#clark fluff

It was his first day at the Daily Planet. He was still adjusting the knot in his tie, silently rehearsing his “Hi, I’m Clark Kent” line on loop in his head, when he walked into the bullpen and spotted you.

You were hunched over your laptop, typing like the fate of the free world depended on each keystroke. Your brows were knitted, your lip caught between your teeth, a pen tapping absently against your notebook. Your hair was pulled into a high ponytail, a short, fitted skirt framed your curves, high boots and a cozy sweater completing the picture. A delicate butterfly necklace rested just below your collarbone, catching the light in a way that seemed unfair. The matching earrings swayed gently when you moved.

And Clark… well, Clark was staring.

Staring in that “oh no, I’ve forgotten how to blink” kind of way.

Stop it, stop it, she’s going to notice—

“Uhhm, h-hey,” he blurted, voice cracking like a nervous teenager. “I’m Clark. Clark K-Kent. I’m Perry’s new hire.”

You looked up, and the transformation was instant—your serious, concentrated expression melted into a warm, easy smile that hit Clark like sunlight on a winter morning.

“Oh, hey! Welcome to the madhouse.” You stood, smoothing your skirt before offering your hand.

Clark took it.

And didn’t let go.

“Wow,” he murmured before he could stop himself when you said your name. “That’s a really pretty name. Does it… mean something?”

You tilted your head, clearly amused. “It actually means ‘hope,’ where I come from. But your name isn’t bad either.” You gave him a quick wink.

Hope. How ironic, he thought to himself.

So meant to be.

“Nice grip, by the way. Are you planning to let me have my hand back sometime this year?”

His brain stuttered. He released your hand so fast it was almost comedic.

“Oh! Right, sorry, I didn’t—uh—”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Relax, Kent. You’ll get used to the chaos around here.”

Clark wasn’t so sure. Because if perfection existed—and he was starting to believe it did—it was standing right in front of him, with a butterfly necklace and a smile that made him forget the rest of the newsroom even existed.

Someone coughed nearby. The sound jolted him, reminding him that they were, in fact, still in a very public, very busy workplace. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones rushed back into his ears, along with the unmistakable bark of Perry White demanding three articles “yesterday.”

You dropped back into your chair, fingers already flying across the keyboard again. “So, Clark, where’d you transfer in from? You’ve got that new-guy look. A little lost, a little too polite. You’ll shake that off in a week or two.”

He blinked, trying to will his brain to form coherent sentences. “Uh—Smallville. Well, technically it’s called—uh—never mind, Smallville works.”

You looked up again, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Smallville? Is that a nickname or the actual name of the place?”

“Actual,” he admitted sheepishly. “Population’s about… well, let’s just say if you sneeze, someone on the other side of town will probably bless you.”

That earned him another laugh—soft, genuine, and warm enough to send a shiver up his spine.

“Sounds… kinda nice, actually,” you said, and for a dangerous moment Clark let himself imagine you there. Not just passing through, but there—standing barefoot in the Kent farmhouse kitchen, hair a little messy, stealing a piece of pie cooling on the counter—

“Earth to Clark,” you teased, and he realized too late he’d been staring again.

“Sorry!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Got distracted. Happens sometimes. Well, a lot.”

“Uh-huh,” you said with mock suspicion, spinning slightly in your chair. “Just don’t let Lois catch you daydreaming. She’ll make you pay for it. Probably by making you cover something awful, like the annual ferret festival in Hobbs Bay.”

“That… doesn’t sound so bad,” Clark said honestly.

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’ll learn.”

“C’mon,” you said suddenly, pushing back from your desk. “If you’re new here, you need the crash course in who’s who.”

“Oh—uh—okay,” Clark said, falling into step behind you as you wove through the maze of desks and rolling chairs.

You stopped at a workstation stacked high with half-empty coffee cups and crime scene photos. “This is Lois Lane—star reporter, occasional hurricane, and probably the reason Perry has blood pressure medication.”

Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “I heard that.” Then, with the faintest smirk, she finally looked at Clark. “So you’re the new guy. You look like you still say ‘gosh’ unironically.”

Clark’s ears went warm. “Uh… sometimes.”

“Mm. Cute,” Lois said, already turning back to her article.

You grinned and tugged him along before he could sputter out a defense. “This is Jimmy Olsen, photographer extraordinaire. If there’s a good side to be found, Jimmy’ll find it.”

Jimmy looked up from adjusting a camera lens. “Hey, man! Welcome to the Planet. You play poker?”

Clark blinked. “Not well.”

“Perfect,” Jimmy said, grinning. “See you Friday night.”

Before Clark could ask what that meant, you were steering him again—this time toward a desk surrounded by perfume bottles, fashion magazines, and an alarming number of animal-print accessories.

“And this,” you said, “is Cat Grant. She’ll charm you, flatter you, and then probably tell the entire office your most embarrassing secret.”

Cat gave him a slow, appraising glance over the top of her magazine. “Small-town farm boy? Honey, you are going to be fun.”

Clark wasn’t entirely sure if that was a threat or a promise, but before he could decide, you were pulling him back toward your own desk.

“There,” you said cheerfully. “Now you’ve met the core cast. Survive them, and you’ll survive anything.”

Clark smiled faintly, still feeling the lingering warmth of your hand on his sleeve. He had no idea then that this introduction would be the start of something far more complicated than just “settling in.”

Since that moment, Clark had been hopeless.

He’d fantasized about you in every way two people could be together—not in some grand, sweeping, cinematic way, but in the small, ordinary moments that actually mattered. You and him at the beach, laughing when the wind caught your hat. You and him sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in a dark movie theater, sharing popcorn. You and him at the grocery store, debating which brand of cereal to buy.

The kind of life he’d always wanted.

And he hated it—hated that he was letting his mind wander there, because he knew he could never do anything about it. You were… you. Effortlessly dazzling, magnetic, the kind of person everyone noticed when you walked into a room.

And he was… himself. A man who still sometimes tripped over his own feet, who could lift a car without breaking a sweat but couldn’t hold your gaze for more than five seconds without turning red.

So he’d set rules for himself. Boundaries. Okay, Clark, he’d tell himself, this is it. Today you end this stupid nonsense and stop thinking about her.

And then you’d walk into the newsroom—smiling that smile, wearing something that would make even the most hardened criminals turn their heads—and it was over. Whatever resolve he’d built that morning would crumble faster than a paper cup in the rain.

Today was one of those days.

You breezed in with a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other, hair just slightly wind-tousled from the walk. Your grin hit him square in the chest like a freight train made of sunshine.

Clark sank a little deeper into his chair. You’re pathetic, Kent.

Which brought him here—to the decision he’d made over lunch, staring at the steam rising from his soup: it was time to “break up” with you, but for real this time.

Not that there was a relationship to end. But he had to put a stop to whatever was happening in his head. It was getting dangerous. Distracting. He’d almost called Perry “sir” earlier, which was asking for trouble.

He looked across the bullpen to where you stood talking to Jimmy, your hand gesturing animatedly, your laughter ringing over the low hum of office noise.

Clark swallowed hard. Alright. Rip the bandage off. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say. If anyone heard his thoughts, they would probably send him to an insane asylum.

Just as he was mustering the courage to get up, a voice drawled from behind him. “You’re doing the staring thing again, Smallville.”

He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Lois.

“I’m not staring,” he said automatically.

“You’ve been locked on her like a heat-seeking missile for at least three minutes,” Lois said, dropping a stack of files on his desk with a thud. “You trying to kill her with your eyes or just send her telepathic love letters?”

Clark sighed. “I’m… ending it today.”

Lois blinked. “Ending what? Your subscription to awkwardness?”

“My… thing for her.”

Lois gave a short laugh. “Thing? Clark, you’ve spoken to her, what, twice about anything that wasn’t work? You can’t break up with someone you’ve never actually dated.”

Clark straightened his glasses. “It’s still ending.”

Lois shook her head. “And how exactly do you plan to accomplish that?”

Clark hesitated. “…By keeping things strictly professional. No more… daydreaming.”

Lois smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure. And I’m giving up coffee starting tomorrow.”

Before Clark could reply, you looked up from Jimmy’s desk and caught his eye. You waved.

Clark froze, heart thumping. And just like that, his whole “breakup” plan was already falling apart.

You crossed the bullpen toward him, weaving between desks with that easy, confident stride like you’d been born for newsrooms. Your heels clicked in an unhurried rhythm, the kind that somehow made every head turn—not because you were loud, but because you carried yourself like you belonged everywhere you went.

Clark caught sight of you the second you stepped away from Jimmy’s desk, and his pulse kicked up like a faulty engine.

Okay. Don’t panic. Keep it cool. You are a fortress. You are unshakable. You are…

“Hey, Kent,” you said when you reached his desk, leaning one hip lightly against it. The edge of his notepad pressed into your thigh, and Clark had to remind himself to breathe. “I’ve got a question about that city hall piece you were working on.”

He opened his mouth to respond—only for his brain to promptly drop the baton and wander off for coffee.

You were close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in your irises, the faint smudge of ink on the side of your hand, the subtle sway of your earring catching the light.

“…Uh… what?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow, but your lips curved into a laugh. “Wow. Either that article’s way more complicated than I thought, or you’ve gone temporarily deaf.”

Before Clark could sputter a defense, Lois’s voice drifted over from her desk without even looking up from her monitor. “I’m betting on deaf.”

Clark could practically hear the smirk in her voice.

Clearing his throat, he forced his eyes back down to the scrawl of his notes, as if the half-legible sentences there might anchor him. “Right. Uh—city hall. What was your question?”

You tapped your pen against his desk—a steady, almost teasing rhythm—as you repeated it. Your voice was calm, measured, but your tone carried that spark of interest you always had when you were chasing a lead.

Clark tried to listen. He really did. But then the faint scent of your shampoo reached him—something clean and light, with just a hint of citrus—and his focus went up in smoke. The soft, thoughtful crinkle at the corner of your eyes when you smiled wasn’t helping either.

Focus, Kent. Professional. This is work. WORK.

He managed to put together an answer that was, at the very least, not embarrassing enough to ruin his career. You glanced at the notes, nodded once, and gave him that grin again—quick, bright, the kind of smile that could undo every wall he tried to build—before pushing away from his desk and heading back across the bullpen.

The moment you were out of earshot, Clark sagged back in his chair like a man who’d just survived a major battle. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Lois rolled her chair halfway into his space, propping her chin in her hand, the picture of judgmental amusement.

“That,” she said slowly, “was painful to watch.”

Clark’s lips twitched. “It’s harder than it looks.”

Lois tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Buddy, it looks impossible.”

Clark straightened his glasses and muttered, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Lois smirked. “Oh, I have confidence—in her. You? Not so much.” She gave his shoulder a light pat before swiveling back to her own desk.

Clark watched you from across the room, laughing at something Cat had said, and thought, Yeah… she’s probably right.

Clark had a brilliant new plan. The new plan was foolproof. Step one: avoid you completely. Step two: keep conversations under thirty seconds. Step three: don’t make eye contact for longer than it takes to blink. Perfect. Simple. The three pillars of not-being-an-emotional-disaster.

It lasted exactly fourteen minutes.

Because that’s when you appeared beside his desk holding a box of doughnuts.

“Want one?” you asked, holding it out like a peace offering from some benevolent pastry deity.

Clark’s brain helpfully informed him that you looked very cute holding pastries. He ignored it. “No, thank you,” he said, going for “cool and detached” and landing somewhere closer to “nervous hotel concierge.”

You peered at him, mock-suspicious. “What, you don’t like doughnuts?”

“I do. I just—uh—don’t want one.” Smooth. Perfect. Pulitzer-worthy dialogue.

Your eyes narrowed in playful challenge. “Are you sure? Because this one has your name written all over it.” You pointed to a perfectly iced chocolate-glazed ring in the corner of the box. “Look, it’s even big enough for Smallville-sized hands.”

Clark smiled tightly, gripping the edge of his desk like it might anchor him. “I’m… good, really.”

You tilted your head. “Okay… but now I’m suspicious. Did Lois put you on some weird health kick?”

Across the bullpen, Lois—without even glancing up from her monitor—called, “Don’t drag me into your little rom-com, babygirl.”

Clark nearly choked. “It’s not—!” He stopped himself, cheeks heating, and mumbled, “Thanks for the offer, though.”

You gave him a little shrug, as if to say your loss, and strolled off toward Jimmy’s desk, the box balanced easily on your hip.

Clark exhaled. Step one, technically, still intact. He hadn’t eaten a doughnut. He hadn’t made prolonged eye contact. Progress.

Then Jimmy laughed at something you said, and Clark found himself watching again—your smile, the easy way you leaned on Jimmy’s desk, the way your necklace caught the light— Nope. Nope nope nope. Fortress, Kent. You are a fortress.

By lunchtime, the plan was in tatters. Not just “slightly frayed at the edges,” but utterly, irreparably shredded like an overstuffed paper in the Planet’s ancient shredder that Perry kept meaning to replace.

It began innocently enough.

You had stopped by his desk, leaning your forearm casually on the edge like it was your personal territory. “Hey, Kent—Jimmy and I are heading to that little sandwich shop on 8th. Want to come?”

Clark had smiled—polite, reserved, the kind of smile meant to create distance, not bridges. “No, thanks. I brought my own.”

“Suit yourself,” you’d said with a shrug, though your tone carried a hint of mock tragedy. “You’re missing out. Best turkey club in the city. Life-changing.”

“Life-changing turkey,” he’d repeated, amused despite himself.

“You laugh,” you said, already backing away, “but when you see Jimmy and me floating three inches off the ground after lunch, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Clark chuckled quietly after you left, telling himself that was fine—friendly conversation, nothing more. The plan still held.

Then came strike two.

About half an hour later, you reappeared, holding a printout. “Hey, could you look over these two paragraphs? Just for clarity. I swear, my brain keeps rearranging words like it’s playing Scrabble against me.”

Clark’s first instinct was to say no—to keep that boundary—but the words that came out were, “Sure, happy to.”

You slid the paper across his desk, and for the next few minutes he was hyper-aware of you leaning just slightly over his shoulder, scanning the screen as he worked. He focused on the sentences, marking small tweaks with his pen, all while pretending the faint warmth of your presence wasn’t utterly dismantling his focus.

“Perfect,” you said once he handed it back, giving him a little smile that made something in his chest loosen. “Thanks, Kent. You’re a lifesaver.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, watching you walk away and realizing with mild despair that the plan was already cracking.

The final blow came just before clocking out.

Somehow—he couldn’t quite remember how—it ended with the two of you walking back from the copier together. He was holding a thin stack of printouts; you had a manila folder tucked under your arm. And you were telling him a story.

“So there I am,” you said, gesturing with one hand for emphasis, “sitting on this bench at the boardwalk, right? Sun’s perfect, breeze is perfect, I’ve got this giant sandwich that I’d been looking forward to all morning.”

Clark smiled faintly, glancing sideways at you. “Sounds nice so far.”

“Oh, it was. And then—” You broke off, eyes widening in mock horror. “This seagull—no warning, no respect for personal boundaries—swoops in, grabs my sandwich right out of my hands, and takes off.”

Clark laughed, picturing it instantly. “Did you chase it?”

“Obviously,” you said, as if that was the only logical response. “But those little criminals can fly, Kent. They don’t care about your hopes and dreams.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Sounds like you lost pretty badly.”

You sighed dramatically. “Crushed. And do you know the worst part?”

“What?”

“There was a second one watching the whole time. Like it brought a friend just to humiliate me.”

That made him laugh harder, the sound warm and genuine. He told himself it was just politeness—laughing at a good story. Not flirting. Definitely not enjoying the way your voice had a lilting rise when you reached the funny parts.

You grinned up at him as you reached your desks. “I love talking to you, Kent.”

And there it was—the coup de grâce. Five little words that went straight through his “breakup” armor like it was made of tissue paper.

He sat down heavily, watching you return to your own chair, and thought grimly: I’m doomed.

Clark was back at square one. Maybe even square negative-one.

His desk was a battlefield of half-finished notes, coffee rings, and two articles that really should have been wrapped hours ago.

Lois appeared at his elbow like she’d been summoned by the smell of his failure. She propped herself against the corner of his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp with the kind of amusement only a seasoned observer of other people’s disasters could muster.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out. “How’d Operation Emotional Distance go?”

Clark stared at the half-empty coffee cup sitting just to the right of his notepad—the one you’d left there when you’d rushed off to a meeting earlier, promising you’d “grab it in a minute.” The coffee was cold now. He hadn’t moved it.

“…I think I made it worse,” he admitted, voice quiet like he was confessing to a crime.

Lois’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “Shocker.”

Clark leaned back in his chair with a sigh, tilting his head toward the ceiling for a moment before letting his gaze drop to the desk. “It’s like… every time I try to pull away, she just… smiles.”

“And then it’s over?” Lois guessed, her smirk widening.

He nodded. “Completely over. All the boundaries, all the mental pep talks… gone. Just—poof.” He mimed something vanishing in the air, looking faintly exasperated with himself.

Lois reached over and patted his shoulder in exaggerated sympathy. “You’re doomed, Smallville.”

Clark gave a small huff of laughter, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flicked back toward your desk. You were shrugging into your coat, chatting with Jimmy, your laughter floating lightly over the noise of the room.

As you headed for the door, you spotted him and gave a little wave—bright, warm, utterly effortless.

Clark’s lips curved before he could stop them.

Lois shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “hopeless,” before wandering back to her own desk.

Clark sat there for a beat longer, watching you disappear into the hallway, and thought maybe Lois was right. And maybe, just maybe… he didn’t really want to be saved.

The brilliant plan—what little remained of it anyway—wasn’t even 24 hours old when Clark walked straight into its demise.

It was supposed to be a quick errand. Grab milk, maybe some bread, be back in ten minutes. He didn’t even bother changing out of his work clothes, just loosened his tie and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stepped into the softly humming fluorescent glow of the Metropolis FreshMart.

And then he saw you.

Halfway down the cereal aisle, leaning on your cart, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, black biker shorts showing just enough leg to short-circuit his brain. Your hair was up in a messy bun, not the artfully styled kind you wore at the office, but the real kind—stray wisps escaping, just barely tamed with a scrunchie. No makeup, but somehow you looked brighter, softer, even more magnetic than you had all day.

Clark stopped dead. Unfair. The word bloomed in his head with the clarity of a headline. Unfortunately, it also slipped out of his mouth.

“…so unfair.”

You looked up, instantly catching him. “What’s unfair?”

Clark froze mid-step, caught like a deer in headlights, clutching the handle of his basket like it was a lifeline. “Uh—prices. You know. On cereal. Inflation. Wild stuff.”

One eyebrow arched in pure disbelief. “Mm-hm. That sounded totally cereal-related.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “I just meant—uh—you look…” His brain scrambled for safe words—different, casual, off-duty—but none of them seemed right. “…different,” he finally said, weakly.

You took a slow step toward him, cart wheels squeaking on the tile. “Different good or different bad?”

“Good,” he said instantly. Too instantly. “Definitely good. Very good. Like… ridiculously—” He stopped, realizing he was walking straight into the quicksand.

Your smile turned sly. “You know what’s unfair?”

Clark swallowed. “…What?”

“These slutty little glasses you’re wearing.”

His jaw actually dropped. “My—what?”

You gestured toward his face, perfectly straight-faced but with a dangerous glint in your eye. “Thin frames, slightly askew tie, sleeves rolled up like you’re about to either write the world’s most heartfelt op-ed or fix someone’s leaky faucet for free. It’s… a lot, Kent.”

“They’re just glasses,” he said weakly.

“Mhm.” You plucked a box of granola bars off the shelf and tossed it in your cart. “Sure they are. Anyway, keep wearing them. It’s working for you.”

You pushed past him with a grin, your cart squeaking away toward the produce section, leaving Clark standing there with his milk, his bread, and the distinct feeling that he’d just been politely demolished in the cereal aisle.

He’d taken the scenic route to avoid crossing paths with you again, weaving through cleaning supplies and pet food like a man dodging laser tripwires. But fate—or maybe just the cruel geometry of grocery store aisles—wasn’t on his side.

Halfway through unloading his basket onto the conveyor belt, he heard your voice behind him.

“Well, well. Smallville in the wild.”

He turned, and there you were—cart half-full, a bag of spinach perched precariously on top, looking like you’d just stepped out of an athleisure catalog without trying.

Clark managed a polite smile. “Hey.”

You started unloading your own items, glancing at his modest pile—milk, bread, coffee, eggs. “This is very… wholesome. Not a single frozen pizza or questionable snack food. I’m impressed.”

“I, uh… cook a lot,” he said, fumbling his wallet out of his pocket.

“Makes sense,” you said with a little nod. “Farm boy hands, farm boy meals.”

Clark swiped his card, trying to focus on the screen instead of how close you were standing. Unfortunately, you didn’t seem inclined to let him off the hook.

“You know,” you added casually, “the glasses are even more dangerous under these fluorescent lights.”

He blinked. “Dangerous?”

You tilted your head. “Yeah. The light catches them just enough to make you look… I don’t know. Like you’re about to change someone’s life with a single headline.”

Clark coughed into his hand. “They just help me see.”

“Mm-hm,” you said again, in the exact tone of someone humoring a very bad liar.

The cashier handed Clark his bag, and he muttered a “thanks” before turning toward the exit, hoping to make a clean getaway.

Except you fell into step beside him, pushing your cart toward the parking lot. “See you tomorrow, Kent,” you said with a little wink, peeling off toward your car.

Clark stood frozen for what felt like an eternity but was probably no more than three seconds, the grocery bag in his hand suddenly heavy and awkward. His heart hammered like a frantic drumbeat, but then his brain fired up with sudden clarity—You know what? Screw the plan.

He jogged a few steps, sneakers squeaking faintly on the asphalt as he caught up to you. “Hey—uh—wait!” His voice came out rougher than he’d hoped, cracking just a little.

You paused beside your car, keys jingling in your hand, and tilted your head with a curious smile—equal parts amused and expectant. “What’s up?”

Clark swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of his clammy palms gripping the crinkling paper grocery bag. His words stumbled out, “I, uh… I was wondering if maybe you’d—if you’re free sometime—like, I could maybe take you to dinner. Or lunch. Or, uh… anywhere, really.”

Your smile deepened into something that was both teasing and genuinely warm, the kind that made the world narrow down to just the two of you. “You’re not sticking with your plan, huh?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “...My plan?”

“Yeah,” you said smoothly, leaning a hip against the gleaming side of your car, one boot tapping lightly on the asphalt. “Operation Emotional Distance? Avoid me at all costs? Keep it strictly professional?”

Clark’s stomach twisted into a knot. “How—how do you know about that?”

You grinned, the sparkle in your eyes wicked and knowing. “Lois told me. She’s my best friend, y’know.”

His ears burned hot, cheeks flushing bright red. “Oh. Right. Of course she did.”

You tilted your head again, eyes soft but teasing as if weighing a delicious secret. “So… you’ve been trying not to like me?”

Clark ran a hand nervously through his hair, every inch of him radiating shy, awkward farm-boy charm. “Trying. Failing spectacularly.”

That earned a soft, almost musical laugh from you. You stepped closer, the scent of your shampoo—fresh and lightly citrusy—filling the space between you like an intoxicating invitation. “You’re ridiculous, Kent.”

“Is that… bad?” His voice was tentative, hopeful all at once.

“No,” you said, shaking your head with a smile that made his pulse spike. “It’s cute. You’re cute.”

Before his brain could sprint away to safety, you closed the distance between you slowly—intentionally. Your hand found his wrist, warm and steady, and your eyes held his with quiet certainty.

Then your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, gentle like the brush of a feather, but then it deepened—warm and hungry, slow and sure. Your fingers tightened slightly on his wrist, pulling him closer until the space between you was nothing but heat and breath.

Clark’s hands lifted tentatively, one brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the other settling on the small of your back. The grocery bag crinkled forgotten, falling to the pavement as the world narrowed to the feel of your lips, the scent of your hair, and the spark of something electric passing between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes shone with amusement and something softer, more tender. “Dinner sounds great,” you breathed, your smile lingering like a secret.

Clark felt like he’d just won the front page and a slice of Ma Kent’s homemade pie all at once. “Okay. Dinner,” he said, his voice steady despite the rapid beating of his heart.

The Daily Planet’s annual Christmas party was in full swing, Michael Bublé’s voice filling the room, while everyone shimmered under twinkling lights. Clark kept glancing at you, not at all subtle. He’d turn to you briefly, then leave you standing on your own just to give you a chance to see how his shirt stretched tightly across his back. He knew exactly what he was doing—the way those rolled-up sleeves affected you. Just a glimpse of his strong underarms, muscles shifting as he shook hands with coworkers or passed out champagne—you felt your panties dampen.

You could turn this around, you knew you could—make his slacks tighter with a few well-chosen words or by bending over just enough to reveal the curve of your breasts, barely hidden by your dress. Honestly, you were surprised HR hadn’t caught on yet—your low-cut bustline did little to cover your curves.

Maybe you’d been lucky enough to stay under their radar since you were the youngest and newest reporter. And that’s wherein your problem lies—why you and Clark kept your relationship secret. 

No one knew for sure. Lois guessed, and Jimmy made the occasional joke, winking pretty blatantly, but no one asked outright. So neither of you confirmed anything.

With your hand hovering over the cookie platter, you looked around for Clark again. Cat and Perry stood across from you, heads tucked together, probably gossiping. Lois was busy on her phone while Jimmy once again attracted a group of women who worked on the floor below. They chatted eagerly—lip gloss sparkling, lashes fluttering. That man was a total chick magnet. Lucky for you.

You weren’t the only one noticing how absorbed your friends were in their own conversations. You felt his breath on your neck before you even heard him.

“Hey,” he murmured. Clark’s deep, raspy voice sent a shiver down your spine. You leaned back a little, your back brushing against his chest.

“Hi,” you replied, still watching the crowd. No one paid attention to you two, but you couldn’t suppress the flutter in your chest—the thrill of almost getting caught.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his hands twitching slightly. His fingers traced the dip of your waist, feeling the satin fabric and, more importantly, your shape underneath. Your breath hitched slightly, and even though you weren’t facing Clark, you could tell he was smirking.

“What? Am I not allowed to compliment my girl?” he asked in a low, teasing tone, making your skin prickle.

He leaned in a bit more, pressing his lips lightly to the back of your head.

God, he must have known how much it killed you that he was so close, yet you couldn’t touch him the way you wanted.

“Not here,” you whispered. Turning your head, you met his eyes over your shoulder, and your resolve nearly left you. He was close enough that you could count every eyelash—those you secretly envied. No man more handsome than Clark walked the Earth, and every freckle on his perfect face made your knees weak.

“C’mon,” he whispered, “You look like an angel—” he inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, “—Gosh, you smell like one, too.”

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you against the noticeable bulge in his dress pants.

Your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively pushed back against him, making him twitch. The slickness pooling in your panties had him groaning—he could’ve smelled you from miles away.

“You’re killing me with that dress, you know?” Even his dirtiest words sounded desperate, the soft roll of his hips and his breathy tone revealing just how needy he was beneath that smug facade.

“You don’t like it?” you played along, a ditzy smile curling your lips.

“’Course I do. I wanna rip that dress off of you and- and get lost in you until neither of us can walk,” he confessed, lowering his volume towards the end of the sentence. The shiver that ran through you made him groan, his hips twitching against yours. “Dressin’ like that— ” he went on huskily, “—that’s just sinful, honey.”

You rolled your eyes, the low lighting catching in the glitter of your eyeshadow.  “Since when do you tell me what to wear?” you taunted, cocking your head challengingly. 

“You know I’d never do that,” he mumbled earnestly, fingers digging deeper into your hips until you were sure you’d still feel them tomorrow, “I’m just sayin’ maybe you should save those outfits for my eyes only.”

You huffed in mock-annoyance. You’d never admit it, but nothing was more attractive than when Clark let his more possessive side shine. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you replied, “Keeping me all to yourself, hmm? Make me dress for you, or better yet – dress me however you want? Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

 “Jeez,” he whispered. His eyes closed as his cheeks reddened. The visible bobble of his Adam’s apple had your thighs pressing together. Seeing him struggle to keep it together made you want to push his limits even more. “You got quite the mouth on you,” Clark continued. Once again, his hips tilted so that you felt his hard-on quiver, rubbing into the plush of your ass. 

“Wanna see what else that mouth can do?” you teased.

His self-control snapped.

Warm fingers moved from your waist to your upper arm, and before you knew it, he was dragging you out of the busy foyer. Despite his urgency, he remained gentle as he guided you past your colleagues who were smirking to themselves.  The hallway was empty, and you half thought he might not make it to a more private area before he had to get his lips on you. 

His muscles quivered with restraint as he pushed you into the next best coat closet, then pulled the door shut behind him with a slam. You turned around with a cocky smile on your face, rather proud of yourself, but before a smug comment could spill from you, he already had you caged between his arms. 

The crash of his mouth against yours almost knocked your head into the storage shelf, but Clark reacted quickly. He shielded the back of your skull with his large palm – and he didn’t even flinch at the impact. 

He devoured you, swapping spit vigorously, and neither of you cared how messy it got. Your hands slipped down to his hips in an instant, pulling the carefully pressed shirt out of its neatly tucked away place. Greedily, you let your fingers drift over the hard muscles of his abdomen until he groaned into your mouth. 

Clark only pulled away from the kiss once he worried that you weren’t getting enough air. Despite his superhuman lungs, he was panting, pupils blown so wide that his pretty blue irises were just a thin ring around an unbelievably circle of darkness.

“Baby,” he whined, “Please.”

God, he begged so beautifully. The gloss in his eyes, the trembling of his lower lip, the strain on his voice – it all went right between your thighs. 

“Please what?” you replied. You knew exactly what he wanted – you could read him filth even on your worst day – but you wanted to hear him say it. 

His eyebrows knitted closer, the words tangling on his tongue. Clark’s ability to speak always failed him once he got like this, desperate and needy for your touch. As much as he loved bringing you all the pleasure in the world, he grew oh-so weak at a single touch of yours.  The good manners instilled in him by Ma and Pa Kent made it hard for him to say the filth on his mind aloud, but his lips parted nonetheless.

“I want your- your mouth,” he whispered. Shame directed all the blood flow – well, the one not needed downstairs at least – to his cheeks. He looked down at you, wispy curls coiling even tighter due to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“This mouth?” you asked sweetly before you stood on your tiptoes to kiss his jaw. The shudder that rocked his body chased goosebumps up his arms.  He nodded weakly, a quiet noise rumbling in his chest. He tightened his hold around you, pressing you deeper against him in an attempt to ease the pressure in his pants. 

As your lips descended down his neck, your finger simultaneously got to work on undoing each button of his shirt. His skin emitted so much heat that no normal human would have been able to withstand it, and once again, Clark had worked himself up so much that he threatened to fall apart just underneath your fingertips. 

Once the last button was popped, you pushed away the fabric to reveal his chiseled torso. You continued the sloppy downwards trail of your mouth with hot, searing kisses that had Clark whimpering your name. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, like he was tempted to press you further down. But he would never dare to do that. 

You dropped to your knees all on your own accord until you were level with his crotch, and Clark’s finger slipped into your hair, kneading your scalp with familiar ease.  Within seconds, you had him freed from the restraints of his pants and boxers. His cock was hard, painfully so. The tip flushed in the prettiest pink, with precum leaking in translucent droplets. 

With your thumb, you smeared through the wet mess, spreading it down his shaft. Clark yelped softly, and his pelvis drew forward as you continued to work him until he thought he might explode from how tightly wound he was. 

“Sweetness,” he gasped, “Please- no- no teasing, I can’t take it tonight.”

You smiled up at him, all innocent, with your eyes wide and cheeks warmed.  “C’mon, Daddy,” you riled him up, “Let me play a little.”

He shook his head in desperation, but he could never say no to you. 

You weren’t intending to be cruel, so you kept your torture short. The first press of your lips to his tip had him moaning your name so loud you feared someone might hear. But the taste of his precum chased away all worries. Salty and musky and so Clark, it bloomed across your tongue. 

You parted your lips, then wrapped them around the thickness of him. Keeping your eyes on him, you began to bob your head ever so slightly. Clark’s fingers tightened in your hair – not in an attempt to showcase his strength but because he had to somehow anchor himself in reality.  Tiny, involuntary thrusts had him rocking further into your throat. Once he realized what he was doing, he tried to pull out to ease the strain on you, but you followed him with your mouth.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he babbled breathlessly, “I’m sor – ah—” His apology was cut short by your soft humming around him. The vibrations travelled through his shaft, resulting in even more twitches. 

He never lasted long once you got your mouth on him, but he was holding out as much as he could. While more and more of his thick cock disappeared down your throat, his fingers tightened in your hair. He caressed you like it might keep him in this realm. 

Your favorite thing about giving Clark head was the breathy sounds he made once he got close. A choked growl grew in his chest, the prettiest bit of evidence of his pleasure. You took him deeper until you had to swallow around him, your throat stretching to accommodate his thick girth. His musky taste, almost a little spicy, spread throughout your mouth until he was the only thing on your mind. 

The pulsing of his cock gave away how close he was before he could even tell you.  “Sweetheart,” he choked out, “I’m – ah – oh golly, you—” 

Only Superman himself could have kept you from letting Clark come inside your mouth, but he was a little busy.  With one deep groan, he emptied himself all over your tongue. His climaxes always lasted long, shudder after shudder of translucent, pearly liquid coating whatever hole you offered him. 

You pulled off of him so as not to overstimulate him.  Clark sank against the wall, and you weren’t sure which one of you was panting harder.

“Jeez, my sweet, sweet girl,” he rasped out, “You – I – oh golly.”

At a loss for words, he slumped into himself. Your heart filled with warmth as you saw the wide smile spread across his face. 

“You okay there, Kent?” you asked softly, your thumb brushing across his cheek. He leaned into your touch in an instant. The speedy thrum of his pulse against your skin made you match his smile. 

“Gosh, yes,” he replied, “More than okay.”

He reached out to pull you in for a messy kiss. In an instant, his energy levels seemed to skyrocket, and he pushed you into the neighboring wall, his hands already working on the zipper of your dress. 

“Your turn, darlin’.”

Clark hasn’t moved for hours.

The clock on the wall has ticked itself into the late evening, the city outside fading into the hush of night. And still, he stays exactly where he is—back pressed against the couch, arms loose but steady around you, legs beginning to ache in a way that would make anyone else shift or stretch. He could. Easily. His body is capable of so much more than this. But he doesn’t dare.

Because you’re asleep in his lap.

It had happened so quickly. You’d come home, shoulders sagging beneath invisible weight, eyes half-closed as you muttered something about deadlines, traffic, and the sheer cruelty of the day. He’d opened his mouth to ask if you wanted tea, to rub the tension from your shoulders, to offer something—but then you’d simply sunk down onto him, curling into his chest like you belonged there, and within minutes your breathing had evened out.

And now? Now he feels every tiny shift of your weight as you dream, the warmth of your cheek pressed against his shirt, the way your fingers absentmindedly curled into the fabric like you didn’t want him to go anywhere. Like maybe, on days like this, he was the only place you trusted to fall apart.

Clark’s back is stiff. His left foot has gone entirely numb. He knows, rationally, that if he moved just a little—adjusted, stretched—he could do so without waking you. But he doesn’t want to risk it. He doesn’t want to risk the way your face has softened, tension gone, or the fragile peace in the quiet of your sighs.

So he stays.

Superman, capable of bending steel and outrunning sound, sitting utterly still because the person he loves had a bad day and needed somewhere to land. Because in this moment, being your couch, your pillow, anything you needed—that mattered more than any comfort of his own.

There is a sense of delirium in the way Clark’s body weakens.

Like a fly at the precipice of a zap trap, Clark can feel the poison seep under his skin, bubbling to the surface as it slowly courses through his system. Unlike a fly, however, he is all too aware how this ends if this continues. 

He can’t fault Rex as his eyes linger on the baby across his glass cell. Even with his defenses shut down, he hears the baby’s fear; his tiny heart beating so hard and fast that Clark can’t believe it hasn’t overworked itself. Rex’s fear is also quite loud as it pulses through Clark’s ears, and he knows because it sounds the same as his own: the fear for others he can’t protect the longer the Kryptonite soaks up his energy. 

It’s devastating and things look bleak. He shouldn’t think this way, he knows this, but the longer he lays here, the more his mind travels to better times: before being viewed as some sort of fearful God, before knowing his birth parents true intentions, before his responsibilities got in the way of the people he loves. It’s too much for his sickened brain to comprehend. He should be stronger than this, but even though he isn’t from Earth, he is as human as a human can get, which means falling into the past when things become too much.

His left hand, dark veins curling under his skin, goes to his right arm sleeve to gently roll it back. He hears the crinkle of the object he is desperate for, needing some kind of reminder of what the good things are, even if it comes with an aftermath of hurt. He drags it out from dampened skin, a shine glossing over the already glossy coat. His thumb smears the sweat away, his skin lingering a little too long on the smile that welcomes him every time this memory enters his psyche. 

It was such an in the moment photo. You, in your cocktail dress meant for warmer days, deep in his arms as you smile from laughing. He remembers working to bury you under his coat to join his body heat, remembering how cold you kept saying you were. The picture is weathered from the treatment his suit gives it, so much so that he can no longer see the goosebumps on your skin, but he dares to never part with it. You are the heart on his sleeve; a reminder that love doesn’t fade. 

He wishes things could’ve played out differently. He wishes he could’ve been more honest about who he was, but as he looks at the contrast of that moment during New Years to where he is at now, he is comforted knowing you are somewhere safe.

He hears about you from time to time from Lois, who still keeps in touch. She insists that he should reach out, that it would be good for him, but every time he goes to write a message, every time he is only a touch away from making himself known to you once more, he retreats. It is unlike him to back down from something he has already begun, but it goes to show that cowardice is a convincing master. So he just listens. He lets Lois tell him whatever she finds relevant, even when he doesn’t ask.

“Remember that book she’s been wanting to write? Well, she finally got a publishing company to back her! She said she would send us all personal copies. Maybe we can finally have a review for a book worth a damn.”

“I’m hungry. Did you want to get lunch? Weirdly I’ve been craving a tomato sandwich. I think it’s because of these heirloom tomatoes she grew. Look at this picture she sent me!”

“Clark, you have got to listen to this playlist she made. One because it is phenomenal and two it doesn’t have The Mighty Crabjoys on it.”

“You should message her. She asks about you. Boy, if only she knew.”

He wishes he would have told you he is Superman. He wishes you knew everything. He wishes he still had that choice. 

He hears the platform before he sees it, so he weakly puts the polaroid, his heart, back under his sleeve. He brings his arm across this chest, hoping the mere closeness will slow the Kryptonite from making his veins darker and skin less bubbled.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Words, words, words. Oh, how you would like some. Who knew writer's block would be such a pain. 

Writer’s block wasn’t something you found yourself dealing with often. Writing is your passion; your brain a fire pit that burns information to grow brighter. As the fire strengthens in heat and ember, the crisper your fingers move to type clever words and phrases. It can be overwhelming, but it is your utmost strength as a writer. That is, until the information thrown into the pit is nothing but icy, cold water, fraying your mind until you can’t think about anything but the smoke.

You can’t pinpoint the distraction to one thing. Being a caretaker for a loved one is never an easy feat, especially when it’s just you and that person is bed bound. Your grandma’s mobility stems from yours in how you adjust her, whether it be shifting her to a more comfortable position or getting her into her wheelchair. It’s been close to a year of this, and while you never minded taking care of her, you are aware of the pressure it brings. Your body is tired, therefore your mind is starting to receive the after effects. 

But you can’t help but think there is more, especially with the state of the world; full of meaningless greed and apathy. The more you watch the news, a mistake every time you decide to turn on the TV, the more you feel hollowness. It makes matters worse when it seems the epicenter of so much destruction is happening in a place you used to call home, and knowing you have people there you worry for every day. Lois, God bless her, always keeps you in the loop to ensure you know everyone is safe, always making sure to add that Clark is okay too. 

But you have eyes, and you saw what happened on TV a few days ago. Sometimes, it’s a little hard to believe unless you are there yourself, and at one point you had been.

The mouse blinks condescending, laughing at your struggle to create and it makes you roll your eyes with an annoyed sigh, leaning back into your chair with fingers digging into your eyes. You’ve been sitting here for hours in this limbo, and it’s now eleven at night. You used to be up for late night writing and research sessions when you worked at the Daily Planet. Not anymore, it seems.

Your phone starts ringing, the twinkling sound of your ringtone shimmering in the dim light of your room. You don’t need to see a name to see who it is; it’s become a common occurrence for Lois to call late at night for inspiration or casual chatter. She’s lucky you don’t sleep early with the birds.

You pick up your phone, sliding the screen open and bringing it up to your ear, a witty remark on your tongue. “Lois, I fear if you are calling for something inspiring, you are out of luck.”

“I need a favor.” She’s quick to respond. “Like an insanely big favor.”

There is a sense of urgency in her tone, yet there is a firm, calm collectiveness to it. Lois is usually pretty laid back, and while you have seen her have a presence strong enough to shut the whole bullpen up, you’ve never heard her like this. It makes your stomach twist. 

“Lois, what’s wrong?”

“Are you still in Louisa?” 

“Y-yes,” you stutter. “What’s happening, Lois? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I’m going to be there soon.” She overrides, ignoring your unsettled tone. “I’ll explain then. Just prepare yourself and I apologize in advance.”

“Lois! Wait-“ 

The line goes dead, and you sit there frozen, your mind going in all sorts of directions. ‘What is she doing coming to Virginia?’ You think. ‘How is she getting here? By car? No, I didn’t hear other cars. Plane? No, she can’t talk over the phone unless they hadn’t taken off. A train? Maybe? Did something happen in Metropolis? Is she in trouble?’ 

The rapidness of your thoughts freezes time, your eyes staring firmly at your screen. It isn’t until your peripherals catch a bright light through your window that you are thawing into action. You stand from your seat, a cluttering sound shaking your desk from the movement, and walk briskly out your bedroom to the back door of the house. The Virginia autumn breeze hits your skin, goosebumps making themselves known, and as you walk to the bright light, you see a figure coming out of some spherical apparatus. You see the dark hair, immediately knowing it’s Lois as she waves you down. You squint as you get closer, the light growing harsher on your eyes, but Lois’s features become more visible. To anyone else, she looks calm, but you know her too well: she’s worried.

“What is all this?” You ask, now in front of her. “Where did you even get this?”

“That’s not important,” Lois says eerily calm. “What’s important is what I’m about to ask of you.” 

“Okay,” you draw in a breath, releasing as your next words fall. “Out with it then. You are making me anxious.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m going to need some help. Help me lift him.”

Him?

“What?” You mutter under your breath, low enough for Lois not to hear. She’s in the pod by the time you enter, and instantly your heart stops, your eyes deceiving you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Clark…”

Emotions are circling your head like ghosts, whispering the past in your ear to relive them in present time. It’s like a slideshow of every moment, the good, the bad, the sad, the best of times, flying behind your retinas. You hadn’t seen him in so long that seeing him like this, skin marred and almost sickly, has ingrained into your mind forever. 

You sense Lois staring at you, but the tension from the reveal had lifted, confirmed by a sigh of relief heard from your side. “So, you knew. Clark never told me.”

“He doesn’t know I know,” you respond immediately, eyes not leaving him. You’re afraid he will disappear if you do. “What’s happened to him?”

“He has Kryptonite poisoning. He needs a place to lay low so he can recover. I was going to take him to his parents but this thing is quite… intuitive.” 

You don’t respond. How can you respond? It has been so long. 

Lois has moved in front of you, hands on your shoulders rubbing up and down. Her eyes are apologetic, lips rolling in like she is thinking. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but he’s in bad shape and your place is secluded. I know you still care about him, so I’m asking you to please look after him.” 

You bite your lip, trying to calm the nerves firing in your body. You nod, looking past her back onto Clark. Your Clark.

But not really. Not anymore.

“I’m guessing the feds are after him?” You say with a shudder as you think about how bad things must’ve gotten.

“A lot has happened over the last few days. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.” 

Oh, you have. It’s a way to keep tabs on him: to see him flourish as he lets his good intentions fly. It’s a way to see that what he is doing is for the betterment of Metropolis and maybe even the world. That’s the kind of guy Clark is to the core. To see how fast the media turned on him has you whiplashed but you can’t blame them. They fear what they don’t understand, but not you. You’ve always understood him, even when he thought you didn’t. 

You wish he knew how much you understood his heart.

“So, what do we do with him? I think we can lug him out of here together.” Lois says, already rolling back her sleeves.

You sigh, moving up to where his legs end. “You can take the heavier half.”

You both manage to carry him out of the pod and into your home, huffing and puffing as you two basically throw him into your bed, the bed spring groaning loudly. ‘God, he is fucking heavy.’

Lois takes her leave, asking you to keep her updated as she continues to dig into Lex Luthor. You don’t ask questions, accepting that you will find out in due time. Besides, you have your work cut out for you.

You assess him. The dim light hides his condition slightly, the yellow toned shadows giving him cover. You crouch beside him, your hand grabbing his right hand lightly, not wanting to wake him. He still feels so warm; truly the embodiment of the sun. 

God, you missed him so much, and yet you feel selfish for feeling as much. You ended things, yet your heart has never stopped longing for him. Lois would always keep tabs on him for you, and you were grateful. You wonder if he ever asked about you. You’ve considered reaching out but it felt wrong to do so. Why hurt him more? All you know is that in the morning, you both will have to confront each other: something you aren’t sure your heart is ready for.

You play with his sleeve, wondering if you have anything that would fit him, when you feel something beneath. Confused, you gently pull at what feels like plastic, only to be met with a photo that has seen better days. Your breath trembles, eyes glazing over as you look at the moment from a little less than two years ago. A moment where nothing was wrong, and everything was perfect. 

It was the moment you two birthed Spring in the cold Delaware Winter.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark always enjoyed the New Years Eve festivities. It was always a time to celebrate the upcoming year, and this year he is attending a party the Daily Planet hosts. From what he’s been told, the catering is always a hit, the conversations flow, and it’s a time where being a journalist isn’t a main priority. 

He was running late though: running towards the party as he fumbled with the buttons of his white dress shirt and his coat falling off his shoulders in his haste. He couldn’t have predicted that there would be a celestial entity trying to swallow up electricity from the Metropolis Energy Plant on New Years Eve, making him arrive only an hour before the New Year. He didn’t have to be a journalist tonight, but he will always be Superman. That is forever a 24/7 job. 

He looks at his phone, seeing the texts he got from you, teasing in nature due to his tardiness.

New Message 9:30pm: You must be allergic to fun to run late to a NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY!! Haha! Hope to see you soon?

New Message 10:12pm: You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you? Wakey, wakey, Clark!

New Message 10:30pm: Don’t make me kiss Jimmy for New Years. I won’t survive his fangirls :’)

That last message had Clark rushing. He knew you were joking, but the thought of your lips anywhere but on his own gives him the urgency to move fast. He sent you a text instantly to tell you he was on his way.

The two of you have been seeing each other for a few months. You and him had been circling around each other for a while until a late night research session led to him walking you home. A kiss on the cheek, a physiological response he had before realizing, leading to you kissing him as an answer. It was an unspoken thing, never fully confirmed to be official, even though he was exclusively with you. With the amount of time you two spend together, he can only assume the same applies to you. 

Sometimes he can’t get over how someone as smart and beautiful as you wanted someone like him. He is a bit scatter brained, always going from one thing to the next without realizing, causing him to get clumsy and disoriented. You always told him it was endearing and charming, which he supposes is a win for tall, clumsy giants like him.

The building was in sight and he could see people outside mingling in the cold. They acknowledge him, telling him ‘Happy New Year’ as he responds in kind, walking through the doors. The party is lively: there is dancing, people socializing at the bar, people eating at the small standing tables. It makes him smile, seeing everyone enjoying one another.

His eyes scan the main lobby, looking for you amongst the sea of people, only to land on the dance floor to see you dancing with Lois. And good golly, he can feel his pupils grow bigger and his heart skip a few times as he takes you in. 

You are glowing. As cliche as it sounds, the twinkly lights strung up around the room don't compare to how bright you are. Seeing you smiling, dancing without a care in the world, black cocktail dress riding up slightly with every twirl. Pretty black pumps accentuating your calves. You are a sight to behold, and the more he watches you, the more he wants to join you.

Like a moth to a flame, he draws closer, taking long strides to get into your vicinity. He sees you’ve caught sight of him, smiling fully with your teeth as you wave him over. He can’t help but walk faster, almost tripping in the process. Lucky for him, he made it just in time for you to grab his arm to steady him.

“You made it!” You exclaim. “With an hour to spare too!”

“What happened, Clark? Alarm didn’t go off again?” Lois jokes, nudging your shoulder with a laugh.

He feels the red creep up his neck, hand subconsciously going to rub the back of it. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he hears you start, arms wrapping around the arm at his side. “I’m glad you are here regardless, especially now that I don’t have to kiss Jimmy.”

“You know I would never put you through that.” He reassured, a smile tugging on his lips. “Besides, only I’m allowed to do that.”

“Is that right?” You tease. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

“Not jealous,” Clark hums, pulling you into him. “Just know no one else can compare.”

“Oh God, you’ve turned him into a sick puppy,” Lois gags. “Cute but I’m going to go get a drink.”

You giggle into Clark’s chest, and gosh he loves the way you sound and feel against him. He tugs you a little closer, lips brushing against the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth. The music shifts, party music slowing down to something a little more laid back, and perfect for a slow dance.

You look up at him, and his hand goes up to your cheek, which is hot to the touch. He smirks, leaning down till his face is inches from yours. “You look so beautiful tonight. I can hardly handle it.”

You are rocking with him now, you two dancing under the yellow lights, a Jeff Buckley song playing in the background that Clark can’t name off the top of his head. It was romantic, and he loved that he could stay in this moment with you: admiring, adoring, longing. 

“Yeah? I wore this just for you.” You say, biting your lip as your gaze settles on his.

“Did you now? I don’t know what I did to deserve such a sight.” 

“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be getting a lot more than just a look.” 

Gosh, you are going to kill him.

“That’ll keep me on my toes,” he says, his hand grasping yours as his other settles on your lower back to keep him grounded.

“Well, someone needs to save you from your clumsiness.” You lean up, and place a kiss along his jaw. He swears he could collapse.

“Keep doing that and you’ll make me fall to my knees.”

“Is that a promise?” You hum against his throat, teeth nipping slightly at the skin.

Clark’s self-control is waning, and before he can react, you are already three steps ahead. You are pulling away from his body, hand staying secure in his as you drag him towards the doors leading outside. A laugh escapes his lips, exhilaration coursing through his veins as you pull him out into the cold, winter air. He knows it is getting close to midnight because a lot of people have migrated inside to toast.

He is pressed against the brick wall of the building, your body fitting against his with hands gripping his jaw. Your thumbs draw circles on the edges, lips close to his as you perch yourself on your tip toes. He is overwhelmed, breaths coming out in huffs with fingers digging into your hips. He knows it isn’t twelve, but he wants nothing more to pull you in and kiss the lipgloss off your lips and taste the vanilla perfume lingering on your skin. 

“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs, forehead falling onto your own.

“You can’t wait till twelve?” Your hands travel until they are behind his neck. “Someone is impatient.”

“It’s hard to be patient when I have a gorgeous woman in my arms.” He hums, eyes becoming lidded. 

“Ah, stop!” You laugh flushed, face burying itself into his chest. “Where did this confidence come from? You are making me dizzy.”

“Must be the festivities,” he says with a low chuckle rumbling from his lips, hands pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. “Also, I must be having a real affect with all these goosebumps on your arms.” 

“It’s cold out here!”

“And you didn’t bring a coat.” He teases.

“No pain, no gain, Kent. The coats I own didn’t look right with this dress. Besides,” you place kisses up to his jaw, hot breath dancing along his ear. “I’ve got you to keep me warm.”

“Geez,” he laughs. “You really are trying to kill me.”

You are laughing with him, but then he hears the cheers from inside the building, ‘Happy New Year’ being chanted by the hundreds of people inside. 

“Looks like you can kiss me now, baby.” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice, bending down to meet your glossed lips, being soft in his movements to reacquaint himself after only a few hours of not kissing you. The taste of cherry seeps into his mouth, the artificial flavor melting on his tongue. Something about the combined taste of the gloss and you is addicting, so much so that he doesn’t care who sees the slightly lewd public display of affection. The fireworks in the distance are nothing compared to the fireworks setting off in his brain.

He can’t contain himself with how your fingers brush up into his hair, fisting the strands to draw him closer, like you want to melt into him. It makes him surge, arms wrapping around your middle to lift you, getting you leveled to him. His grip stays strong with one arm, letting one go free to hold the back of your head, anchoring you to him as he continues his ministrations on your lips. You squeal, legs kicking gently with arms grounding themselves into his back. He groans softly, adoring the way you react to him. 

It isn’t until a bright flash goes off that you both simultaneously stop, heavy breaths creating cold smoke in the air. Clark turns his head to see Jimmy, smirking as he quickly airs out what looks to be a polaroid photo. 

“I’m doing a story on New Year's traditions, and I think you two fit the New Year’s Kiss tradition quite well.”

Clark is stunned, setting you down gently and holding you until you have your balance. He hears you hum, curling into his side as you look at Jimmy. “I’m sure Perry will love seeing two of his best journalists making out for your column piece.”

Jimmy throws his head back, laughter filling the area as he shakes his head. “That would give me another story to cover. Two birds with one stone. Even though right now, I think I’m witnessing the beginning of the Birds and the Bees.”

“Jimmy!” You gawked.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” His hands go up in surrender, walking over. “I actually just took this for you both. I thought a memory of tonight would be nice.”

Jimmy hands you the photo, and Clark glances down at it. It is still producing, but what he sees makes him smile. Seeing how you look in his arms, seeing the ease on your face when you kiss him. He is in awe at how you two look together, like everything is in its right place. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to thank you for being a perv, but thanks for being a perv, Jimmy,” you say with eyes glued to the photo. 

“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Jimmy says sarcastically. “Well, I’m going to go back in. You two coming inside?”

Clark feels you shiver beside him, and in an instant he opens his jacket and pulls you into it, wrapping it until most of your body is covered. You hum, pressing into him to soak up his warmth. Your eyes lift up to meet him, and immediately he reads what you are wanting. You want to go home. With him.

“I think we are going to head out. It’s a little cold out for this one.”

Another snap goes off, and Clark looks to see that Jimmy snapped another photo, repeating the motions of activating the picture. 

“Here is a parting gift. Thought both of you would like one each so you don’t have to switch it off every week,” he shrugs, handing the photo to Clark. “You two get home safe. Happy New Year!”

Jimmy goes back inside, and the minute the door closes, you speak.

“Take me home, Clark” 

The walk home blurs together. It is full of kisses, not so subtle touches, and silly banter that sends Clark into the stratosphere. Every time he is with you, it feels natural. He doesn’t necessarily have to hide himself, not like he usually does. He always worries his mannerisms will lead others to discover his identity, but with you it's different. He can let his guard down, and not worry that he is putting you in any kind of danger. Because he can be himself with you, you feel like home to him, even in the short amount of time you’ve been seeing each other.

You both arrived at your apartment building, heading up the stairs hand in hand. He can’t help himself when you go to unlock the door, hands resting on your hips rubbing circles with his thumbs. He hears your heart rate quicken, your breath becoming shallow as your hands twist the key and push the door open. 

You both walk in, and once the door shuts, all of Clark’s inhibitions go out the window. He is on you in seconds, hoisting you up in his arms and landing you against the back of your front door. His mouth claims yours, a new found hunger in the way he moves against you. You suck on his tongue, coaxing deep noises from his chest, and then he feels you trying to push his coat off his broad shoulders. 

He uses his hips to keep you up, his hard on pressing into your core, and teasingly takes his coat off. You groan at his pace, hands running down his arms to help push the material off before fisting his shirt and pulling him back in. His hands go to your thighs, moving up to push the black dress up until it scrunches up above your butt. His hands decide to rest there, moulding the flesh until his grip is firm enough to help you grind into him. 

His lips move from your lips to your skin, eager to taste the delicious vanilla perfume that has mixed so well with your pheromones. He kisses along your neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh one spot at a time. It has you releasing sounds he’s only heard in his wildest dreams, and it makes his pants grow tighter. He can’t believe he is the one causing you to act like this. He can’t get drunk, but he imagines this is what it must feel like: your noises becoming the alcohol that runs through his system. 

“You taste so good, honey,” Clark moans into your neck. “Need to taste every inch of you. Need to suffocate in it.”

“Clark,” you gasp out, causing him to bite down a little harder to hear your voice go higher. 

“Someone’s needy,” he murmurs, tongue soothing the love bite he has granted you. Something inside him hopes it still lingers there in the morning. 

“If you don’t take me to bed right now, I swear to God,” you whine, head thudding against the door. 

“Easy there,” he chuckles, hand going to the back of your head, clutching you so he can carry you to your room. “Don’t want you getting hurt.” 

It takes seconds to get to your bed, laying you down carefully before standing at the edge. He goes to take his shirt off, only to stop when you push yourself up until you are on your knees for him. 

“Let me take it off.”

So he lets you, watching your fingers remove each button diligently. The tone of the night has shifted into something more tender, the hunger simmering down. It’s agonizing but with how you are looking at him, like he is your whole world, makes him want to take care of you like you deserve.

The buttons are undone, and he takes it off, muscles flexing as he does. Your mouth is on his chest, kissing his pectorals while your hands run up and down his sides. He takes the opportunity to take your dress fully off, getting you to release him before reattaching as he flings it away. 

He is becoming overwhelmed with how you touch him, sweet kisses laced with splendor landing all over his chest. Your hands are at his belt, unbuckling it along with the button and zipper of his black pants. It isn’t until you push the trousers down that his hands go to yours, his knee settling between your legs as he pushes you down onto the bed.

“I’m not done tasting you, sweetheart.” He kisses your sternum, smirking when he hears you huff.

“Well, maybe I wanna taste you too.”

“Not tonight, baby. With this being our first time together, I’m going to take care of you tonight.” He trails lower, nipping at your hipbones as he lifts your hips to remove your pretty black panties. “You can taste me another time.”

“Do you promise?” You ask innocently, and it makes his insides churn.

“Mhmm,” he hums, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and settling his free hand at your waist. “Now, let me enjoy this.”

He takes his time, his lips and tongue going everywhere except for where you need him. He wants to savor every last second of him pleasing you, getting you ready for him. He wants to prove to you he is a man that can satisfy his woman, read her wants and needs, and get her to the finish line. You’ve told him about previous lovers, how they never amounted to anything and never took you into consideration. But he was determined to show you how good you can feel with him, and he isn’t going to fail. He will never fail you. 

You smell intoxicating, his mouth watering as he anticipates his own moves. He sees how your slit leaks, like it’s also waiting and craving for him to do something. The sight alone makes him cave, tongue rolling out to lick your clit slowly, causing your hips to bounce up with a shaky moan.

His hand holds your hip down, mouth getting his fill. His tongue alternates with his lips against your clit, sucking to bring you closer and licking to edge you on. He feels you twitch against him, hips shifting in a struggle to keep still. It makes him smile knowing you are feeling good.

The hand by your stomach trails up, reaching your bra only to yank the cups down until your breasts spill out. He grasps at your right one, squeezing it while giving a particularly hard suck to your clit, leading to a visceral reaction.

“Oh— fuck,” you cry out, back arching. 

He pinches your nipple, a thrash of your hips as your answer, and it makes him grunt heavy into your cunt. He steadies your thigh so it stays on him before bringing his other hand to your entrance. He lets both his spit and your wetness coat his fingers before he slides one into you, rubbing against your walls to work you open.

“Clark—,” you draw out, sounding delirious. 

“Mmm you look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” Clark adds another finger in, curling his fingers each time they enter your tight heat. He can tell you are close, seeing how your nerve endings are sparking up, ready for the dopamine release he is about to grant you. However, he doesn’t need to use his x-ray vision to tell with the way you are dripping down his fingers.

“I want you to look at me, honey,” Clark says against your slit. “I want to see you when you release on my fingers.”

He watches you nod, attempting to prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back when he adds a third finger. Something deep releases from you, a mix of frustration and pleasur. “Fuck— I can’t.”

Clark is fast to help you both out, hand releasing your breast to wrap his arm under your body, yanking you up until you're elevated from the pillows on your bed. His fingers are still going strong, working you to tears as he moves up to watch you with his forehead pressed against yours. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing kisses against the apples of your cheeks. 

“I’m so close, Clark— oh God,” you sob, releasing a louder one once he places his thumb on your clit. 

“Let go for me, beautiful.” He steadies your head, fingers in your hair to keep your eyes on him. “Give it to me.”

Your body reacts to his command, your orgasm rushing against his fingers. He feels you spasming, and glancing down he sees the white fluid coating his fingers. His mouth waters, both from how you look falling apart for him and how much you are spilling onto his hand. An urge arises, and he can’t help but go back down between your legs, latching to your clit with vigor and lifting your hips off the bed. 

A shrill wail bounces around the room. Your hands grab at his head, pushing and pulling like you can’t decide if the overstimulation is good for you. But Clark knows it is good; he knows by the way you only grow wetter at his ministrations. Hearing your cries and your babbling as he eats you alive is music to his hypertensive ears, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

He lifts himself from you, easing his fingers out that glisten under the moonlight shining into your room. He slides them into his mouth, relishing in it as he watches you breathe heavy, eye lids lazy. With his fingers clean, he crawls back up to you, hands on your cheeks to draw you back into him. 

“How are you holding up, sweet girl?”

“You are– wow,” you sigh with a laugh. Your hands mirror his, thumbs rubbing into the stubble of his jaw where there is a dampness. It is tender and he leans into the softness of your hand, turning his head to kiss the inside of it. 

“Looks like I’ve taken the words right from your mouth,” Clark teases, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. 

Your fingertips brush up towards his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just can’t believe you ate me out with your glasses on. Thought they would get in the way.”

“O-oh, right,” Clark stutters, brain finally recognizing his glasses are still on. “I guess I like to make sure my world is crystal clear.”

“Oh, are you saying I’m your world?” You jest.

“Now you’re making me seem corny.”

“No,” you draw out, kissing the spot right above the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s very sweet, especially the way you talk me through it.”

He groans, loving the way you are praising him. “What can I say? You look so gorgeous when you fall apart by my hand.”

“Mmm, I bet I’d look even better above you.” 

“Yeah?” He pulls back, thumbs rubbing against your lips, enamored with how pink and swollen they’ve gotten. “You want to ride me, sweetheart?”

“You’d let me?” 

“I’d do anything you want, especially if it makes you more comfortable for our first time together.” And especially if it helps keep his glasses on.

“Oh-okay, then can you take your underwear off so I can see all of you? Please?”

Clark chuckles, moving off the bed. “Somebody’s impatient.” He stands up straight, thumbs hooked under the elastic to relinquish himself of his boxer briefs. His dick smacks heavy against his stomach, hard and drooling.

“Oh God…” he watches you turn on your side with hands on your face.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, snapping out of his horny haze to examine everything.

“You are fucking huge, Clark.” 

“I mean, I guess I’m about average—”

“And you’re uncut!”

Clark gawks. “Is that a turn on for you?”

You turn back to him, patting the bed beside you. “How about you lay down and I’ll show you.”

Clark could pounce on you for how cute you’re being, but he restrains himself. He crawls back into bed to lay flat down, not before grabbing you to have you on top. You adjust on top of him as he kisses you, tongue swiping against your lower lip, begging for you to deepen the kiss. The moment your mouth opens for him, he feels your slit sit firmly on his cock. He groans into your mouth, hands holding the back of your head to keep himself together, your lips grounding him as you rock your hips back and forth.

Your bra is still on you, and Clark can’t have that. His hands go to the middle of your back where the clasp lays, and with ease unclasps it. His fingers trail up your arms, pushing the straps down until you are forced to release him to tear it off. 

Your tongue is hot in his mouth, every grind of your hips sends a pulse through his cock. With every pulse, a moan is fed down his throat, and he swallows every one you grant him. When you pull away from his mouth, he can’t help but whine.

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s my turn to make you feel good.” Your fingers brush his lips, slick with spit. 

He loves watching you like this. You are a determined person: always having a sense of control. He sees it in your work ethic, in the way you hold yourself. He loves that he gets the best of both worlds with you: one where you are shaking beneath him and one where you turn him into a complete mess. He doesn’t know what you’ll do, but he knows you will be his ruin. 

He cannot wait to fall apart under your hand.

“I have a condom in my coat pocket.” He says in between kisses he places on your finger tips. “Did you want me to get it?”

“Oh wow, someone knew they were getting lucky tonight.”

“Well, I mean… I didn’t think, um, I mean not exactly—”

Your head is thrown back, laughing fully with your chest. “I’m just messing with you, you goof. Besides,” your hand wraps around his cock, stroking him enough to get him covered with your slick and his pre. “I’m on birth control, so you can cum inside me as much as you want.”

His face is so red. He feels the heat burning his skin at your words. “You cannot just say stuff like that.”

“Awe and why’s that?” You coo, lining him up to your entrance.

“You know exactly why— ah!”

His tip is engulfed, his cock slowly making its way into you. Your hands lay flat on his chest, steadying yourself so you can take the time you need to adjust. His head is thrown back into the pillows, where he smells you so clearly, and it’s driving him insane. He wants to watch you, but shoot, you feel too good. He knows he’s a goner.

“Clark…” He feels your fingertips on his chin, pushing down so he is made to look at you. “I looked at you when I came. You’re gonna do the same for me.”

You ease down a little bit more, and Clark is already losing it. Your walls hug him so well, a perfect fit between two people. He doesn’t know if it’s his abnormal origin or what but the way he is having to hold back is through sheer willpower. He’s had rendezvous affairs before but he has always felt in control: like he’s not going to slip up.

But this? You on top of him, basically sitting on him pelvis to pelvis now, oh he could break. It makes him sweat knowing he could rock into you at such a pace that it would catch you off guard. It would create suspicion and that scares him. His fear nags at him, but his adoration and love are stronger, reminding him that this is you. You trust him, and he’s grateful. 

“What’s wrong, Clark? Why are you crying?” 

“What?” His hand shoots to his face, a wetness under his eyes he didn’t suspect.

“We don’t have to do this, Clark. We can stop—“

“Don’t you dare stop,” he responds immediately. “You’re just incredible. I am the luckiest man in the world to have someone like you with me.”

He loves you. He hopes somewhere in there, you understand what he’s saying.

“Oh Clark,” you purr, leaning down until your face is over his. “Trust me when I say this: I’m the lucky one. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

More tears fall, a smile growing big on his face when he feels the kisses on his lips: quick and full of little laughs. His laughs die in his throat, however, because when you start to rock your hips, up and down, they turn into prolonged groans. 

You’re sitting back up, hands pressing down on his chest as you bounce on him, eyes never leaving his. It’s intense the way you look at him, causing him to look down between your legs to see his shaft entering you. 

“You look so pretty, Clark.” You cooed at him, and he watched as you dropped harder into his lap. “I love how needy you are for me.”

“Please, baby— fuck!” Clark throws his head back, hands shooting to your hips like holding you to him will calm him down. Like it will hold him back from slamming into you. 

You gasped. “Wow! What an honor that I can get certified gentleman Clark Kent to curse for me.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t— hmph! I couldn’t help it. You feel too good around me, honey.” He knows he’s babbling, his senses consuming him with everything that is you.

“It’s okay, my darling. It’s very hot when you lose yourself like this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Clark can only nod, your pace growing faster. He’s throbbing, and he wonders if you can feel it. You answer his question when a particular drop of your hips has you moaning out into the air, hips stilling for a second. He seizes this opportunity, using his elbows to push himself up until his back is pressed against the headboard. He yanks you back into him until you are sitting in his lap, and he makes it so your legs are wrapped around his waist. 

“Come on, honey. You wanted to watch me fall apart, right? Let’s keep it going.”

He leans you back just a little, enough for his left hand to stay on the mattress to support you under his arm. His feet plant into it, and he rolls his hips back and forth slow and hard. Your hands are tugging hard at his hair, and he grunts low with every pull. Your tits are bouncing with every push, and they tempt him. Saliva produces intensely and giving into temptation, he ducks to latch onto your right nipple. He feels it pebble on his tongue as it curls and lathers it, only sucking harder when he wants to hear you more.

“Music to my ears,” he says with a pop, already going to the other to give it attention as he continues to make love to you.

“Jesus Christ,” you choke. “You are a menace.”

“And you are an enabler,” he laughs, lifting his head back to look at you.

“An enabler?!”

“Yeah with the way you got me cursing. You are a bad influence.”

“You said fuck once, Clark.”

He thrusts in harder at that, shaking a gasp from your lungs. “One too many.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but next thing he knows he is back up against the headboard. Your knees are back beside his thighs, and you are going full force on him. The way you start to ride him, back arched in with hips slamming down on his cock, has his jaw slacked. He sees your hand grab at the headboard and the other goes to his throat. There is no pressure, but feeling it there makes Clark lightheaded. 

“You know what I think, Clark?” You breathe against his ear. “I think you like that I’m a bad influence.”

His head falls forward on your shoulder, shuddering at how you are reading him. 

“You love not being restrained, right? That sweet, gentleman from Kansas persona must be exhausting, yeah?”

His breathing is getting erratic, which isn’t commonplace for him. Granted, the way you make him feel isn’t.

“You know you can be however you need to be with me because I accept every part of you. I accept that you are Superman because I love you.”

His eyes shoot open, head shooting up. “Superman? What?”

He is freaking out. There is no way you know. He had been so good at hiding it, or at least he thought he did. What gave it away? Oh no, this is not how he wanted you to find out. He wanted to tell you personally. He wanted to have a moment of honesty when the time is right. 

“Shhhh,” you hush softly, hands going to his face to soothe. “It’s okay, Clark. I’ve always known.”

“You,” he swallows. “You did?” 

“Yes, and I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t change anything.”

The sentimental moment should not bring him closer to releasing, but it is. He is so close. So freaking close. 

“You are mine, Clark. You’re my Clark no matter what. And I want you to let go for me.” He feels you place a kiss under his ear. “Let go for me, my darling. Please.”

He is so fucking gone. His ears are ringing. Static is running through his veins as he shakes. His mind is no longer in his control, not with the way he is pounding into you from below. It’s almost an out of body experience, except he is experiencing everything. His senses are blank, yet they are receiving every pleasurable shockwave. He has never felt anything like this, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

But the strange thing is: it does end. The minute his eyes open, he isn’t in your apartment anymore. And the euphoric pleasure he was in is gone and replaced with an incredible ache that covers his entire body. 

‘What was that?’ He thinks. He has dreamed that memory so many times, yet it has never ended that way before. It scared him, but that relief he had felt was still there. Even if it wasn’t real.

He doesn’t move for a second; just takes in everything he sees. There is a brown ceiling fan spinning slowly. There are two windows, one beside the dresser and the other to his direct left, blinds cracked to reveal shimmering sunlight. There is a dark wooden dresser in front of him with little knick knacks on top. There is a table beside it full of perfume bottles, a jewelry box, and a lamp. To his right, he sees a desk with papers and a laptop on it, weirdly familiar in the way it reminds him of his own desk at the Daily Planet. There is art on the walls, paintings mostly aside from a few posters and pictures. It isn’t until his eyes focus in on one of the picture frames that his heart stops, anxiety spiking. 

He gets up slowly, the bed creaking with every movement. He walks over to the picture hung beside the bed, and what he sees shocks him. What he sees is you.

You are in your cap and gown, holding your diploma with that beautiful smile on your face. He looks at another one, and it is of you and Lois from Halloween last year. You two were dressed as Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. It had been a month since the break up. It was three months before you moved away.

He walks over to the desk, and even with the clutter he sees two picture frames. One was you when you were younger with your grandma on a bench swing. You were laughing, twisted around in her arms: a beautiful memory. He had met your grandma once when she came to visit Metropolis. It was apparent you two were very close, being the only family you had left, and she was so kind-hearted. It made sense she had been the one to raise you.

He moves on to the other photo and it isn’t until his eyes land on it that he feels a wave nausea course through him.

You had kept the other New Years Eve photo. 

His shaking hand picks it up, eyes scanning it to ingrain it. He hadn’t seen this version of that night in so long, and he was sure you would have thrown it out. Why would you keep it?

Nothing makes sense. Why is he here and where is here exactly?

He hears footsteps coming from across the house and he panics. Does he lay back down and act asleep? Does he apologize for intruding? Does he sneak out the stupid window like some kind of teenager? He isn’t Clark Kent right now. He’s Superman. What can he even say?

It’s too late to act though because before he knows it the door opens and time stops all together. He feels like a deer caught inbetween the headlights, frozen in place because everything about this situation doesn’t feel real. Holding your picture in his Superman attire, staring back at the one person who always brought him back to earth. He’s surprised he hasn’t passed out from the weight.

You closed the door gently, eyes not leaving his. You look nervous and guarded, hands holding some clothes that he recognizes as his own. Some he probably let you borrow a while back. Clothes you didn’t throw away.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah, well I-” he starts before swallowing his own saliva. “Ma’am I’m sorry to intrude. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I got here. Forgive my—”

“It’s okay, Clark. I know it’s you.”

That shuts him up, eyes bulging out of his eye sockets. “What…”

“I’ve always known, so you don’t need to act weird.” You look away from him, walking towards the bed to set the clothes down. “You probably have questions, and I have some too. However, I’m sure you want to shower and change into something more comfortable.”

He’s speechless. What does he even say to that?

“I’m about to cook breakfast, so come to the kitchen when you’re ready. And one more thing.” You are looking back at him again, and he notices how tired you are. It worries him. “My grandma is here. Don’t worry about her as her eye sight isn’t the greatest. She won’t notice anything different.” 

With that you shut the door with a soft click. He hears you patter down the hallway, and he doesn’t dare move. His thoughts are running a million miles per minute. He’s paralyzed because of you and your confession.

You are back in his orbit.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

“Here you go, Grammie.”

“Oh…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like boiled eggs.”

“You liked the boiled eggs I made you last week.”

“Did I?”

“Sure did.”

“What about oatmeal? Do we have any oatmeal?” 

“Um, yeah we do.”

“Can I have some oatmeal, darling? Please?”

“Yeah, no problem.” 

You sigh as you walk into the kitchen, breakfast meant for your grandma now meant for you. You hate when she does that. You should expect it by now, but it still drives you crazy how she will switch up. In reality, it’s not that much of a problem; making oatmeal is super quick. But you also know she needs protein and other nutrients that aren’t just steel cut oats. On the other hand, eating is better than not eating at all 

You grab the Quaker Oats box, prepping a bowl for the microwave before getting out some other products for flavor. You hear the door from the hallway open, the heavy patting of feet hitting the floor, and soon enough Clark is in your line of sight. 

He looks good. You luckily had a couple of his flannels and gym shorts, having packed them by mistake when you moved. He had on the dark blue and brown flannel with light grey shorts. Not a perfect match, but better than him walking around in his boxers or whatever he wears under his suit.

Oh God, if he even wears any.

“Smells good,” he says, voice a little rough. “Oatmeal?”

“The oatmeal is for my grandma, but I made some, um, boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits. There is also some yogurt and berries. I hope that’s okay?” You don’t know why you ask it like a question. 

“Of course it is okay. I appreciate it.” 

“Great, well, plates are up in that cabinet. Please take what you like.” As you finish your sentence, the microwave goes off, taking your attention away from him.

There is a silence between you two. You expected as such, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. The air was tense and uncertain. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him, and a lot has happened. However, a small part of you wish it felt like it used to. Now, it feels like you two are strangers and it kills you inside.

You bring the apple brown cinnamon oatmeal to your grandma, making sure she is sat all the way up in her bed before eating. You tell her you’ll check in on her soon before shutting her door. You walk into the dining room where Clark is, seeing him looking out the window. You see he hasn’t touched his food, and see another plate set up with the food you cooked in the seat across from him. A small smile creeps onto your face. Still ever the gentleman. 

“Thank you for making me a plate. That’s very kind of you.”

Clark looks at you and you see his eyes light up. “It is no trouble. You cooked.”

You nod before taking your seat, taking the time to enjoy your meal. It is quiet again, but it is a silence that is begging to be broken. Lucky for you, Clark has no problem with that.

“So, is this your house or is it your grandma’s?”

“It’s my grandma’s, but I did grow up here. The room you were in was my old room that I kinda made new when I moved back here.”

Clark hums. “So I’m guessing we are in Louisa right now?”

“We sure are,” you confirm. “It’s no Smallville, but there is a charm here I guess.”

“I’m sure it is nice,” Clark suggests. “I am curious as to how I got here though.”

“Hmm…” You lean back in your chair, arms folded. “What do you remember last?”

Clark swallows his food, setting his fork down to clasp his hands in front of him. You can tell he remembers, but doesn’t want to indulge. It makes you think he must’ve seen some horrific things. 

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say,” you reassure. “All I can say is Lois brought you here. I’m guessing she didn’t really know where to locate your parents, and she didn’t feel like she had the time to figure it out. So, she brought you here.”

“I must have been in pretty rough shape.”

“You had Kryptonite poisoning.” 

He stays silent for a moment, eyes staring at the middle of the table. His jaw works like he wants to say something, but his mouth won’t open for the words to come out. There is conflict in his brow, and you wish you could get up and hug him. But you don’t. You stay glued in your seat patiently.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose before releasing through his mouth. His eyes open, and what you see is a vulnerable boy staring right back at you; a side of Clark you rarely ever saw.

“When did you find out I was Superman?”

“I’ve known for a while,” you start, taking a sip of your orange juice before continuing. “I found out on the morning of New Years.”

“How?” 

“I had woken up, and when I went to get up I had noticed you still had your glasses on.” You look down at your hands, uneasy in how you were going to say this next part. “I didn’t want them to break, so I took them off while you were sleeping. I didn’t think much of it but then I saw your face without them and I felt like I had gone crazy because it wasn’t you, but it also was.”

There it is again: silence. God, you hate the fucking silence. 

Clark’s voice chokes, and you wish it was because he had choked on his food but no. It’s from disbelief. You hate the sound of that more. “You’ve known for that long? You knew and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like you told me,” you try to reason. “I thought it would be better for me to wait until you were ready to tell me, but as time went on, it seemed less likely.”

Clark’s food remains untouched at this point, plate pushed to the side so there is a place to put his elbows. His face is in his hands, breath staggered like he’s having a hard time keeping oxygen down. You’ve never seen him like this before. Not even when you ended things.

“Clark, I—”

“Is that why you left?” 

You are stunned. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, you didn’t expect him to ask that. Honestly, it kind of pissed you off.

“What? No, Clark. I didn’t leave because of your little secret.” You cringe at how harsh you sounded, but it couldn’t be helped. “I apologize if I never fully explained why I left, but not everything revolves around you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” He raises his voice. Not quite yelling, but emotions are running high. “It has everything to do with me when you end things with no explanation. ‘I have a lot going on’ is not a good answer.” He’s looking at you dead on, and the look on his face is so unlike him. It’s Clark, but it’s a side of him he never let you see: frustration, anguish, distress.

You want to tell him why. He’s going to see for himself soon enough, but there is a pettiness in your heart you can’t seem to get rid of. There is a stubbornness that knows he is right, yet refuses to accept it. You can admit you are at fault, but he isn’t innocent. This isn’t all on you.

“You say all this yet it’s not like you fought for me to stay in your life.” Your words are cold. “I didn’t ask you to, so I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I had my reasons, Clark. Also, by the way, just goes to show how much you trust me with how you told Lois and not me!”

“You think I would tell Lois?” He scoffs. “She confronted me because she connected the dots! I didn’t see a point in lying!”

“But you felt so comfortable hiding it from me? Isn’t that considered lying?” You shouldn’t be this heated but something in you is screaming. “When you cancel plans because ‘stuff’ came up? When you leave in the middle of the night? How dare you ask for an explanation from me when you never gave me one?”

Clark is getting up from the table, aggravation clear on his face. You’ve never had an argument like this. Even when this is not a screaming match, it feels worse: two emotionally constipated adults trying to one up each other rather than saying the silent part out loud. You thought things would be different after a year's time, but you were kidding yourself. How could things be different when nothing was solved to begin with?

Your phone rings, and you look to see your grandma is calling. You don’t answer, looking to the kitchen to see Clark doing the dishes. You couldn’t tell if he was doing them to relieve himself of the irritation, to be polite, or both. Knowing him, it’s probably the ladder.

You walk to your grandma’s room, opening to see her on the phone until she sees you. “What’s the commotion? Who’s here?”

“Oh, um,” you start, scratching your head. “Well, do you remember Clark?”

“Oh that handsome young man? Of course! I didn’t know you two were still together.”

Thanks for bringing it up, Grammie. Twist the knife a little deeper.

You shake your head. “He’s just visiting. He won’t be here long. Now, let's get you into your wheelchair for a little bit, yeah?”

She groans, causing you to roll your eyes. “I know you hate it but you need to get your back stronger so I can take you to appointments.”

“Who needs to go anywhere?” She sighs. “I’m quite content staying here.”

“I know you are, but since specialists won’t come here, we gotta get to them. You may think it’s ridiculous but I promise you’ll thank me later.” 

She doesn’t respond and you are thankful. It’s exhausting having to explain her health to her, and you hate that it exhausts you. It aggravates you that her health coverage won’t cover certain home visits, and the ones they do cover are unreliable, cancelling appointment after appointment. You’ve tried going to see health professionals before but the transport costs an arm and a leg, plus your grandma couldn’t withstand the far drive into town. You wish you could do more for her. You wish you were stronger for her. You wish you had the mental capacity to have more patience. 

You help her sit up, steadying her before grabbing the wheelchair, the gait belt, and the transfer board. You click the belt around her waist, lock the wheelchair breaks and double check that they are secure, and then place the transfer board under her bottom. You set your position, grabbing the belt and making sure you weren’t in the way of her feet.

“Okay, remember to just slide your hand along the board until it reaches the armrest. Once you grab it, pull yourself.” 

She nods and on the count of three, you hold onto her as she slowly moves. You are holding a lot of her weight up, a constant fear that she will slip and you won’t have a good grip. It’s a lot on your body; one wrong move and your back goes out. It’s tiresome but it’s needed. The more you help her with this, the less you’ll have to do in time.

“Alright, good job. Almost there,” you say encouragingly.

“I’m slipping,” she huffs. “I’m going to fall.”

“I got you. I’m going to count to three and I want you to hold on to me, okay? I’m going to pull you the rest of the way.” 

You count to three, and with a deep breath you heave her over into the wheelchair. You adjust her, moving her legs more in and then moving back to pull her more into the wheelchair. 

“You okay? See that wasn’t so bad.” You try to sound convincing, but the elevated breathing didn’t help.

“Y-yeah, I guess.” Your grandma knows you are lying. She always does. “I just don’t like that you have to do this by yourself. I have the money to get a caretaker, darling. We should get one so you can have a break.”

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Maybe once you stop buying stuff from HSN”

“Okay, but what else am I supposed to do? I just lay here all day!” She exclaims, hands in the air.

“You do not. You just don’t want to do anything else, even if it’s good for you,” you say, trying to not get irritated. You take a deep breath, reigning yourself in. ‘Do not take it out on her,’ you think. 

“Listen,” you sigh, hands on your hips. “Maybe once I get my book published, we can look into it. I understand what you’re saying, but finding a good caretaker takes time and the rates add up. I am making very little right now, so all we have is your income from retirement and social security to pay bills. Also, if we need to send you to the hospital again, heaven forbid, you need money for that. I am trying.”

“I know, darling,” she says, looking at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Grammie,” you say, feeling bad because you see how much it bothers her that her independence was stripped away. Now you both live in this dance of highs and lows, which you wish you had better control over. Because at the end of the day, this is your grandma and this isn’t her fault. It’s no one’s.

“Now,” you clap your hands, grabbing the remote off the rolling tray by the bed. “Did you want to watch some TV? We can go into the living room or if you want, you can stay and watch in here.”

Before she can answer, there is a soft knock from the door. You look to see Clark’s head slowly peaking in, hesitantly to assure no intrusion.

“Hey,” he clears his throat. “The dishes are washed and they are drying on the rack. I wrapped your food up too in case you want it later.”

Your heart speeds up at that. The thoughtfulness that is Clark Kent.

Clark steps in, walking towards your grandma with eyes wide and smile quirked. “And look at this young lady here.”

“Oh hi, Clark!” She says excitedly. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

You think back to when your grandma met Clark for the first time. She had come to visit for the holidays, and you introduced her to him. And they just talked, and talked, and talked. It warmed you so, seeing the two people you cared deeply for talking and laughing together. You recall the time Christmas music was playing in your living room, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! playing in the background, and Clark had started dancing with her around the living room. He was good to her, bringing so much life and light that it made your heart spin. It was the moment you knew he was the one, and that you loved him; that no man could ever compare to Clark Kent. 

God, you’re gonna be sick.

“Darling?”

“Huh?” Shaken out of your daze, your eyes refocus. You see Clark has a chair pulled up, hands cradling your grandma’s. 

“You should go lay down, darling. Rest a little bit. Clark and I have some catching up to do,” she chirps happily.

“Grammie, I know you are excited to see him, but he needs to—”

“I’ll be okay. Just leave the windows up. The sunlight is enough.”

Any frustration that Clark had earlier is gone, and a completely new face is there before you. One of understanding and tenderness that leaves you breathless. The one you’d see after a long day of work. The one you’d see when you close your eyes. 

It’s love. It’s the look of love.

“Please,” he begs. “Get some rest.” 

“Um… yeah. Yeah, okay. Can you wake me up in a little bit?” 

“I got you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You don’t know how much more you can take of him.

You make your retreat, walking into your room only to crash onto the bed. Your head feels fuzzy from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting lately, but the pillows that welcome you feel divine. But what makes you at ease, body responding as it relaxes, is how Clark’s scent trails up your nose. His scent has infused into your bedding, and it calms you until there is a lull. Sleep consumes you and he infiltrates your dreams.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark feels like a jerk. A big, buttheaded jerk.

He’s not a mind reader by any means, but he has instincts. When he is Superman, he is making decisions based on instinct: what will cause the least amount of damage? What will save the most people? It is second nature to him, so why couldn’t he use that to shut up and listen? Why did he have to jump to conclusions like a freaking idiot?

He felt the hurt the second he stood up to leave the conversation. He saw the way your shoulders slacked, how your heart rate thumped like crazy. He should’ve apologized at that moment, for making rash judgements, for raising his voice, but no. He had to double down. 

He did the dishes, trying to take his mind off of things, but how could he? He is in your vicinity disrupting your life. It didn’t matter how focused he was on scrubbing the plates and putting the cups into the dishwasher. His mind would snap back to how you looked just then: discouraged, upset, sad. It makes him nauseous. And as he wraps your food up, seeing the barely touched plate sitting at the table, he can’t help but know you are right. 

He did lie to you, even if it was to ensure your safety. After seeing what happened to Mali, someone who had simply offered his kindness, only reaffirms he was in the right to hide it from you. If someone like Lex knew of your existence and did something to harm you, he would never recover. Half of his heart would be gone forever. He never meant to make you feel like he strung you along with his vague excuses.

However, the devil’s advocate in him tells him he’d be able to save you, that he can protect you. He would die before he let anything happen to you. Clark doesn’t believe in killing, but if someone dared lay a finger on you, they’d regret it. If there is one thing he is selfish about, it is you. He loves you too much to let go.

So, why did he? Why didn’t he fight harder?

‘Oh, yeah. Because I’m a freaking idiot and a jerk.’

He closed the dishwasher, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel when he heard it: heartbeats, rapid in succession. He knew one was yours, but there was another. It was more elevated, panicky even. It threw Clark for a loop, not hearing any other commotion. So, like the journalist he is, he investigates. 

The door in the hallway is cracked, and the pulses get stronger. He peaks, feeling slightly intrusive without trying to be, and the sight before him makes him sigh sadly. 

He had only met your grandma once, and she is a lovely woman. Full of love, cheer, not a care in the world. It was something he saw in you, and it made sense you were cut from the same cloth. A wonderful woman raising another wonderful woman. It wasn’t that long ago, so seeing her now, legs contracted at the knees and struggling to get in the wheelchair with your help, shattered him. 

It only worsens when he looks at you, struggling to help her. He sees what it is doing to your body, how it is creating tension in your muscles. It is no surprise you are tired, caretaking for another person. It makes him want to burst in there and help, but he stays in place. He can already hear the scolding he’d get if he interferes. For now, he watches, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

Did you leave because your grandma became ill? Have you been taking care of her this whole time?

For the most part, your grandma seemed relatively healthy. Even without X-Ray vision, he sees she’s alert, knows what’s going on, and has some upper arm strength. He wonders what possibly could’ve brought her to this point? Was she worse off at one point? Has she improved any? All these questions run through Clark’s head, and while it is none of his business, he wants to understand. 

So with that, he knocks on the door to let himself in and from then on it’s the start of a world of information. After talking with your grandma, he feels even more like a jerk than before. 

After you’d gone to lay down, they didn’t get too much into anything. She had asked him how work was, if anything was new, why he was visiting, how long he was visiting for. White lies, of course, are what he had to lean on. 

“Work has been great! They got me handling a lot of the press regarding Superman. They seem to think I understand him fairly well.” ‘Who knows Superman better than Superman himself?’

“I wasn’t feeling too well recently, but being away from Metropolis has helped!” ‘I had Kryptonite poisoning because some psycho doesn’t like me.’

“I came to see your granddaughter.” ‘Not on purpose, but I’m glad to see her again. I love her.’

“Probably not for long.” That’s the only thing that’s completely truthful because he’s Superman. The world needs him, and he can’t stay here forever. Even if he wants to.

Then, they got into her circumstances, which are your circumstances. All in all, it’s unfair. He hates how unfair life is to some people.

Your grandma has been bedbound for over a year. She got the flu, and was stuck in the hospital for two months. In that span of time, she lost her ability to walk. It was rehab to rehab after that until Medicare wouldn’t cover it anymore and she has been back home ever since. You’ve been taking care of her ever since.

“She works so hard, but I hate that she has to do this. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I could just get up and walk but I have a hard time sitting up on my own. I wish she would get some help. I have the money.”

Conversation streamed away after that, going into something more light hearted. She talked about the house, what your room used to look like, all the places you liked to hide when playing hide and seek. She talked about how you loved helping her in the garden, and cooking the veggies she would harvest for supper. She said one of her favorite memories was when you were four or five, you would beg for her to sing old nursery rhymes or tell old folk tales. It made him laugh, these stories. 

“It’s strange because she is very much like my mom. The way she takes care of me, is stern yet patient. I took care of her, and now she takes care of me. I feel like her child. It’s funny how these things turn out.”

All he can think is how in love he is with you. An absolute heart of gold.

After what felt like hours of talking, he gets her into bed with ease. He insists on helping her anyway she needs, wanting you to rest more. So he does: he changes her, fixes her a tomato sandwich with the heirloom tomatoes you grew (Lois was right; they are stunning), adjusts her so she is sitting up properly. He gave the works.

It is late in the afternoon by the time he leaves your grandma’s room, the sun pouring through the windows warm and glowing. He walks to your room, and it is ajar. He peeks in and the sight of you asleep makes him soften. The sun is hitting you sweetly, basking you in a light that puts the Angels to shame. You look at ease, peaceful. He is sure you don’t get the sleep you need, so he is glad he gave you the chance to catch up. 

He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep a little longer before he wakes you up. He takes you in, and he can’t help but bring his fingers to your hairline to smooth the baby hairs. He hasn’t touched you in so long, and it is electric the way your skin sends shockwaves through him. He takes a deep breath, following how you inhale and exhale, breathing along with you like it connects him to you somehow.

He sighs. “I’m sorry for not understanding before. For not telling you.” 

You shift, eyes still closed and breathing regular. Your head draws closer to his touch, now cradled in the palm of his hand. He smiles warmly.

“I just hope you know that our time together wasn’t a waste for me, and that if I could rewind time, I would make sure you knew everything. I pushed you away without realizing, even with my good intentions, and in that I failed at showing how much I love you.” He is pouring his heart out, relief flowing from his body.

“You are the one that got away, but I hope you know I still love you. I will always love you.”

You shift again, but this time your eyes slowly start to open. You blink slowly, stretching like a house cat as you yawn deeply. You push yourself up on your elbows, glancing around until your eyes land on him. 

You are so cute when you are sleepy. God help him.

“Hm, what time is it? How long have I been asleep?” You yawn again, rubbing your eyes in the process.

“It is almost five I believe.”

“What?!” You jolt. “Oh God! I need to check on Grammie I–”

“Hey, hey,” he holds you down with the weight of his hand on your thigh. “It’s okay. She is resting right now. She’s been changed and ate lunch.”

You are staring at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “You what? I– Clark you didn’t have to do that. You should've woken me up.”

“I wanted you to rest,” he says, squeezing your thigh reassuringly. “Being a caretaker for a loved one is a lot. You deserve a break.”

He can tell you are at a loss for words, eyes looking at where his hand is placed. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t need to say anything. I got you, always.” 

You look up at him and he sees your eyes are glossy, lip wobbling. It devastates him.

“It’s been a lot. When she first went into the hospital, I thought she wasn’t going to make it. They made it seem like she would need hospice care, and that scared me so bad. I wasn’t ready to let her go.” 

“I know that must’ve been scary, especially going through it alone. But sweetheart, I need you to know that you don’t have to do this alone. Not while I’m around.”

Tears are streaming down your face, hands coming up to your face. You were hanging on the edge, teetering on pulling yourself up or letting go. It is when your shoulders start to shake that he gets closer, pulling you into him as you cry. He wraps his arms around you tightly, squeezing you carefully to add some pressure. Sobs wreck your body, arms wrapped around his neck gripping on like a lifeline. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, more tears falling. “I– I didn’t want to add more stress. You were so bu– busy I didn’t want to bother you w– with it.”

His jaw locks, teeth grinding to keep himself together. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for not being honest. For making you think you couldn’t tell me anything. That was unfair of me.”

You are shaking your head violently against his shoulder, gasping for air like you couldn’t breathe. 

You two stay like that for a while, him rubbing your back and rocking you back and forth to calm you down. Your sobs eventually turn to whimpers, small gasps coming out periodically that shutter your chest. He waits for you to speak, not wanting to break your concentration of peace. 

“I’m okay,” you mutter into his flannel. “I think I needed that.”

“It’s always good to get a cry out,” he says in agreement, still rubbing your back.

“Yeah,” you sniffle, a chuckle coming right behind it. “I kinda feel like I’m floating.”

He laughs, pulling you away enough so he can see your face. His thumbs go to wipe under your eyes, soaking the salty residue into his skin. It’s the way you look vulnerable, cheeks stained from crying, eyes dry yet wet at the edges. It’s a vulnerability he hasn’t seen from you, and he’s happy it’s happening. It signifies change, the start of something new.

“I meant what I said,” he says earnestly. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”

“You know you can’t stay here forever though, Clark.”

He knows you’re right. He will have to leave. He doesn’t know what Lex’s next move is going to be or when Boravia’s next attack on Jarhanpur will happen, but he knows it’ll be soon. But for now, he can enjoy the time he gets with you. Enjoy it until the world decides to implode on itself once more. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

There is a domesticity in the air for the rest of the day. 

After the moment you and Clark shared, you had things to do. You told Clark he should continue to rest, but the man is stubborn like you, so there was no denying him.

Currently, you two are tending to the garden. The first frost has yet to come, and you wanted to prune and harvest some things for dinner. Clark was more than eager, and even though growing up he tended more to animals, he has a pretty good green thumb. 

“I think it’s great you kept up with her garden,” Clark says joyously.

“Well, it beats driving over thirty minutes to the nearest grocery store. Besides, I have found it to be very therapeutic. I like watching things grow."

“Ma always told me gardening brings community.”

“Hmm, guess that’s why you are such a people person.”

You both laugh, and you turn to put some yellow squash in the weaved basket when you see Clark taking off his flannel. The squash falls from your hands, mouth ajar as you see his sun-kissed muscles flex. Golden hour is at its peak, and you watch how the sun makes him shimmer. You’re in awe of how beautiful he looks. An Angel sent to the Earth. 

Which isn’t totally wrong.

“Your gawking is cute.”

You snap out of your haze, looking up to see him smirking down at you. 

“It’s,” you pause. “It’s not even hot out.”

“I’m a thermos. I get hot. Gardening is very hard work you know,” he shrugs, but you can tell he is enjoying the act of making you squirm.

The fucker knows what he’s doing.

“You are a big meanie,” you moan. “You are using your gifts against me.”

He tosses in some regular tomatoes, leaning in close. “It’s not my fault your heart is telling me everything I need to know. She’s very loud.”

He stands up with a brush of his knees, eyes crinkling in success because Lord knows your heart is in overdrive. You know he is fistpumping in his head right now, yelling a ‘mission accomplished. 

“We should pick some Zucchini. Very versatile.” 

Smug bastard.

Once dusk starts to come in with its waves of dark blue in the sky, you both head inside. You let Clark shower, needing him to clear his sweaty model image so your brain can rest. Last thing you need is to feign over him in front of your own grandmother, and be teased about it later.

You cut the veggies, slicing and dicing as you set them all in their proper places. As you finish up, you hear the bathroom door open and the minute you turn around out of instinct, you wish you hadn’t.

Because while he isn’t sweaty anymore, he’s now glistening with water, the steam surrounding him in an aura. He had on the black sweats you luckily found in the back of your dresser, but the green and blue flannel you handed him was absent. The only thing covering his upper half is the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

At least he has some decency.

You turn back around, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring the weird pulsing happening in between your legs. “You better put that flannel on before I get my grandma out here. The last thing I need is for her to see you practically naked.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Ma raised me to be a gentleman. I need to at least take her out to dinner first.”

You burst out laughing, stopping what you’re doing to clutch your chest. “Oh, so does this count as taking her out to dinner?”

“Well…” He is right behind you, somehow getting closer without you realizing. “It could, but that would be far from appropriate. Not when there is another lady I’ve set my eyes on.”

You stop cutting again, your breathing coming in deep. You turn around, hands resting behind you on the edge of the counter. You get a good look at him, and see his hair is getting curly as it starts to dry, giving him that boyish look that charms people. His mouth is parted only a little with those pretty blue eyes half lidded. You see them shift down and up a couple times, undecided on where to stay before sticking with your own. Any comeback you had dies in your throat, never to return.

“O-oh!” You cough, covering any sort of effect he has on you. You know it’s a lost cause.

“You seem surprised,” Clark grins.

“I mean no,” you shake your head. “It just feels… I don’t know. Like…”

“Like it used to?”

It’s like you are in sync with each other’s feelings because he is right. The banter, the pull. It feels like old times, where there wasn’t a single care in the world. It was electric, and that feeling is coursing through your body. It is taking everything in you not to grab him by his neck and kiss him right then and there. With the way he is looking at you, you believe it is taking everything in him too.

“What are you thinking right now?” He whispers.

“What do you think I’m thinking?” You reply in rapid succession.

Clark cages you in with his arms, bracing them against the counter. “I’m afraid telepathy isn’t one of my abilities.”

“That’s a shame,” you huff.

“Tell me about it. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

You wonder how different things would be if you told him everything: your grandma getting sick, knowing his secret, the uncorking of emotions that you didn’t know how to deal with. If you had opened up about your fears, would you two still be together? If you were honest with yourself, would you have ended things in the first place?

You go to say something, words on the tip of your tongue, until your phone rings. Your shoulders become lax, and you pull your phone from your pocket only to see it is your grandma. 

“She’s calling me.”

“Would you like me to check on her? I can get her into the wheelchair and get her in here,” Clark offers, his eyes having not left you once.

“You really don’t have to do that, Clark.” 

“What did I tell you?” He asks rhetorically. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”

You nod, speechless at how straightforward he’s being. “Okay, thank you.”

He smiles at that, leaning down till his face is a breath away from yours. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.” Then he places a brief, light kiss on your cheek.

He pushes off the counter, walking back towards the hallway, leaving you stunned with your hand pressing into your cheek. 

“You better put a shirt on before you pick her up!” He laughs. Your chest flutters like crazy.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Dinner goes off without a hitch. 

Everything is lively at the dinner table. Full of conversation, laughter, incredible amounts of joy. It gives  you the same feeling of when you see photos or home movies of families eating together during the holidays. It gives you the same feeling of when you, Clark, and your grandma ate dinner together in your old Metropolis apartment. The atmosphere is light, warm, and extremely comforting. 

While dinner was in the oven, Clark had brought your grandma out in her wheelchair, spinning her around with her squealing with laughter. He had put on the radio, an old-timey station playing Chuck Berry. 

“Oh, I love Chuck Berry!” She had chimed, hand over her chest like she was reliving a different time in her life. “I met my husband dancing! We would go out on the weekends and dance and dance. Ugh, those were the days.”

“Sounds like this young lady wants to dance!” Clark had said, overexaggerating his midwestern draw, before spinning her around slowly, reenacting dances from the fifties.

“Oh gosh! You know that one?” Your grandma had asked, shocked. 

“Ma and Pa raised me on this.”

“Well, they raised you right!”

When dinner was ready, he had lifted her into a dining room chair, helping her adjust. “How does this feel?”

“I haven’t sat in this chair in over a year. Kinda uncomfy though. Not used to the lack of cushioning these days.”

Clark had put a seat cushion under her.

Clark had brought a whole new vibe to the house, and it took everything in you not to get emotional. You often wished you had more energy to do things with her, get her to do something other than watch TV. Clark made it look so easy, the way he’s able to entertain, the way he’s able to get so personal. The thing is though, that’s just who Clark is: sweet, kind, and unabashedly selfless. Nothing can hold him down, even if people tried. He smiles, pushes through it knowing this too shall pass. He makes you want to be better. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

Maybe that’s why you still love him.

You are currently showering, Clark having offered to do the dishes and get your grandma into bed. You let the steam soak into your skin, sighing as you relax under the hot stream. Your mind is in a strange state of peace, something you haven’t felt fully in a long time. ‘It’s nice to have some help’, you think. ‘Even if I don’t need it, it’s nice.’

It’s nice to have Clark back in your life. 

But that’s the thing: he isn’t, not technically. Words have yet to be said, even though you feel them. You can’t get your hopes up because he is him and you are you. His life is dedicated to the world, while yours is dedicated to this chapter of your life. He says you’re not alone, but part of you knows that there will be times where you have to be. He will be off saving the world, and you will be here worrying if he’s okay like you’ve been for the last year.

It’s almost like today doesn’t change things, not definitively. You must accept that.

You get out of the shower, throwing on a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. You do the normal nightly regiment, and then you head to your grandma’s room to finish getting her ready for bed. You knock on the door lightly, entering and beelining for the latex gloves. 

“Oh, darling! It’s okay! Clark changed me!”

“Oh, okay,” you shrug, putting the gloves down. “I’m surprised you let a man you barely know change you.”

“Plenty of men have seen my butt from changing me.”

“Touché.”

“I do need my medicine though. He didn’t want to give me the wrong ones.”

“Smart of him,” you joke, grabbing a pill cup to put the pills in. You hand her the pills, watching her take them before downing them with water.

“Ah!” She exclaims. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course, Grammie,” you smile. “Can I get you anything else before I head to bed?”

“I think I’m good…” she draws out, eyes steady on you, like she is reading you quietly.

“Is something on my face?” You joke, hands touching random spots.

“No, but… I guess I’m just happy. Tonight was just wonderful,” she smiles tiredly.

“I’m glad you had a good night with Clark, Grammie.” You meant it.

“Yes, I did, but it’s more than that. You didn’t just look happy, you were happy. I love when I get to see you like that.”

That makes you pause. “Wow, I must be very transparent.” 

“I raised you, darling,” she reminds you. “It’s not hard to see when you are truly happy.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, taking her hands into yours, squeezing tight. “But I am happy. I am happy here with you. I get tired, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”

“It’s a different kind of happiness I see when you are with Clark,” she smiles, so bright it hurts. “You’re in love. It reminds me of how your papa would look at me. Clark looks at you the same way too. It’s clear to see.”

You look at your conjoined hands, glancing at the wedding band she still wears to this day, refusing to ever take it off. She would always tell you it was her promise to him that they will meet again. Love for her is everlasting, meaning even once she’s six feet under the ground, her love has no end. You always wanted a love like that, and the fact she is telling you this makes you wonder if that’s what you had with Clark. Have you always known, but have been too scared to see it?

“There’s no point in running from it,” she says, squeezing your hand to get the point across. “Love like that is rare, and it rarely comes back once you let it go. This is your chance.”

“How could things possibly work out, Grammie? He’s going to have to go back home to Metropolis. He has a life there.” You already know the answer, but you desire her wisdom.

“It’s simple.” One hand releases from your grasp, finger pointing to where your heart is. “Home is where the heart is.”

And she’s right. Clark’s always felt like home. He is home.

You tuck her in, kissing her forehead before making your exit. You go back into the kitchen to see if Clark was there, then the living room, but you don’t find him. You ponder for a moment, only to see the soft yellow light coming from your room, the door opened all the way. You head there, like he is calling to you, begging you to find him. You look in and there he is, holding up the same New Years’ photo you found in his sleeve, as well as the one protected in the picture frame. 

“I still can’t believe you kept the photo,” he whispers, knowing you are present. 

You step in, shutting the door behind you for a privacy you had regardless, and walk until you are a foot away. “Of course, I kept it. I love everything about that night.”

“Even Jimmy Olsen?”

“Especially Jimmy Olsen.”

Clark chuckles under his breath, eyes not leaving the photos, though you see his eyes twitching. “I think about it all the time, you know. How I got to show you how much I love you, how I got to take care of you. I dream about it and I relive the laughter and everything.”

You see his lips quiver, his grip get a little tighter. There is a battle raging inside him, and you aren’t sure who’s fighting who: him vs. him? Him vs. instinct? You aren’t sure, but you wish to calm it. You wish to calm him.

Your hand goes to his shoulder, squeezing him like it’s a comfort. “Clark…”

“I shouldn’t have given up on us so easily,” he grimaces. “I should’ve fought harder but like an idiot I let you go.”

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up on this. I ended things,” you say, trying to dispel his fear, but he shakes his head.

“You did, but I just accepted it. That’s the problem.”

“You were giving me space, Clark. You did what you thought was best.”

“Do you wish I fought though? Do you wish that I had fought for us?” 

That stuns you, leaving you speechless. You never considered it a wish, a hope that Clark would’ve called your bluff. However, you think back to the times you’d stare at his back in the bullpen, hoping, praying, he would turn around to look at you. You think back to when you’d stare at your messages with him, wondering if you’ll see the thinking text bubbles appear. You think back to late nights on your balcony, looking out to see if he’d walk by, even if it wasn’t reasonable to. 

You never remember being upset that he didn’t fight. You do remember being upset that he had moved on so quickly. 

“I think…” you start, not sure where to go without striking a nerve. “I think I hated feeling invisible to you after that, which is selfish of me, I know. But there were times where I would look at you, hoping you’d notice, but you never did. It’s like you moved on so fast.”

He finally turns to look at you, eyes glassy, hands twitching. “You thought I had moved on?”

His expression is killing you, consuming you with a guilt that eats away at you. The vulnerability he is displaying makes him look so small, even with him towering over you. It’s the look of a child whose feelings are hurt, lip wobbly and face heated. It’s the face of a man who is heartbroken.

“I was miserable for months,” he whispers, eyes shutting so tight you see tears make their way out. “Being in the same room as you and not being able to hug you, kiss you, love you. It was too much for me to take.”

His eyes open back up, baby blues bright and weeping. “I was distracted for months because I noticed every little thing you did and I didn’t feel like I could congratulate your articles, comfort you when Perry was on you with due dates, just simply enjoy your presence. I was hurting.”

You hated seeing him this way. This is all your fault.

“I thought overtime we would start talking again, maybe get back to a place where I at least had you in my life. But then you moved away…” he chokes up, eyes shutting again with gritted teeth, like he was in physical pain.

“I understand now why you did, and I would never fault you for it. But it all happened so fast, and for the longest time I thought you couldn’t stand being near me.”

You were crying now. He’s the love of your life, and you’ve destroyed him. All because you didn’t want to face the music that things would change on their own, so you forced the change yourself.

“I— I…” he starts stuttering, breath coming in heaves. “I let you go and I shouldn’t have. I never wanted to let you go, and yet I did, like a coward.”

His hands are in his hair, the tight grip creating messy strands through his fingers. You could tell he was trying to bring himself down, but he was losing. You weren’t fairing any better, but he was pouring every ounce of what he’s been feeling for over a year. The more he went into panic mode, the closer you got to him. You were toe to toe.

“Losing you was like cutting my fingers off,” he says with a whimper, hand covering his mouth to try and hold it in.

The second those words fall from his lips, you are on him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to your chest. He breaks down, sobbing into your chest, his arms wrapping around you so tight it hurts but you don’t care. You’ll bear the pain for him. You love him. You will comfort him for as long as he lets you. 

“I’m so sorry, Clark.” You kiss the top of his head, hands rubbing circles into his hunched over back. “You didn’t lose me, I promise.”

He only sobs harder, so hard you think his back will snap from the convulsions. It makes you rub circles with more pressure, kiss his head in multiples, your own tears melting into his hair. You want to say something, anything to let him know that the past is behind you two, but you stay silent. You just move to the side, dragging him with you slowly until you both are at your bed.

You both tumble down, your leg wrapping around his hip as you lay down. Clark’s head is buried in your chest, his sobs still coming in waves. Your hands lace into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. Your breaths turn into hiccups, the tears slowly fading away. You use the opportunity to close your eyes, focusing on your breathing, giving you the opportunity to speak.

To tell him you’re sorry. To tell him this isn’t his fault. To tell him how much you love him.

“None of this is your fault, Clark,” you murmur. “You reacted like a normal person would. Even if I was upset then, I’m not upset now.”

His breathing gets shallower, a whimper here and there as he comes down. His hand is rubbing up and down your side with a pressure that makes you feel him through your shirt. He’s so warm, and it feels good to have him pressed against you, even with his tears soaking your shirt.

“You know, when Lois called me asking for a big favor, I didn’t expect this. Not one bit,” you chuckle softly. “There I was writing for my book, well trying to, and suddenly she called me late into the night. I thought she was going to talk my head off about an idea or rant about how Perry has been hounding her ass. But no, she called me to take care of you.”

“Did you really ask about me?” He says, muffled into your shirt. “Lois would tell me you would ask about me.”

You smile. “Of course I did. I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped loving you either.”

“Really?” he sniffles.

“Really, really.”

The hand rubbing your side slows, and you take the opportunity to take it in your own, interlacing the fingers until his big hand engulfs yours. He hums, bringing the conjoined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of yours. He lets them linger for a moment before he pulls both hands close to his chest, curling into you slightly.

“Tell me about the book you're writing,” he murmurs. “I want to know. Please.”

“It’s just a book on how journalism shapes history,” you sigh, looking at your desk full of notes and papers… ideas. “Nothing that fascinating.”

“You’re writing it.” He kisses your hand again. “Everything you write is fascinating.”

Your heart flutters, so much that you can’t help but place a kiss on his temple.

For the rest of the night, you tell him about your book, your thought process. Kisses littered on skin here and there until you both fell asleep in each other’s arms. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept this good.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The emotional turmoil that roared through his body took a lot of his energy, making it impossible to stay awake. However, it was enough, and it’s because he is with you.

You lulled him to sleep, your voice soothing to his ears. There were times where he felt like he was dreaming, but was brought back to reality when he felt your kisses on his head or your hand rubbing his back underneath his flannel. It made his heart pulse, remembering where he was, and eventually it made him sleep easy. He hasn’t had difficulty sleeping for a long time but now that he remembers what it’s like to sleep with you, he doesn’t know if he can go through sleeping alone again.

He slowly comes to, the sunlight twinkling into the room. He’s guessing it’s still early in the morning with the way the sky looks outside your window. His eyes blink open, letting his senses pick up his surroundings. It all comes forward like an avalanche, his senses picking up your scent, your breathing, your skin. He peaks down, seeing you both adjusted during the night, and sees you lying in the crevice of his arm, snoring the morning away with your face squished against his chest. 

It’s crazy how perfect you look against him, how comfortable you look. It’s strange how over 24 hours ago, he wasn’t in your world and now he is here with you cuddled into him. It feels like how things used to be. It feels like how he wants things to stay. It feels like home.

He is so proud of you. Even though he was emotionally exhausted last night, he remembers every word when you talked about your book: how excited you sounded as you continued. He’s glad you are pursuing something you’ve always wanted to try; something you want to flourish in. He knows you will because you are brilliant. You know how to draw people in with every word, no matter the content. It’s why you were so highly beloved as a Daily Planet writer. It’s obvious it will translate to the publishing world too.

He watches you wake up, a stretch running throughout your body that pushes you further into him. A sound akin to a cat vibrates from your throat, a Cheshire smile curling on your lips. All he can think about is how beautiful you look.

“Mmm, good morning,” you yawn, blinking tiredly at him with a lazy grin.

“Good morning,” he mirrors back. “Looks like someone got real cozy last night.”

“Oh hush,” you groan, settling back in. “You’re warm. I can’t help it.”

“You always did get cold very easily. Goosebumps always seem to make a name for themselves on your skin,” he teases, stroking your arm. “You even have goosebumps right now!”

“I don’t think the cold is what’s giving me the goosebumps,” you murmur, sleepy eyes looking up at him in crescents.

“Oh really?” He teases, not being able to help himself. “What could be causing them I wonder.”

“Well…” You push up on your elbow, head leaning into your hand. “Do you have any leads, Mr. Kent?”

“Hmm, I do have one lead,” he says, playing along. “Opposite of the cold.”

“Oh wow!” You chuckle. “You should tell me. I mean, it does involve me. I should be kept in the loop on these kinda things, right?”

There has always been a push and pull between the two of you, and it drives him mad. Especially now, when he has craved you for so long, it’s making him want to pounce. But he keeps his cool, wanting to savor the moment; wanting to savor the lightness.

“Sweetheart, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But…” he smirks, his hand tilting your head to the side, his lips nearing your ear. “I can show you.”

He starts to place light kisses underneath your ear. They are subtle, gentle, restraining himself from being anything but, and it’s worth it in how you just sink into him. Your body chases it, making him pull you up against him until your face is leveled with his. He makes his way down your neck, mouth laving the scent of your body wash. His hand travels to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he makes his way to your throat. He feels the way your vocal chords vibrate against his tongue, making sounds that would drive him to his knees if he were to stand. 

His free hand rubs up and down your side, fingers slipping under your shirt to feel your skin. The tips trail lightly, feeling the bumps raise from under your skin. He grins against your throat. “I think my theory is correct.”

“Yeah? I'm going to have to start calling you R.L. Stine with the way you're giving me goosebumps.”

That draws a laugh out of you both, Clark simmering it down as he nips at your jaw. Your laugh transforms, a high pitched whimper leaving your mouth.

“Gosh, I missed you like this,” Clark whispers low. “I’ve yearned for you for so long.”

“I missed you too,” you sigh breathlessly. “You have no idea.”

His ears perk, nipping more up your jaw until he’s back to your ear. “Tell me.” He nips at your ear lobe, causing your back to arch. “Tell me how you missed me.”

“I’m afraid…” you hum. “I can’t tell you.”

He feels your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up until he is face to face with yours. He grunts at the pressure, looking at you as your face contorts into something cunning that makes his pupils dilate.

Your lips ghost his, your breathing passing through him like oxygen, eyes not leaving his. “But I can show you.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your lips are on his and he groans the minute they touch. It’s desperate, ruthless; leaves no room for doubt. There is a hunger that’s consuming him, leaving him raw and opened at the seams. He can already tell he won’t ever get enough.

“Clark, baby…” you moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I love you.”

Your words make him needy, tongue playing with your lips before you grant him the pleasure. His hand under your shirt is up to where your chest is, gently cupping your breast and massaging the flesh. Your hips start to roll against his, rubbing against his cock, making him harden. It makes him feel wanted and needed.

“I love you so much, pretty girl,” he moans into your mouth. “I’m never letting you go again. Not for anything.”

“I don’t want you to,” you whine, thanks to a particularly hard thrust of Clark’s hips. It makes him smile. 

“Good because I’m gonna take care of you.” His head moves back to your neck, settling there. “I will come home to you every day. Mark my words.”

“Clark…” Your hands pull his head back up, eyes looking at him dazed. “This life is comfortable, but far from glamorous. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I could care less.” He kisses your lips fiercely, hoping it sticks to your brain before releasing again. “I would move the world for you. Coming home to you is nothing. Coming home to you is easy.”

“You mean that?” You say, the vulnerability lacking. You asked with sureness, like you know he is good for his word. 

“I am never lying to you again. No secrets, so yes. I mean it with everything.”

You beam, a wetness welling in your eyes. A laugh bubbles from your throat, a tear falling with it. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.”

He kisses your tears away, humming against your skin. “You’re it for me, honey.”

He continues, until he feels your hips roll again, making his eyes follow suit. He situates you fast, laying you out fully on your back. His hands move to pin yours above your head, keeping you in place so he can finish what you started. His hips roll hard into your clothed center, a gasp leaving you in response. He goes down to swallow your sounds, hands trailing away to his flannel to rip it off, until he hears your phone going off. You both groan simultaneously, with him falling to the side with his head in the pillow. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I need to get her ready for the day anyways.”

He nods, working to calm down all the chemicals and blood that’s rushed to his cock. He sits up, shrugging the flannel back on fully as he watches you pick up your phone. There is a crease in your brow, confusion on your face.

“What?” 

You look up at him, moving to show your phone. “It’s Lois.”

You moved to get up, answering the phone. “Lois?”

Clark watches you listen, watches your face get progressively more anxious.

“Are you sure?” You say, looking at him worried.

More talking ensues, with you nodding your head, saying “uh huh”, “okay I’ll tell him”, etc..

“He’ll be there soon. Yeah. Be safe, okay? Later.” 

You hang up, eyes staring at your phone screen. Clark sees your heart beating a tad faster, physiological responses taking over that represent only one emotion: fear.

“You have to go, Clark.”

“What’s going on?” He moves to stand. “What did Lois say?”

“She said something about a riff,” you say, unsure. “I don’t know what she means, but she says you’d understand what I’m saying. She said Metropolis is in trouble because of it.”

Clark is shell-shocked, but your next words send him spiraling. 

“Also, I got a notification from the Daily Planet news. Boravia is invading Janhanpur.”

“What?!” 

You hand him the phone and he looks at the article, seeing that the Boravian military is at the Jarhanpur border, ready for a full scale invasion. How is this all happening so quickly, and at once? He needs to move fast, he knows he does.

And yet he is frozen.

For a day, he wasn’t Superman. He was Clark Kent, with the woman he is deeply in love with. For a day, he got to rekindle something that was lost. For a day, he got a glimpse of what life could be like. For a day, he forgot what it was like to bear the state of the world on his shoulders. He chose this life, believing that is his purpose, yet he stands here like a statue. Why didn’t he have more time?

He is brought out of his thoughts, feeling a warmth around his waist. He looks down to see you hugging him, the side of your face pressed against his chest. “You have to go, Clark.”

“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you. “Just unfortunate timing.”

You lift your head, a hand coming up to his cheek before lifting on your tip toes to kiss him gently. “We have plenty of time. Just keep your promise. Come back home to me.”

He kisses you back with the same tenderness, softness. “I will.”

“Now, go put on your stinky suit and do some good.”

He groans. “It hasn’t been washed, so it probably does stink.”

“Maybe that will ward any bad guys off,” you jest.

He grins, kissing you one last time before letting go. He rids himself of his clothes etched in your scent, putting on the suit until he is in full form. You both walk out together, hand in hand, the sun no longer golden but a bright yellow. The grass blows, the birds chirp, the wind howls. It truly feels like a perfect day. He hopes to have more days like this.

He flies off, saying final goodbyes with kisses on the face. He glances back, and for a brief moment he sees you waving at him, disappearing amongst the clouds. He looks forward, preparing for the worst as he makes his way to the city. He is ready to fight. He is ready to save. He is ready to defeat.

He is ready to have more perfect days under Virginia skies.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

“Of course.” He shrugs, his smile easy. “It is January, after all. But it has a view of the stars!”

You turn your cynical gaze to the view from his floor to ceiling windows. “You don't see stars here, they're just city lights.”

“Oh come on, it works!”

“Sure, for someone who likes the city. I don't think it's going to impress your Smallville, Kansas country-girl.”

Clark frowns. “What?”

“What's her name, Laura, Lola?”

“Lana.”

“Fine. She's used to real stars. You're not going to win back your high school girlfriend with this.”

“You think I'm doing this for her?”

You frown at him. “She's coming to town tomorrow, right? You said you had to get something ready for her.”

“Yeah.” Clark moves closer to you, eyes heavy. “She wants me to go on a double date with her and her fiancé.”

“Oh.” You hesitate. He's close enough now for you to smell that clean ink and warm paper scent of him. “But you don't have a girlfriend.”

“No. But Lana knows I've had a crush on someone for ages, and she wants to force me to make a move.”

You meet his gaze, the hope flickering in your chest matching the glimmer in his eyes.

“And the person I have a crush on loves the city, so -” he smiles shyly, pointing to his homemade nest under the artificial stars. “I thought I'd ask directly. What do you think?”