just quote ‘let it snow’?”

he grins, delighted. “yeah! you know that song? ‘the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful’? classic!”

“you are unbelievable.”

“i’m festive,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”

you turn back to your screen, trying very hard to ignore the way the snow makes the lights softer, the building quieter. trying not to think about the fact that there’s nowhere else to go tonight.

behind you, adrian hums under his breath, off-key but enthusiastic.

“let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”

you grit your teeth. this is going to be a very long night.

the first thing that goes is the heat.

you don’t notice it right away—just a creeping chill that settles into the room like an unwanted guest. the vents cough once, twice, and then fall silent. the hum you’d grown used to disappears, leaving the bullpen eerily quiet.

you pause mid-typing. “did you hear that?”

adrian looks up from his screen. “hear what?”

“that,” you say, just as the lights flicker.

once. twice. then they stabilize.

adrian’s grin is instant. “ooooh. spooky.”

you glare. “don’t say that.”

“what? i love spooky. spooky is fun.”

“this is not fun. this is the building’s ancient infrastructure finally giving up.”

right on cue, your computer freezes. the cursor stops blinking. you tap a key. nothing. “no,” you mutter. “no, no, no—”

the lights flicker again, longer this time, and then—

darkness.

the emergency lights kick in a second later, bathing the room in a dull red glow. somewhere deeper in the building, an alarm chirps halfheartedly and then dies.

adrian lets out a low whistle. “okay. that one might be on me.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “how could this possibly be on you?”

“i don’t know,” he says. “bad luck aura? narrative tension?”

“you’re not funny.”

he squints at you. “you’re shivering.”

“i am not.”

“you are,” he insists, already standing. “here. sit.”

“i don’t need—”

he drags one of the spare chairs closer to the emergency heater unit near the wall. it’s barely functioning, but it’s something. you open your mouth to argue and then close it again when a wave of cold seeps through your jacket and into your bones.

fine.

you sit.

adrian crouches in front of the heater, smacking it lightly with his palm. “come on, buddy. work with me.” the heater rattles, then emits a weak puff of warm air. “yes!” he pumps a fist. “see? teamwork.”

“congratulations,” you deadpan. “you’ve successfully bullied an appliance.”

he beams like you’ve paid him the highest compliment.

you shrug your coat tighter around yourself. the storm outside is relentless now, snow plastered against the windows so thick you can barely see the city beyond. it feels like being underwater—cut off, suspended.

your phone buzzes again. no service.

adrian checks his own and groans. “dang it. emilia’s gonna be pissed if we freeze to death.”

“she’d be pissed if you survived,” you say. “this would just complicate the paperwork.”

he laughs, then winces, hand drifting to his side. the movement is subtle, but you catch it.

“you okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

he freezes, then nods quickly. “yeah. totally. just… sore.”

“you’re bleeding,” you say flatly.

“what? no, i—” he looks down and swears. a dark stain is spreading through the edge of his bandage. “oh… huh. guess i reopened it.”

you stand with a sigh. “sit down.”

“i’m already sitting.”

“adrian.”

he knows that tone. he always does. with exaggerated slowness, he perches on the edge of the desk chair. you grab the first aid kit from the wall, kneeling in front of him.

“this is your fault,” you mutter as you peel back the bandage.

“which part?” he asks. “the getting stabbed or the making-you-play-medic part?”

“all of it.”

“worth it,” he says automatically, then stops. “—i mean. not worth you getting hurt. that part sucked.”

your hands still. you glance up at him. he’s not smiling now. his eyes are earnest, almost too open, like he doesn’t know how to hide what he’s thinking even if he wanted to.

“i really am sorry,” he says quietly. “i keep replaying it. if i’d waited two seconds—”

“you didn’t,” you say. “and we’re alive. let it go.”

he exhales, shoulders slumping. “you’re really bad at holding grudges.”

“i’m great at holding grudges,” you correct. “i just don’t want to babysit your guilt tonight.”

He huffs a weak laugh. “best friend privileges.”

you press gauze to his wound harder than necessary. he yelps.

“we are not best friends.”

“okay! okay,” he says, biting back a grin. “frenemies. with medical benefits.”

you finish rewrapping the bandage and sit back on your heels. for a moment, neither of you moves. the emergency lights cast strange shadows across his face, softening the sharp lines you’re used to seeing in the field.

outside, the wind howls.

adrian breaks the silence. “you ever notice how quiet snowstorms are?”

“you mean how loud they are?” you ask.

“no,” he says. “like, everything else shuts up. it’s just the storm and whatever’s stuck inside it.”

you consider that. “i guess.”

he hums again, softer this time. “when we finally kiss goodnight…”

you groan. “please, stop.”

“what? it’s thematic!”

“it’s annoying.”

“you love it.”

“i do not.”

he leans back, eyes flicking toward the windows. “you know, the song’s about being stuck somewhere you can’t leave. and instead of freaking out, they’re like—eh. guess we’ll make the best of it.”

“that is not what it’s about.”

“it totally is,” he insists. “snowstorm trapping people together. romance. hot cocoa. probably a couch.”

you snort. “we’re in an old video store with no power and an idiot.”

“hey,” he says mildly. “i prefer ‘charming wildcard.’”

you roll your eyes, but your annoyance feels… thinner now. blunted by exhaustion, by the quiet, by the way the storm presses in from all sides.

your phone buzzes again—one bar of service flickers to life just long enough for a text to come through. it’s emilia. ‘roads are shut down. you two are stuck there until morning. don’t break anything’.

you show adrian the message.

he grins. “sleepover!”

“this is not a sleepover.”

“it is absolutely a sleepover.”

you glance around the empty bullpen, at the chairs and desks and one sad heater struggling against the cold. “we’re not sharing a bed.”

he pauses. “…there’s a bed?”

“no.”

“oh.” he brightens anyway. “cuddle for warmth, then.”

“adrian.”

“i’m kidding!” he raises his hands. “mostly.”

you shake your head, fighting a reluctant smile. 

outside, the snow shows no signs of stopping.and inside, with nowhere else to go, the space between you feels smaller than it ever has.

the power doesn’t come back.

an hour passes. maybe two. time stretches and blurs in the way it only does when there’s nothing to mark it—no clocks, no screens, no outside world to measure against. the emergency lights eventually dim to nothing, surrendering the room to shadows and the thin, silvery glow of snowlight filtering through the windows.

it’s colder now. the heater gives up with a sad, rattling cough.

“well,” adrian says into the dark. “that’s ominous.”

you pull your coat tighter around yourself. “you say that like you’re enjoying it.”

“i’m coping,” he replies. “there’s a difference.”

you can hear him shifting, fabric rustling as he shrugs out of something. a moment later, he clears his throat. “hey. you’re still shivering.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re literally lying,” he says, and then something warm settles over your shoulders.

you stiffen. “what are you doing?”

“jacket,” he says simply. “i run hot. occupational hazard.”

you glance down. it’s his—heavy, worn, still faintly smelling like gun oil and winter air. and him. you hate that you recognize that part.

“i don’t need—”

“you do,” he interrupts, gentler than usual. “and if you argue, i will start singing again.”

you close your mouth. “…thank you,” you mutter after a beat.

he brightens instantly, like you’ve flipped a switch. “you’re welcome.”

you sit in silence for a while, the storm outside relentless, snow tapping against the glass like fingertips. without the usual noise, the building feels too big, too empty—like you’re the only two people left in the world.

adrian breaks the quiet again, voice lower. “you scared me, earlier on the mission.”

you glance at him. “i was the one bleeding.”

“i know,” he says. “that’s not— i mean, yeah, that too. but when you went down… i didn’t like it.”

the admission hangs between you, fragile.

“you’re not supposed to like it,” you say carefully.

“still,” he shrugs. “didn’t stop my brain from doing that thing where it shows you every possible terrible outcome.”

you study him in the half-light. this version of adrian—quiet, stripped of bravado—is rarer than he thinks. “you’re not responsible for everything,” you say. “even if you really want to be.”

he laughs softly. “you say that like it’s a flaw.”

“it is when it gets you stabbed.”

“fair.”

another pause. the cold creeps back in, seeping through layers.

without looking at you, adrian asks, “can i sit closer? strictly for survival reasons.”

you hesitate. then nod.

he moves carefully, settling beside you on the floor, backs against the desk. his shoulder brushes yours, tentative at first, then steady. heat radiates from him, undeniable.

you tell yourself it’s practical. necessary.

still, you’re painfully aware of every point of contact.

outside, the storm howls louder, wind rattling the windows. adrian hums again, quieter now, almost absentminded.

“when we finally kiss goodnight…”

you don’t tell him to stop this time. “why that song?” you ask instead.

he shrugs. “my mom used to play it when it snowed. said if you can’t go anywhere, you might as well be warm and not miserable.”

you huff softly. “you’re still miserable. and you hate your mom.”

“yeah,” he agrees. “but less miserable i guess.”

your arm brushes his. he doesn’t pull away.

the silence stretches, comfortable in a way that makes you uneasy. you’ve always known how to push him away—sarcasm, sharp edges, irritation. you don’t know what to do when he meets you without flinching.

“you know,” you say slowly, “you drive me insane.”

“i know.”

“you don’t listen. you act before you think. you treat life like it’s a game you can reload.”

“i know,” he repeats, softer.

“and yet,” you continue, “you keep showing up. you take the hits. you apologize when you mess up.”

he glances at you, eyes searching. “is this where you tell me you secretly like me?”

“this is where i tell you not to interrupt.”

“sorry,” he whispers, biting back a grin.

you exhale. “i don’t know what to do with you.”

he leans his head back against the desk. “you don’t have to do anything. i’m pretty low maintenance. just… don’t make me go away.”

there it is. the thing he never asks for outright.

you swallow. the storm outside feels endless, the world narrowed to this moment, this warmth, this too-honest quiet.

“i wasn’t going to,” you say.

he smiles—not wide, not joking. just real. his shoulder presses a little closer to yours.

the song drifts back into his voice, barely audible now. and for the first time all night, you don’t feel like fighting it.

at some point, the storm changes pitch.

you don’t notice it right away—not consciously. but the wind outside shifts from a sharp, biting howl to something lower, heavier, like the world is exhaling all at once. snow keeps falling, thick and steady, but the violence of it softens. the storm settles in, unhurried, unbothered by the fact that you’re still stuck in its middle.

you’re still sitting on the floor. still pressed shoulder to shoulder. still wrapped in adrian’s jacket, warmth pooling where your sides touch.

you should move. you don’t.

your muscles ache from the mission, from the tension of holding yourself apart from him for so long. the cold makes everything sharper—every sensation, every breath. adrian shifts slightly beside you, adjusting to the floor, and his knee bumps yours.

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“it’s fine,” you say, automatically.

he still pulls back a fraction, like he’s afraid of crossing a line that only exists in his head. you feel it immediately—the loss of heat, the space where he’d been. without thinking, you reach out and grab his sleeve.

he freezes. you freeze. the silence stretches, taut as a wire.

“…you don’t have to,” he says carefully.

“i know,” you reply. your voice is steadier than you feel. “i just— it’s cold.”

“oh,” he says. a beat. “yeah. totally. survival.”

“exactly.”

he shifts closer again, slower this time, giving you every chance to change your mind. you don’t. his arm comes around you, hesitant at first, then firmer when you don’t pull away.

you tell yourself it’s practical. you tell yourself a lot of things.

his body is warm in a way that seeps into you gradually, undoing the tight knot in your chest. you lean into him, just slightly, your head tipping toward his shoulder. he sucks in a breath, sharp and quiet, like he hadn’t expected that much.

“you okay?” you ask.

“yeah,” he says. “yeah. i just— didn’t think you’d… you know.”

“neither did i,” you admit.

that earns you a soft laugh. his chin dips, resting lightly against the top of your head, and you’re acutely aware of how careful he’s being. like if he holds you too tightly, you’ll vanish.

the storm keeps falling.

minutes pass. maybe longer.

“you know,” he says eventually, “you don’t actually hate me.”

you huff. “bold claim.”

“you’re annoyed with me,” he continues. “all the time. but if you hated me, you’d be gone.”

you close your eyes. “you don’t make it easy.”

“i know,” he says again. “but you never snap. you never tell me to get lost. you just… sigh really loud and keep me around.”

“i’m tired,” you mutter.

“that too.”

he shifts, adjusting the jacket around your shoulders so it covers more of you. the motion is gentle, instinctive. domestic, in a way that makes your chest ache.

“why do you keep acting like we’re best friends?” you ask quietly.

hr doesn’t answer right away. when he does, his voice is softer than the storm. “because it’s easier than admitting what i want to be.”

you go still.

the words aren’t dramatic. he doesn’t dress them up, doesn’t make a joke out of them. he just says them, plain and honest, like he’s been holding them in his mouth for too long.

you tilt your head back just enough to look at him. his eyes meet yours immediately, open and unguarded, like he’s braced for impact.

“i’m not good at… whatever this is,” you say.

“i know,” he says. “normally, you’d have yelled by now.”

“i get angry,” you continue, “because it’s easier than being… scared.”

“of me?” he asks.

“no,” you say. “of caring.”

his grip tightens—not possessive, just reassuring. “i don’t need you to be fearless,” he says. “i just need you not to disappear.”

you swallow.

outside, the snow keeps falling. inside, the world feels impossibly small, reduced to shared warmth and quiet truths.

adrian’s voice drops, almost shy. “can i do something really stupid?”

you snort softly. “that’s a terrible question.”

“can i?” he presses.

you hesitate. then nod. “okay.”

he leans in slowly, giving you time—too much time—to pull away. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, steady.

“this okay?” he asks.

“yes,” you whisper.

his nose brushes yours, tentative, almost reverent. when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft—barely there. like he’s afraid of startling you.

the kiss is brief. careful.

but it rewrites something fundamental inside you.

when he pulls back, he searches your face, ready to retreat at the first sign of regret. you don’t give him one. instead, you lean in again, closing the distance yourself.

this kiss is warmer. surer.

outside, the weather is still frightful. inside, you don’t mind the storm at all.

you wake up slowly.

not the sharp, panicked kind of waking you’re used to—the kind that comes with alarms and adrenaline and the memory of gunfire—but gently, like the world is easing you back into it. there’s warmth first. then weight. then the quiet realization that you are not alone.

you open your eyes.

morning light spills through the windows in pale sheets, the storm having softened everything into white and silver. snow blankets the city below, thick and untouched, like the night erased all its sharp edges. the building is still quiet, still cut off—but it no longer feels empty.

adrian is asleep beside you.

really asleep. mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheeks, glasses slightly askew, one arm draped around your waist like it’s always belonged there. you’re tucked into his jacket and his arms, your head resting against his chest. his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

you don’t move.

you catalog the moment instead, the way you do in the field: details first, emotions later. the rise and fall of his breathing. the faint ache in your ribs. the warmth pooled between you that has nothing to do with survival anymore.

you kissed him last night. more than once.

you remember it all now—the way his hands shook when he finally let himself touch you like he wanted to, the way your irritation melted into something softer, something terrifying. the way the storm outside howled while the world inside narrowed to this.

adrian stirs, brow furrowing slightly, like he’s chasing a dream. his grip tightens just a little.

you let him.

“morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

“you’re awake,” you say quietly.

he blinks, then looks down at you. there’s a brief flash of panic—like he’s afraid this will vanish if he acknowledges it—followed by cautious hope.

“hey,” he says. “you’re still here.”

“so are you.”

he smiles, small and unguarded. “good.”

for a moment, neither of you speaks. the silence isn’t awkward. it’s fragile, like something newly formed that might shatter if you breathe too hard.

finally, he clears his throat. “so. about last night.” you tense instinctively. he notices immediately. of course he does. “no,” he says quickly. “not like that. i just— i want to know if that was… real. or if it was just the snowstorm and hypothermia and my devastating charm.”

you huff despite yourself. “you’re not that charming.”

“wow,” he says. “heartless.”

you shift slightly, enough to look at him properly. “it was real,” you admit. “but i don’t suddenly know how to do this.”

relief floods his face, so open it almost hurts to look at. “that’s okay,” he says. “i’m bad at it too. we can be bad together.”

“you already are,” you mutter.

he grins. “see? teamwork.”

outside, the snow has slowed to a gentle drift. the storm has spent itself, leaving the world quiet and bright. somewhere in the building, power hums back to life—the lights flicker on, tentative but steady.

adrian groans. “dang it. reality.”

your phone buzzes almost immediately. emilia again. ‘roads are clearing. don’t make me regret leaving you unsupervised.’

you show him the message.

he sighs dramatically. “she’s gonna know.”

“she always knows.”

he shifts, but doesn’t let go of you. “so… when we go back to normal. what does that look like?”

you consider the question. normal used to mean irritation and distance and pretending you didn’t care more than you wanted to admit. you don’t want that anymore.

“it looks like you still annoy me,” you say slowly. “you still rush in. i still yell at you.”

“perfect,” he says.

“but,” you continue, “you listen more. and i don’t push you away when you apologize.”

he smile softens. “i can do that.”

“and,” you add, “we stop pretending this is just… whatever.”

he nods, serious now. “deal.” he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your forehead—nothing flashy, nothing rushed. just warm and sure.

as you gather your things, adrian hums again under his breath, the same song from the night before.

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “don’t get used to this,” you warn.

he slings an arm around your shoulders anyway, familiar and careful all at once. “too late.”