#danitcx

Clark would never use Superman as an excuse to get close to someone. That was something he repeated to himself, because he was committed to his responsibility. And yet, he never thought that Lois’s best friend—three years younger than him, in charge of taking photos for the newspaper—would end up catching his attention more than he had imagined.

To him, you were one of the most peculiar people he had ever met: kind with him, with Lois, with Jimmy, but serious with everyone else. You weren’t rude, not at all, it was just that your shyness was sometimes mistaken for disinterest. You tried to fit in during office gatherings, but in the end you usually failed and ended up staying behind, glued to Lois, watching the rest with that expression that seemed to say you didn’t want to talk to anyone. Jimmy laughed at you, pointing out with a: “But it’s my normal face”, and although you insisted it wasn’t on purpose, the truth was that this distance made you different.

However, when your eyes met Clark’s in the middle of the crowd, everything changed. Your lips curved into a shy, soft smile, one that seemed to hold an entire world only for him. And that alone was enough to make his heart race.

Clark had begun to notice the small details: the tremor in your leg when you were nervous, how you bit your nails in silence, the way you wet your lips while reading a document with full concentration. And your dimple… that one dimple that only appeared on the left side when you laughed for real, out loud, revealing that hidden part of you. It was such a simple gesture, yet it left him completely absorbed.

Of course, he never found the right moment to talk to you. It wasn’t that you avoided him, it was more that he hadn’t found the courage to come up with a convincing excuse. Until one random afternoon, he heard it.

You were at the printer area with Lois, chatting as you picked up your papers. Clark didn’t mean to listen, but the mention of a certain name made him stop.

“Superman? I didn’t see that coming from you. You look like anything but a fangirl.” Lois’s mocking voice floated in the air.

You shook your head, smiling nervously.

“I’m not saying I’m a huge fan… I don’t read that much about him. Just the articles Clark writes.”

Clark, passing by with some papers in his hand, almost tripped.

Lois raised an amused eyebrow. “Just that? And what about the videos of his interviews? And your Pinterest searches? Because I haven’t forgotten that Superman aesthetic board.”

Your cheeks burned instantly. “Don’t blame me… most people are attracted to him.”

“Are you in love with a superhero?” Lois asked, with that mix of sarcasm and mischief only she could pull off.

You laughed, bringing a hand to your face to cover your blush. That nervous, fragile laugh—one Clark had never heard before—hit him straight in the chest. He looked up and saw you like that: blushing, embarrassed, trying to deny it… for him? No, not for him. For Superman.

“I… no. Well… I don’t know.” You stammered, laughing again as Lois burst into laughter, giving you a playful push on the shoulder.

Clark pressed his lips together, trying to hide it. But something inside him shifted. Not because you liked Superman, but because it was the first time he had ever heard you talk about that topic with such honesty, the first time he saw your unfiltered laugh. And in that moment, more than ever, he knew he wanted to hear you laugh again.

And that was how you came to know him: the hero you had only seen in headlines until then, the one you kept in a small improvised logic on your desk. A keychain hanging from your monitor, a notebook with the emblem you had bought at a second-hand bookstore, and a blue pen with the “S” that stood out among your things.

One afternoon, Clark noticed it.

“Where did you buy that notebook?” he asked in his soft, almost curious tone, pointing at the one you used for newsroom notes.

You looked up, slightly embarrassed. “Uh… at the stationery shop on the corner. Why?”

Clark smiled, scratching the back of his neck as if trying to hide something. “I like it… maybe I’ll get one just like it.”

He did the very next day, without you knowing.

The first time Superman appeared in your life was on a cold night, at some random corner of Metropolis. You were leaving a store when a mugger tried to snatch your bag. You barely had time to scream before feeling a whirlwind of air and seeing him: the red cape, the steady eyes, and the certainty that radiated from him.

"You're safe now, miss," he said as he set you down, his voice deep and calm.

You looked at him wide-eyed, your heart racing. Your face flushed instantly, though all you managed was a clumsy nod.

"Are you all right?" he insisted, leaning slightly closer to get a better look. He thought you were in shock from the robbery, but the truth was you were nervous because of how close he was.

"Yes… I mean, yes. Thank you." You barely managed to get it out, in a thin voice, expressionless, without a smile.

Superman held your gaze for a few seconds before flying off again into the city lights. And although nothing more happened, the next day Lois was already teasing you at the office.

"Are you going to tell me you couldn’t even say hello to him?" she laughed, while Jimmy whistled behind her. Clark, silent, smiled almost imperceptibly as he listened to you.

The second encounter happened unexpectedly. It was eleven at night, and the last bus had already left. The newsroom was empty, the lights of the Daily Planet were slowly going out, and you walked down a lonely street with your arms pressed tightly against your chest.

Then you saw him. The unmistakable silhouette descending from the sky, cape billowing.

This time you gathered your courage.

“Thank you… for the other night.” Your voice trembled, but your lips curved into a shy smile.

He looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected you to speak. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”

“No. I really want to thank you.” You looked into his eyes, and for the first time he saw something different in you: sincere gratitude, tenderness, a glow that left him speechless.

From that moment on, Clark began arriving at the Daily Planet on time. He finished his notes promptly, left everything ready, and as soon as he could, he transformed into Superman to be there, in the place where he knew you might need him.

And so a silent routine was born.

Superman in your apartment, listening to you talk about your days. Superman walking you through dark streets up to your front door. Superman on the Daily Planet rooftop, with the city’s wind surrounding you both while you shared your insecurities, your dreams, your timid laughter.

To you, he was the city’s hero. To Clark, you were the only person capable of making him hesitate. Every conversation, every smile of yours, was a reminder of how easy it would be to confess everything. But fear held him back: what if you only had eyes for Superman? What if, by showing you he was also Clark, the clumsy reporter, he disappointed you?

That’s why he stayed silent.

That night was no exception. From the kitchen, with the warm lights brightening your small apartment, you lifted your gaze and saw him there, floating outside your window. His cape swayed softly in the wind, and as always, he greeted you with a raised hand.

“It’s open, come in,” you said without surprise, already used to his visits.

Superman entered awkwardly, as if, despite having been in your living room so many times, he still felt like an intruder. His boots made a faint sound against the floor. He adjusted his cape nervously and asked in a low voice:

“Are you busy? I can come back later…”

You quickly shook your head, wiping your hands on your apron. “No, not at all. I’m glad you’re here. I baked cupcakes for work and I want your opinion.”

You placed one on a small plate in front of him. Clark smiled when he saw you: you had flour on your cheek and didn’t even realize it. That image—so down-to-earth, so intimate—disarmed him. To you, Superman was already almost like another friend. To him, it was the only way to be close to you without revealing what he was hiding.

He took the small spoon, cut a piece, and tasted the cupcake while you watched him expectantly. Your smile was nervous.

“So? What do you think?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers behind the apron.

Clark savored it slowly, then let out a soft laugh.

“Amazing. You should open your own cupcake shop. I’d even let you use my logo for advertising… or maybe I could star in your commercials.”

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud, bringing a hand to your forehead. “Perfect, then I already have a sponsor.”

He watched you as you carefully packed more cupcakes into cardboard boxes, your movements almost delicate. And then he couldn’t hold back the question burning in his throat.

“Are they for someone special?”

You didn’t look up; you calmly kept wrapping. “Yes. For the guy I like.”

Clark’s heart stopped for an instant. Superman stared at you, shocked. The guy you liked? Wasn’t it him—you—who you blushed about when people mentioned Superman? His chest tightened, confused, while he feigned composure.

“And… may I know who it is?” he murmured, trying to sound neutral, though his voice betrayed a hint of anxiety.

You turned toward him with an enigmatic smile. “I haven’t even told my best friend. I don’t want to rush my happiness. Maybe tomorrow… if things go well or badly, I’ll consider telling Superman.”

You teased lightly, and that simple joke was enough to pierce him. At the office you barely dared to laugh or greet him, and yet here you were: joking with him as if he were truly part of your daily life.

Clark wished he could celebrate that small triumph, laugh with you, feel he was closer. But he couldn’t, because doubt consumed him: if it wasn’t Superman you liked, it couldn’t be Clark either… and he’d have to wait until tomorrow to know the truth.

“Then I wish you luck,” he said with a restrained smile.

You nodded without looking at him, still focused on the boxes. “Thanks.”

You packed another small box and handed it to him. “Here, take some. I made too many. Maybe I’ll even give some to my boss—if I’m lucky, he’ll give me a raise.”

You joked lightly, and he accepted the box with clumsy hands.

“Thank you,” he repeated, lowering his gaze so you wouldn’t see the storm in his eyes. Then he cleared his throat. “Good night.”

He walked toward the window, turning just slightly to see you one last time. You waved, quickly returning to your task as if the scene had already become routine.

Clark, with the small box in his hands and his heart full of questions, launched himself into the night sky. And as the city stretched beneath him, he thought of only one thing: tomorrow.

The next morning, Clark had started his day like any other hero: helping a child recover his runaway puppy, the leash dragging wildly behind it. When he finally returned the little dog safe and sound to the boy’s arms, he sighed in relief and flew back, hurrying more than usual.

He entered the Daily Planet building almost stumbling, adjusting his tie and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The clock still gave him some margin; you hadn’t arrived yet. He sat at his desk, staring anxiously at the elevator without even turning on his computer. He was only waiting.

And then, there you were. You walked in carrying a few small boxes in your hands and your bag hanging from your shoulder. The air caught in Clark’s chest as he saw you walking toward him… until you turned and set your bag down on the desk across from his.

“Good morning, Clark.”

His smile was clumsy, just an insecure twitch of his lips. “Good morning,” he whispered, staring at you as you carefully took out one of the boxes.

He even set his pen down on the desk, as if nothing else mattered. But you walked right past him.

“Don’t tell me you actually went back into a kitchen after five years… for me?”

Jimmy’s voice made him turn. There he was, receiving a box from you with a wide smile.

“Shut up, Jimmy,” you teased, and Clark stopped listening. His eyes locked onto his computer screen, pretending to work, though all he could feel was the tightness in his chest.

“Here, Clark.” You placed another box on his desk. “I made some for everyone.”

He glanced up for a second, forcing a polite smile. “Thank you, you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”

“Exactly, you shouldn’t have made them for everyone,” Lois cut in, raising a brow. “That’s too many.”

“Try them, I want your opinion,” you said, glancing from Jimmy to Lois, and then to Clark. “Now.”

Jimmy already had half a cupcake in his mouth, exaggerating his approval. “Delicious! Incredible! Not too sweet, but with fruit. Perfect.”

Your laughter filled the room, and Clark felt a pull in his stomach. Lois also took a bite, nodding enthusiastically. “I take it back, bring us some whenever you can.”

“Yes… they taste good,” Clark finally said, lowering his gaze. The words came out neutral, but inside he recalled the night before, when he had already tasted those same cupcakes in your kitchen.

Routine returned. The noise of keyboards, calls, hurried footsteps. But Clark couldn’t focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched your interactions. Jimmy spoke to you with ease, effortlessly, without stumbling. He made you laugh with silly jokes, walked with you to the coffee machine, leaned over your desk to show you a picture on his phone. You responded, smiling genuinely, leaning in too, letting yourself go.

Clark clenched his fists beneath his desk. Jimmy didn’t stammer. Jimmy didn’t trip. Jimmy didn’t hide secrets. He was… normal. Maybe too normal. And maybe that was exactly what you liked.

All afternoon, between calls and notes, Clark confirmed it: your laughter, your steps in sync with Jimmy’s, the looks you exchanged.

As night fell, Clark convinced himself of something that weighed on him like lead: it wasn’t Superman’s powers that caught your attention. Nor was it his clumsy reporter persona. No. It was you laughing with Jimmy. And maybe—just maybe—it was Jimmy you looked at with those eyes Clark had always dreamed you’d turn on him.

Even with his heart broken by what he had seen at the office, Clark kept his promise. That night, he returned to your apartment dressed as Superman.

The window was half-open, as usual, but even so, he tapped lightly on the frame before stepping in.

“It’s open, come in,” you answered from the living room.

Clark stepped inside, his cape flowing behind him, but he stumbled slightly on the rug. He shifted nervously, awkwardly, as if suddenly the suit didn’t give him any confidence at all. Quietly, he moved toward the kitchen, obeying your gesture. The great Superman in a small kitchen, hunched over, his knees nearly bumping into the cabinets. He tried to sit down and adjust his cape, but nearly fell off the chair. If you had been paying closer attention at that moment, maybe you would have recognized the Clark who was always tripping at the office. But luckily, you didn’t notice.

You finished mopping, set the broom and bucket aside, and wiped your hands. You looked at him calmly, as if he were just any other guest.

“Do you want something to drink?” you asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

He drew in a deep breath, trying to slip into Superman’s role, but his nervous tone betrayed him. “How… how was your day?” Then, almost in a whisper, he added, “Water, please.”

You smiled at seeing him so… human. You filled a glass, set it in front of him, and sat at the table, still drying your hands with a rag.

“It went great,” you said with a touch of satisfaction.

Clark tried to smile as he drank, but every move looked more like Clark than Superman.

“And the man who has your heart… did he treat your pastries kindly?” he finally asked, locking his eyes on you.

The question caught you off guard, but you nodded. “Yes, actually he told me that…”

“That they weren’t very sweet, but with fruit, right?” Clark blurted out, lowering his gaze the second he realized his mistake.

You frowned in confusion. He quickly drank more water, as if he could hide his slip that way.

“No. He told me I shouldn’t have bothered.” You whispered with flushed cheeks. “And he also said they tasted good. I was expecting more, honestly… but well, you know how Clark is.”

Superman nearly spat out the water. He coughed hard, bending to the side. Alarmed, you rushed to grab a napkin and handed it to him with concern.

“Are you okay? Did you hear something? Is there an intruder? Is something bad happening?”

He shook his head quickly, trying to compose himself, though his eyes watered from the coughing.

“Clark Kent?” he finally asked in a broken voice, as if he couldn’t hold it back.

“No, Clark Lclerq,” you said sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “There’s no one else in the newsroom with that name… at least that I know of. Hey, are you okay? You almost choked. Can you imagine dying from that? It would be ridiculous. Everyone would say I killed Superman. And worse… not because some super-strong villain defeated you, but because you died from a liquid that isn’t even poisonous.”

Clark couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, though he tried to hide it behind the glass. “I… I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect that.”

“I know. I’m good at keeping secrets,” you replied, raising your eyebrows with pride. “Besides, I don’t want him to think I’m crazy. Jimmy said strawberries and mangoes were his favorite fruits… but he didn’t even notice that.” Your smile faded slightly as you lowered your gaze. “I think… he didn’t like them that much.”

“They’re excellent,” Superman said sincerely, almost tripping over the words. You blushed at his kindness, and he quickly corrected himself with a more neutral tone: “Maybe he was nervous because you gave them to him. Clark is… like that.”

“You think so?” you sighed, shifting in your seat. “I feel like he doesn’t even know I exist. I think it’s better to leave it alone. I don’t want to bother him.”

“But you don’t even sp… talk to him,” he blurted out without thinking, quickly correcting himself with a soft note of reproach. “That’s what he says.”

You looked at him, puzzled. “Clark talks about me with you?”

Clark swallowed hard and nodded slowly.

“And why didn’t you say anything before? What does he say?”

“Well…” he searched carefully for words, lowering his gaze to the glass he still held. “He thinks that… you like another reporter. Or a photographer. He’s not sure. And… actually, he thought I was your ideal type.”

Your eyes widened and you let out a small nervous laugh. “You? Well… I won’t deny it, you’re handsome.” He flushed even more when you admitted it. “But I’ve never talked to Clark about anything beyond hello, or pass me the article, or did you see how bad the weather is today?… I don’t understand why he’d think that.”

“He doesn’t know what to say to you either,” Superman murmured, so quietly it sounded more like a thought slipping out than an actual phrase. “He probably doesn’t know at all…”

You sighed, resting your chin on your hand. “If he doesn’t know… then it’s better to let the matter go, right?”

“No.”

Superman’s firm tone made you look up. He blinked and quickly softened it. “I mean… what if he likes you, and that’s why he doesn’t know how to talk to you? My advice is… try talking to him tomorrow. Ask him if he liked your pastries. Just a simple conversation, nothing more.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, amused. “I didn’t think Superman also gave love advice.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, feigning solemnity, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I save lives… and also everyone’s love life.”

Your laughter filled the kitchen—light, sincere.

The next morning, you arrived early. You turned on your computer, placed your bag on the coat rack, and sighed when you saw the empty desk in front of you. Clark wasn’t there.

You decided to focus on your emails, though your gaze kept wandering toward the elevator. There was no sign of him.

Until suddenly, a hand rested on your desk, leaving a steaming cup of coffee. You looked up, startled. There he was—Clark, with his glasses slightly crooked and his hair tousled from rushing.

“It’s… for the cupcakes,” he mumbled almost inaudibly, clumsily adjusting his glasses.

“Thank you.”

You watched him sit at his desk, and although he tried to focus on the computer, the blush on his cheeks gave him away.

“Did you like them?” you asked, recalling the advice Superman had given you the night before.

“Yes,” he replied quickly, as if he had rehearsed that single word. He cleared his throat and added, “I… ate them all. Almost gave myself a sugar rush.”

Your laughter slipped out, clear and light, making him lower his gaze but smile at the same time.

“I know how to bake cookies,” he suddenly said, and you looked at him in surprise. Clark fidgeted with the pen in his fingers, nervous, glancing down and then pushing his glasses up again in his usual clumsy way. “I could make some for you. I bought ingredients recently and… I haven’t used them yet.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You barely managed to nod, with a timid smile.

“Good.”

“Good,” he echoed in a faint voice.

“Good,” you repeated, like an echo.

“Good,” Clark insisted, as if his brain had gotten stuck and didn’t know what else to say.

“Good!” Lois suddenly exclaimed, snapping her notebook shut and raising her eyebrows with exaggerated drama. “Are you two going to keep playing this little ‘good, good, good’ game, or should I wait until Clark finishes his shy attempt at flirting?”

The silence broke with Jimmy’s loud laughter, nearly choking on his coffee. He coughed, giving Clark a thumbs-up as if cheering him on in the middle of a match.

Both you and Clark blushed at the same time. You quickly grabbed a stack of papers, walking over to Lois’s desk as if that could hide your nervous smile. Clark, on the other hand, hunched behind his computer, lifting the coffee cup to mask the redness on his cheeks.

And yet, the corners of his lips curved into a genuine smile. He didn’t care about the teasing or Jimmy’s laughter echoing through the office. In his chest, only one certainty remained: you had accepted his cookies.

For the first time in a long while, embarrassment didn’t weigh him down. On the contrary, it gave him a kind of clumsy happiness he couldn’t control. Lois could call you lovebirds, Jimmy could laugh until he was breathless… none of that erased the image of your timid smile, nor the way you had accepted his offer with a simple “good,” which for him meant everything.

Clark opened a blank document on the computer but didn’t type a word. He pretended to be busy while his mind wandered too far away. He imagined the scene: you tasting his cookies, laughing with your mouth full, asking if he had really baked them himself. He imagined your surprise if one day he told you that, besides saving cities, he had also burned his fingers more than once while trying to cook with his mother in Kansas.

That thought made him smile even more, and he had to hide his face in the coffee cup so no one would notice.

Inside, Clark was already starting to plan the logistics: how to leave the office without raising suspicion, how to get to Smallville without Lois or Jimmy asking why he disappeared in the middle of the day, and most importantly, how to ask his mother for the recipe without admitting that he didn’t want to impress all of Metropolis… only you.

It was funny, he thought, how he could face villains destroying buildings without flinching, but the idea of baking cookies for you made him feel more nervous than a battle in the sky.

And yet, there he was, happy. Because in the middle of all the awkwardness, you had looked at him differently.

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

A heir like Valarr had been raised for one purpose alone: to rule. From the moment he could remember, his father, Prince Baelor, taught him to observe details, to weigh decisions, to understand that one day the people would look to him for answers. But before being an heir—and even before being a knight, though he was one, and a good one, with the cloak, the vows, and everything that came with it—Valarr was a man. And like any man, he had a heart that beat for something more than duty.

Your arrival in his life was not a grand event, the kind poets sing about. It was something simpler, and for that very reason, more real. Your father was lord of a minor house, sworn to the Tullys, and every time spring ended and the air began to smell of wet earth and new blossoms, the sound of Valarr’s horse echoed against the drawbridge of your home. You grew up watching him dismount—first as an awkward boy who needed help getting down from his horse, then as a straighter-backed youth, and finally, as a man. And you were always there, on the castle steps, with a smile you could never quite hide, because deep down you knew: that boy with the clear gaze and large hands would one day be your husband. Sooner or later.

Your first kiss happened in a place that smelled of dust and old parchment: your father’s library. You had slipped inside in secret, fleeing the noise of knights drinking in the courtyard. He looked at you, and you looked at him, and suddenly his face was so close you could feel the warmth of his cheeks. When his lips touched yours, it was as quick as the flutter of a bird’s wings. Then he pulled back, his eyes wide as plates.

"What if I’ve gotten you with child?" his voice—still not fully settled—sounded high and frightened. Valarr ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. "We would have to marry at once. My father would say so. Or yours. Or both. Both, surely. There would be a ceremony, and—"

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. Not at him, but at the way his mind was already weaving weddings and septs and bridal cloaks over a mere brush of lips.

"I don’t think that will happen," you said, your voice calm, as if you were speaking about the rain or the evening bread.

He looked at you, confused. Then his brows furrowed.

"Can I… become with child? Is that possible?" and as he said it, his voice cracked a little more. Now the panic was for himself.

You smiled, shaking your head. You stepped closer and took his hand. It was warm, a little damp.

"My mother says it requires a process. It’s not something that just happens like that," you explained. "And no, my prince. You cannot become with child. That is impossible."

Valarr exhaled so deeply he seemed to deflate. But his relief didn’t last long. That very afternoon, as soon as he could, he sought out his cousin Aerion. And Aerion, who always knew more than he should and spoke of it in ways that made squires laugh and maidens blush, explained everything. Valarr listened, asked questions, and though some things seemed strange to him and others frankly repulsive—especially when Aerion began imitating certain sounds—he stored every word in his memory. Because when the time came, when you were ready and felt comfortable, he wanted to know exactly what to do.

The years passed, and Valarr did not change. He grew, yes. Taller, broader in the shoulders, his voice settling into a deep tone pleasant to hear. But inside, he remained the same boy who had once feared getting you with child from a kiss. When at last you were wed—in the sept of your castle, with the scent of warm wax and the crackle of candles—everything was better than you had imagined.

You would always remember his hands. The way he intertwined his fingers with yours beneath the table, just to feel you close. How, before the ceremony, he helped smooth your dress, his palm gliding over the fabric with the same care one would use to stroke a newborn foal. When the moment of the cloaks came, he placed his over your shoulders with almost solemn slowness, then stood still, savoring the moment as you fastened yours around his neck. His eyes never left your hands.

And when you stepped out into the courtyard, and the evening wind struck your faces, he paused. Carefully, as if afraid of breaking something, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear.

"Your hair always gets carried away," he murmured, smiling. And in that smile lived every late spring of your childhood—and all those yet to come.

The nights in your chambers became sacred. When the sun set and candles were lit, Valarr ceased to be the heir prince and became something more intimate, more yours. The love you shared was shown then without words, through touches that carried the weight of desire restrained all day, through his large hands exploring your skin as though he were still learning it. Perhaps that was why, not long after the wedding, your belly began to swell.

The dizziness came first, then the sickness. You would grip the edge of the bed as your stomach churned, and Valarr would sit beside you with a damp cloth, brushing it over your forehead without a word, simply being there. The maesters came, took your pulse, asked questions, and in the end nodded with satisfaction.

"It is a strong child," they said. "You can hear it in the heartbeat."

But what they called strength, you called battle. Your body changed, your moods as well. Some days you woke laughing, only to find yourself crying by dusk without knowing why. And Valarr, instead of frowning or withdrawing as other husbands might, became even more attentive.

At midnight, when a craving woke you with an ache so strong it hurt—once it was candied fruit, another time warm honeyed bread, another a broth only made in your home’s kitchens—he never complained. He rose in his shirt, hair tousled, bare feet against the cold stone, and went to wake the servants. He did not command; he explained. "She wants this. Like this, not otherwise. Make sure it’s warm." And when he returned, he sat beside you on the bed, watching you eat with a foolish smile, as if seeing you satisfy that craving were the greatest achievement of his day.

At court, the lords gathered around the Iron Throne. Valarr sat beside his father, Prince Baelor, listening to grievances, disputes over land, quarrels between houses. His face, when he listened, was that of an heir: serious, attentive, clear eyes fixed on whoever spoke. But it only took a servant approaching and murmuring in his ear—"your wife, my prince, has begun to cry"—for everything to change.

The other lords watched him leave. Some frowned. The women, especially the servants, discreetly placed a hand over their hearts with tenderness. "Pregnant women become unbearable," some men muttered. "It’s not such a great matter." But Valarr did not care what they said. He rose, gave a brief bow to his father, and strode out through the main doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

When he entered the chamber, you were sitting on the bed, eyes wet, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The servant, shrinking into a corner, could only say, "She says she misses her husband, my prince." And that was enough. It was always enough for him.

He embraced you. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and firm, against your ear.

"You should never have married me," you sobbed into his chest. "I am a burden."

He shook his head, and though you could not see it, you felt the motion, the brush of his faint beard against your hair.

"Not at all," he whispered, his hand moving in slow circles along your back, while the other rested on your swollen belly. "Before I am a prince, I am your man. And I must answer to your needs before any other."

You lifted your gaze, eyes still full of tears.

"You won’t leave me? You’re not tired of me?"

He wiped your tears with his thumbs, with that tenderness of his that seemed reserved only for you.

"Never. I married to spend my whole life with you."

And he kissed your forehead. And for a while, you stopped crying.

The birth came on a summer night, the air so heavy it was hard to breathe. You screamed, pushed, cursed and prayed in equal measure. Valarr was not in the room—the maesters said it was no place for men, and for once, he obeyed—but you could hear him beyond the door, pacing, asking every servant who came out if it was done, if everything was well, if you were still alive.

And then, a cry. Sharp, strong, furious. The cry of a child who came into the world determined to stay.

The maester placed him in your arms, wrapped in white linen. He weighed so little, so very little, and yet he was the weight of the entire world. His face was wrinkled and red, his fists clenched, and when he opened his eyes to look at you—to look at you, yes, as if he already knew who you were—you saw they were two different colors. One violet, Targaryen to the bone. The other brown, like yours.

You wept. You wept so much the maester had to dry your cheeks so no tears would fall on the child. And when Valarr finally entered, when you saw him standing in the doorway, pale-faced and bright-eyed, you knew he too was holding back tears. He approached slowly, as if afraid of breaking something, and knelt beside the bed. He looked at the child, then at you, then back at the child. He extended a finger, and the baby grasped it with a strength no newborn should have.

"He is perfect," Valarr whispered. And his voice trembled.

Everyone expected that now it would be your responsibility. That the child would belong to women, to servants, to wet nurses. That was what they said at court, in the halls, in the kitchens. "The princess must devote herself to raising him. Prince Valarr has more important matters to attend to." But it was not so.

You carried him everywhere. To meals, to walks in the garden, to sit by the window while you sewed. But sometimes it was too much. The child cried at night, woke every two hours, demanded milk or comfort or who knew what. And you, worn thin with exhaustion, could barely keep yourself upright.

Valarr, on the other hand, seemed to have energy to spare. Or perhaps it was simply love. Love in the form of sleepless nights.

The first time he entered the council chamber with the child in his arms, everyone fell silent. The lords frowned, some in disapproval, others in confusion. Their gazes fixed on that small bundle wrapped in a blue blanket that the heir prince held against his chest. Valarr took his seat beside his father, and with one hand he supported the child while with the other he took notes on what was being said. The baby slept, oblivious to the stares, the murmurs, to everything.

Prince Baelor looked at his grandson. And for a moment, his stern face softened.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said Valarr had gone mad, that an heir prince could not go about with a child in his arms while matters of the realm were being decided. Others—women, especially—spoke of him with a newfound tenderness. "Just look at that," they said. "A father who loves his son. That is how all should be."

You heard of it, of course. And one night, after another battle with the little one who would not stop crying, you told him:

"Stop taking him with you."

You were both standing beside the cradle. Valarr had not picked him up, only watched him, with that expression of his that meant he was thinking about too many things at once. He turned toward you. With one finger—his little finger—he traced beneath your eyes, following the curve of your dark circles.

"Why?" he asked. "You haven’t slept well. It doesn’t bother me. Having my son with me is the most natural thing in the world. You have him all night so that I may sleep. It is the least I can do."

You smiled, despite your exhaustion.

"I chose to be a mother. I knew what I was facing."

He smiled too. That smile of his—the real one, the one only you ever saw.

"And I chose to be a father. I knew everything a child entails."

You shook your head, laughing softly.

"You’re not going to let me win, are you?"

He shrugged, with feigned self-assurance.

"I am an heir prince. I must know how to debate and defend my position."

And he leaned down to kiss you. It was a slow, gentle kiss, as though you had all the time in the world.

Then Valarr pulled away and bent over the cradle. Carefully, as one handles something fragile and precious, he lifted the child. The little one stirred, pouted, but did not cry. He settled asleep against his father’s shoulder.

You stepped closer from behind. On the ledge by the window lay the shawl you used to carry the child when you needed your hands free. You picked it up, and Valarr, feeling you near, turned.

"Do it, my love," he said, lowering his voice so as not to wake the baby. "I am still a fool when I try to put this on. I do not know how you do it. Surely you are developing those things only mothers can do."

You laughed again and spread the shawl. You placed it carefully over his back, wrapping it around the child, adjusting the fabric so it was firm yet comfortable. You covered his little head—that head with two strands of platinum-blond hair, one on each side, as if the gods had wished to mark him from birth. When you finished, Valarr’s hands were free, resting over the fabric to pat the child gently.

You looked at him. At your husband, with his son asleep against his chest, wrapped in a shawl you had embroidered yourself. His hair was tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and still he carried that air about him, that quiet gravity that showed even in the way he stood.

"You look adorable," you whispered.

You rose on your toes and kissed him on the lips. It was a brief kiss, barely a touch, but it said everything that needed to be said.

"I love you," he murmured as he pulled away. "Now go to bed. I will return when he wakes to eat."

You nodded. And when he walked out the door, with the child asleep and the shawl securely in place, you knew you were right. Valarr did know how to manage. He could be both heir prince and father at once. He could sit in council with a child in his arms and make decisions as though nothing were amiss. He could love you with both madness and reason at the same time.

And that, you thought as you slipped into bed and closed your eyes, was more than many princesses could say.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Your life seemed stable, almost perfect. You had a well-deserved job at the Daily Planet, surrounded by friends who never stopped worrying about you. And, above all, there was him—your boyfriend, Clark Kent. You had only been dating for four months, but in that time you had discovered he was the most endearing person you had ever met. His smile could light up even your heaviest days, and every time you praised him, no matter how simple the compliment, he blushed like a nervous teenager. That vulnerability made him even more charming.

You had met at work. You had been there longer, but you shared the same space almost all day. Your desk was only three steps away from his—close enough to notice how, quietly, he found any excuse to come near you. Cat, Lois, and Jimmy had witnessed his interest from the very beginning; even Cat, with her teasing tone, was the one who insisted the most that Clark was hopelessly in love with you. They never forgot that afternoon when the two of you got locked in the archive room for almost two hours, and how, after that, Clark gathered the courage to ask you out. From then on, everything changed. Now, you were about to celebrate five months together—and one month since you had made the big decision to move into the same apartment. It seemed that nothing could disturb that happiness.

Until Perry showed up with news. “Nine interns,” he announced, adjusting his glasses while reading a thick file. “Last year, Lois and you took care of guiding them, but this time it’s Jimmy and Clark’s turn. There will be five people in their section: two in photography and three in writing. They’ll arrive in an hour.” He looked up at you with his usual stern tone. “Where’s Kent?”

It was obvious Perry knew about your relationship with Clark; the chief seemed amused by how much the reporter loved to brag that you were his girlfriend. For Clark, it was almost a sin for anyone not to know.

“He must be at the printers,” you replied immediately, smiling naturally.

Perry shook his head in frustration. “I’ll go find him myself…”

You didn’t think twice before hurrying out, though deep down you knew finding Clark was never simple. He could be anywhere—maybe chatting with a coworker, or maybe saving lives somewhere in the world.

Peeking into the meeting room, pretending to review some papers, you felt a small jolt. Clark was right behind you, smiling with that shy charm that always disarmed you. “Good morning, miss,” he whispered, making you turn around with a nervous smile.

“Clark, Perry’s looking for you. The interns just arrived, and you’re paired with Jimmy,” you said, urging him to hurry toward the office.

But as calm as ever, he gently took your hand and handed you a coffee cup with your name handwritten on it. In the other hand, he held a rose—slightly messy, yet perfect for your desk. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and brushed your lips with a short kiss that left your cheeks burning. “Go on,” you murmured.

“Alright,” he answered simply, turning away and walking down the hall.

Cat appeared right after, wearing a sly grin. “Floating on cloud nine, huh?” she teased—and though you thought she meant Clark, she quickly added in a playful tone, “Honey, you’re lost in love. You spend your days in the clouds of romance.”

You lowered your gaze, blushing, unable to respond. “So, how’s work going? I heard they want to film a new movie here,” you said, trying to change the subject.

Cat took her time, then looped her arm through yours, and the two of you walked back to your desk. She dropped into the chair in front of you and started telling you everything in vivid detail. You listened attentively, though your fingers toyed with the rose you had just received. You placed it in the vase on your desk, replacing the wilted one from before.

An hour later, the building was once again filled with murmurs and hurried footsteps echoing over the polished floor. It wasn’t deafening, but enough to remind everyone that the newsroom never rested. Perry stepped out of his office with a furrowed brow and firm voice, calling you and Lois. You stopped what you were doing and walked toward him with your notebook in hand.

“Kate and Logan will be assigned to Jimmy,” Perry announced in that tone that left no room for discussion. “Give them varied tasks, let them learn how to capture the right shots. It’ll help them with everything.”

You looked at the two young interns nodding enthusiastically: a blonde girl with a nervous smile and a dark-haired boy who looked like he could barely resist running off with his camera. Their excitement made you smile faintly.

Perry continued, “Then, young Eiden and the ladies Claire and Margot will be working with Clark. Political pieces, entertainment articles… even Cat can give them some guidance. And as for you two,” he added, looking straight at Lois and you, “I know I said no interns this time. But this has nothing to do with them. I want two articles. On my desk in an hour.”

Lois raised an eyebrow, you nodded silently, and Perry walked away, leaving behind a tense air mixed with anticipation.

The interns began introducing themselves with hesitant but eager voices. However, your attention stopped on the redhead in the group—she couldn’t take her eyes off Clark. She even nudged her partner gently aside to step forward and speak first.

“Margot Renith,” she said brightly, extending her hand to Clark. Her eyes sparkled as if she were talking to a celebrity. “I’ve read so many of your articles—too many, actually. About Superman, about what you do… it’s wonderful.”

Clark, a little uneasy, adjusted his glasses before replying kindly, “Thank you, Margot. That means a lot.”

You watched the scene silently, suppressing a small laugh. There was nothing unusual about it—Clark always drew admiration, though this girl seemed to take it a little further. You turned, ready to return to your desk, when suddenly Clark appeared again with his interns close behind, each of them scribbling down every word.

“And this,” Clark said, with a slight blush as he pointed toward you, “is one of the most important writers at the Planet. She’s also an editor when needed.”

His nervous smile and the way he looked at you made your heart skip for a moment.

“Nice to meet you,” the interns said in unison.

“You’re in good hands,” you replied warmly, while Clark organized the group and asked them to follow him to Cat’s desk.

You took the chance to step closer and whisper, “Get back to work, Clark. If you get distracted, Perry’s going to end up angry with me.”

He lowered his voice, leaning slightly toward you. “I’m sorry… but I can’t help noticing how beautiful you look today.”

You laughed softly, trying to hide the blush rising on your cheeks so the interns wouldn’t notice. “See you after work,” you replied, brushing his arm briefly and discreetly.

What you didn’t know was that just a few steps behind, the redhead Margot was watching the two of you, her brow furrowed and lips pressed into a tight line that betrayed a sharp pang of jealousy.

And then it began. The first month passed without major incidents; everything seemed to move within the usual rhythm of the Daily Planet. The rush, the clatter of keyboards, the constant murmur of conversations between journalists — everything remained the same. However, there was something different in the air: the presence of the new interns.

It didn’t make you uncomfortable or paranoid. It wasn’t the first time someone tried to get Clark’s attention — sometimes with smiles that lasted too long, other times with little coffees or boxes of donuts left on his desk. You knew it, and it didn’t surprise you. Clark was kind, generous, and always willing to help. Beyond that, he was a handsome man — too handsome for your peace of mind, even if he didn’t believe it himself. You knew it, though you hid it behind a mask of normality.

It all started with something simple.

“I brought you this, Clark. I’m really grateful for your help,” said Margot, one of the interns, as she handed him a cup of coffee with a hopeful smile.

“She’s been here for two weeks,” murmured Lois, amusement curling at the corner of her lips.

You smiled as you arranged the papers on your desk.

“Another admirer,” you commented softly, turning your attention back to the article you were co-writing with Lois.

At that moment, you let it slip away like water through your fingers. A simple anecdote, nothing worth dwelling on.

As days went by, Margot began to grow bolder. It wasn’t unusual to see her show up in short skirts or with striking makeup; after all, Cat did it and always looked elegant. You had no problem with fashion, but you preferred the comfort of lycra pants — they made you feel secure. What became strange came later: it wasn’t the skirt or the new lipstick, but the way she presented herself in front of everyone.

That afternoon you were with Clark, Lois, and Jimmy in the common room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and the walls hummed with the noise of keyboards and telephones. Margot appeared holding an article in her hands, her expression radiant.

“I got my first compliment from Perry!” she announced excitedly, as if the entire building needed to know.

Jimmy, mid-sip of coffee, froze awkwardly. You couldn’t help but smile at the suddenness of the moment, while Lois watched her curiously. Clark, however, looked at her with genuine pride — the kind of pride a mentor feels when seeing his apprentice’s progress.

“I knew it,” said Clark, taking the article and showing it to you so you could read it.

“Yes… it’s really well written for an intern,” you admitted, acknowledging the effort.

“I know,” replied Margot, practically savoring her own success. Without hesitation, she stepped closer to Clark, pressing her shoulder against his and holding onto his arm to read the article alongside him.

Lois’s eyes widened, surprised at how naturally she did it. Clark, however, remained calm, focused on reading.

“That’s because I’m Clark’s favorite,” Margot said playfully, and Clark simply handed the article back to her without confirming or denying it.

“Well done, Margot,” he said calmly, as if closing the conversation.

The silence that followed was heavy. Everyone expected the intern to leave, but she stayed there, chatting cheerfully about how Clark had completely transformed her writing in just one month. Her voice filled the space — almost as if she wanted to make sure no one else could steal her moment.

You listened while feeling Clark’s hand resting naturally on your waist, a silent gesture full of meaning. You both held the coffee cups you loved sharing so much. Clark smiled, a bit embarrassed by all the praise, and you nodded occasionally, trying to stay composed.

However, Jimmy and Lois didn’t seem as indifferent. Both watched Margot seriously, as if they saw something the rest were trying to ignore.

The constant murmur of keyboards and telephones in the newsroom seemed to fade as you adjusted your coat, ready to head out to dinner with Clark. Six months had passed since everything had begun between you two, and the date was near; the thought of celebrating made you smile unconsciously.

You walked down the hallway lit by the yellowish glow of the lamps until you reached the printing room. There, among scattered papers and the metallic hum of the machines, was Clark. He was holding an article in his large hands, patiently explaining something to Margot, who watched him far too closely — as if every word was an excuse to study his expressions. Her soft, overly forced laugh sought his attention, leaning toward him with a sparkle in her eyes that had nothing to do with journalism.

You gently tapped the glass door, and both of them looked up at the same time. At that instant, Clark’s smile lit up the room in a way that erased everything else. He set the article aside and walked toward you.

“Are you leaving already?” he asked, his warm voice sounding like it was meant only for you.

“Yes,” you whispered, meeting his gaze with complicity. “We said we’d have dinner.”

He tilted his head slightly, lowering his gaze as if the words weighed on him. “Oh, right…” he murmured, pressing his lips together before explaining. “It’s just… I haven’t finished this article yet. I’m still working with my interns.”

Your brow arched slightly as you looked around. “I only see one intern,” you said, letting the remark fall calmly.

Clark nodded, barely noticing. “The others went to get coffee,” he replied, as if that were enough. Then he looked at you again with that tenderness that could dissolve any doubt. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.” He smiled — and in that smile was a certainty Margot could never imitate.

“All right, I’ll go then,” you said, giving space to his commitment.

Clark didn’t quite allow it: he set the paper aside and walked with you to the elevator. The hallway was nearly empty, the lights reflecting his tall silhouette beside yours. Just before the doors opened, he took your hand softly and brought it to his cheek, brushing it with affection.

“I’ll be listening to every step until you get home,” he whispered, as if making a vow.

Your lips curved into a calm smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll get there safely.”

He leaned down and pressed a long, slow kiss to your lips, filled with tenderness and stillness — as if time had stopped right there.

“I love you,” he said softly as he pulled away, his eyes locked on yours.

“I love you too,” you answered, feeling like nothing could break that moment.

You stepped into the elevator, and as the doors slowly closed, Clark lifted his hand in a small wave that made you let out a soft laugh. Your heart beat with gentle peace as you descended.

When you stepped out of the building, you crossed paths with the two interns returning with cups of coffee in their hands — confirming exactly what he had said. There were no lies. No hidden intentions.

But it happened again. A week later, when he had promised to meet you at home for dinner, he was late once more. You waited patiently, wearing the red dress he loved so much, your makeup perfectly done, and the heels that echoed through the empty living room as you paced back and forth. But as the night grew longer, instead of seeing him appear, you received a message on your phone:

“Honey, we got delayed again. God, forgive me. We’re trying to finish as soon as possible, but the file got lost and it’s chaos here. I’ll be home soon. I love you.”

The illusion fell over you like a bucket of cold water. The red dress meant nothing if he wasn’t there to see it. You walked over to the mirror, sighed, and with slow movements began to remove your makeup. The mascara faded between your lashes, your cheeks lost their blush, and the smile you had prepared never appeared. You slipped off the dress with a gentle pull, left your heels aside, and after brushing your hair, climbed into bed with a frown. You wanted to understand that it was work, that it wasn’t his fault… but the fear that something was slipping between you pressed tightly against your chest.

The door opened just as those thoughts began to fill you with doubt. You recognized the familiar sound of his footsteps, his jacket falling onto the chair, and the rustle of fabric as he changed into his pajamas. You pretended to be asleep, turning to the opposite side, unwilling to give him any words. The mattress sank when he got into bed, and then, with that strength of his that seemed to know no limits, he gently turned you toward him so you would look at him.

“Clark, I’m tired,” you said in a low voice, heavy with restrained anger. He knew it—he could feel it in every tense muscle of your body.

He said nothing at first. He simply lifted you as if you were light as air and settled you on top of him, resting you against his chest as though you were his favorite pillow.

“That doesn’t fix anything,” you murmured, though you couldn’t help the faint smile that escaped your lips when you felt the warmth of his embrace.

He looked down at you, his voice calm, almost pleading.

“I know… I’m sorry. I swear I was excited to see you—I thought about it all day. But the file got deleted, it just disappeared.” His fingers began to trace slow circles along your back, as if each touch could erase your anger. “Not even the backup I saved was there—nothing.”

You looked at him in disbelief.

“You, Clark Kent?” you asked, raising your voice slightly. “You didn’t save a copy?”

Clark let out a frustrated sigh, scratching the back of his neck.

“I did… but none of them were there. It was like everything vanished. The intern had to help me because honestly, I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”

You pressed your lips together and rolled your eyes. The mention of the intern didn’t help at all, though you said nothing. You rested your head against his chest again, listening to his heartbeat.

“Well… maybe I’ll forgive you,” you finally said, with a tone of resignation that made him smile instantly.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about how you’d look in that red dress you promised to wear…” he murmured, lowering his voice as his hand playfully slid down to rest on your backside.

“Don’t even think about it. You were late, and I’m tired,” you replied quickly, without lifting your head.

Clark froze immediately, like a kid caught in mischief, and laughed softly against your hair.

“All right… but tomorrow, yes.” And his tone was so certain, so teasing, that it almost made you forget your anger.

There, with your body curled against his and his steady breathing surrounding you, silence slowly settled between you. The world could keep being chaos, but in that bed, for a moment, there was only the two of you.

The following week, the routine in the newsroom seemed the same. You arrived a little before closing time to meet Clark, just as you had agreed, and looked for him down the hallways.

You found him again in the printing room. Margot was there too, leaning against the table with the confident air of someone who wants to be noticed, twirling a pen between her fingers while watching him speak. Clark was holding some documents, explaining something about the article’s edition, but she hardly seemed to listen. Her eyes were fixed on his profile, on the curve of his jaw, on the way he adjusted his glasses. She smiled with a hint of mischief, as if every one of his gestures was an excuse to get closer.

When you walked in, Margot straightened her back and forced out an unnecessary laugh, far too loud for whatever Clark had said. She tried to catch your gaze, as if to make it clear that she was with him.

Clark, on the other hand, barely seemed to notice. The moment he saw you, his face changed completely: his professional seriousness crumbled, replaced by that warm smile that seemed to light up even the darkest corner of the office.

“Ah, you’re here already,” he said softly, setting the papers aside as if they no longer mattered. “Give me a minute, sweetheart.”

Margot used the pause to step in, leaning toward him boldly.

“Clark, do you want us to go over it again tomorrow? I could stay late if you need me to.”

He nodded absently, completely missing the suggestive tone in her voice.

“Yeah, thanks, Margot. I appreciate your help.” But even as he spoke, he was already walking toward you, as if everything else had simply disappeared.

“Ready to go?” he asked, taking your hand naturally, without even glancing back at the intern’s annoyed expression.

“Yes,” you replied calmly, as if in that moment, he was the only thing that mattered.

Margot narrowed her eyes, clearly irritated by the way you both seemed to inhabit your own private world, one no one else could enter. No matter how much she tried to assert her presence, there was no space left for her.

Clark, oblivious to everything, leaned toward you as you walked toward the elevator.

“Did you know I spent the whole day thinking about what you’d want for dinner tonight?” he murmured playfully, his forehead brushing against yours.

You smiled, letting out a soft laugh.

“I hope it’s not pizza again.”

“I promise something different,” he replied with a wink.

The elevator doors closed, leaving Margot behind with her smile wiped away.

Maybe the third time hurt the most.

Margot, with her uncanny ability to pry into things, had found out—without you or Clark knowing—that it was your anniversary. She had overheard Lois whispering to Jimmy in the hallway, and while you carefully prepared dinner with nervous anticipation, Margot smiled silently, like someone who already knows a wound is about to open.

The clock moved mercilessly forward. The candle on the table melted into a pool of wax. The smell of dinner faded from the kitchen while you, your makeup smudged and your red dress hanging from a chair, sat in your pajamas, your hope shattered. Then you heard the door open. Clark came rushing in, holding a bouquet of fresh roses, his shirt wrinkled, his expression weary.

He knocked softly on the bedroom door, turning the knob several times.

“Sweetheart… please open the door.”

“No,” you answered flatly from the other side.

“I’m sorry, I really am.” His voice was low, almost pleading. “I lost track of time, and—”

“Of time?” you interrupted sharply, your voice rising. “Clark, it’s our anniversary! It wasn’t just any dinner.”

Silence. He rested his forehead against the door.

“Please, open up. I just want to talk to you.”

Finally, with tears in your eyes, you opened the door. You looked straight at him, your face marked by anger and heartbreak.

“The worst part is that this time it’s not even about Superman,” you said, your voice trembling but steady. “That, I would’ve understood, Clark. I always do. I’m always here waiting while you risk your life out there. But now you tell me your job is so hard… so hard that you forgot our anniversary.”

Your voice echoed against the walls. Clark lowered his head, unable to meet your gaze, clutching the roses against his chest as if they could shield him.

“It’s just that… I lost the file again,” he muttered shakily. “I already took the computer for maintenance, but nothing worked. Margot had to help me… without her, I wouldn’t have made it home.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief; you felt the blood boil in your veins.

“Margot again?” you asked bitterly. “Is she always the one who saves you?”

“It’s not what you think,” he said quickly, looking up in desperation. “She just helps me with the articles. I… I was thinking about you, about us, I swear.”

“Thinking about me?” you let out a bitter laugh. “Thinking about me while spending the whole night with her at the office?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “I was stuck with that damn file, and by the time I realized… it was already late.”

“Exactly. It was already late.” Your words were knives.

Clark reached out his hand toward you, but you stepped back.

“Please… forgive me.”

“Go to bed, Kent.” You turned your back to him, your voice firm even though your heart ached. “I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

You got into bed, wiping your cheeks, leaving the bouquet of roses abandoned on the table. The same excuse. The same emptiness.

The next morning, the office buzzed with its usual rhythm. Clark walked out of the building with Perry, caught up in a quick conversation. You sat at your desk, still feeling the knot in your throat, when a shadow leaned over your table.

It was Margot. Smiling, with an air that was far too confident, she dropped a small chocolate beside your papers. "I'm so sorry. It’s my fault Clark didn’t make it to dinner. It’s just that… we got caught up talking." Her smile was poisoned.

You frowned, confused. "Talking?"

"Yeah," she replied casually, shrugging. "We finished the article. Everyone else had already left, and the two of us stayed chatting. Then he said he’d be late for his dinner… sorry." She paused dramatically, tilting her head with feigned guilt. "It’s just that those files keep disappearing, it’s like… fate wants us together." She let out a light laugh, as if sharing a private secret, and skipped away.

You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You looked down, trying to convince yourself it was just another one of her provocations, but the seed of doubt was already planted.

Clark arrived minutes later, his steady stride and that tired smile that usually brought you calm. But this time, you saw something different: Margot rushed ahead, bouncing toward him, and with far too much familiarity, took his arm. Clark nodded in thanks, unaware of the look that pierced straight through your heart.

Was something happening?

You stood up without thinking, the sound of your chair scraping breaking the soft murmur of the room. You walked toward the exit, unable to stay there a second longer. You didn’t see how Clark turned his head to watch you leave, worry etched in his face. You didn’t see how Margot pulled him back sharply, as if she didn’t want him to follow you, nor how Perry, in his firm tone, reminded him they were on a deadline and led him back to his desk.

You were already outside, your heart tight, and the creeping feeling that maybe—just maybe—Margot had gotten exactly what she wanted: to plant doubt.

You stepped out, trying to catch your breath, trying to make sense of whether you were really living this with Clark. Each step felt heavier, the doubt growing deeper in your chest until, after several blocks, you reached the park and sat on a cold iron bench, hugging your arms tightly around yourself.

The murmur of the city felt like a distant echo when, suddenly, the world exploded.

A deafening blast shook the ground beneath your feet. The bomb had gone off only a few meters away, and within seconds, the air was filled with black smoke, thick dust, and heat that burned your skin. The park turned into an improvised battlefield—people running in every direction, screams of terror, shattered glass flying like knives.

Your eyes locked onto her: a little girl, no more than six years old, frozen in fear right at the edge of a collapsing construction site. You didn’t hesitate. You ran with every ounce of strength your trembling body could summon and pushed her out of the way, shielding her beneath you.

The impact was brutal. A rain of stone and steel crashed down on you. You felt the sharp thud of a beam on your shoulder, rocks tearing the skin on your forehead and hand, a burning pain that stole your breath. Still, you held the child beneath you, covering her body with yours like a human shield. The dust blinded you, the screams merged with the roar of destruction, and the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.

And then, through the smoke and chaos, the red cape fluttered.

Superman. Your Clark.

He burst onto the scene like an unstoppable force, shoving aside twisted beams as if they were branches, lifting collapsed walls, carrying injured bodies to safety. His eyes darted quickly, calculating, searching. But when he finally saw you, time stopped.

There you were: half-buried under blocks of concrete, your face bloodied, hair stuck to your forehead, your trembling hand hanging limp. His eyes locked with yours, and in that instant you knew he had recognized you. Not by your clothes, not by your silhouette amid the dust… but by your gaze, and by the necklace that glimmered faintly under the broken light of the fire.

Clark froze for a second that felt eternal. His breath hitched, his lips parted as if to call your name, but he forced himself to hold back. No one could suspect that Superman knew this trapped woman. No one could discover the truth.

He knelt in desperation, lifting the massive slab that was about to crush you. He held it with superhuman strength while freeing you carefully, as though one wrong move might shatter you completely.

Your eyes were still on him, but pain was already clouding your vision. You tried to say something, anything, but only a faint breath escaped you, barely audible. He leaned closer, and you caught the anguish in his blue eyes.

"Easy… I’m here," he whispered, his voice trembling, so low no one else could hear.

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to cling to his promise. But just as your fingers tried to brush his, your strength left you. Your body collapsed unconscious against his arms. The last thing you saw was his silhouette leaning over you, his cape whipping violently through the smoke.

Clark saw you still holding the child, as if your instinct had been to keep her safe until the very last second. He handed the girl first to the paramedics rushing through the chaos, and only then did he take you into his arms, trembling at the weak flutter of your pulse.

In that moment, he was not Superman. He was simply Clark—the man who had arrived too late, now fighting himself not to fall apart while holding you.

He flew so fast the wind cut his skin. He wasn’t crying yet—he couldn’t. No one could know he knew you, no one could suspect what you meant to him. He reached the nearest hospital, one not yet overwhelmed.

"She’s injured," he announced firmly, setting you gently on the gurney.

The nurses rushed at once—one connecting monitors, another preparing intravenous lines. The sharp beep of the machine filled the silence.

"Pulse is low, 60 and falling," said one nurse, feeling your wrist. "Oxygen saturation, 82%," added another, fitting the oxygen mask over your face. "We need to cannulate immediately. Sixteen-gauge IV."

Clark didn’t take his eyes off you; every word from the medical staff was like an invisible blow. He feared that closing his eyes for even an instant might mean never seeing you again.

An older doctor approached, quickly examining your abdomen. "Right side is rigid… possible internal bleeding. Start rapid infusion."

The nurses obeyed. A clear liquid began to flow into your vein, trying to hold your pressure steady. The monitor kept sounding irregular alarms.

"Another attack?" asked one doctor to the man in a suit who had come in with Clark, assuming he was with him.

"Yes…" Clark answered, his voice breaking, unable to explain more.

A nurse reached for a form. "We need to identify her for the records."

"No. Later," the surgeon cut in urgently. "Get her to the OR now! Her pressure’s at 70 over 40—if we wait she could go into irreversible shock."

Clark lowered his head, fighting back tears that blurred his vision. "I… I know her boyfriend. I’ll call him."

No one questioned his lie; they were too busy trying to save you.

The gurney rolled swiftly down the hallways. Clark followed as far as he could, his footsteps hammering in his chest. He heard the doctors’ voices, every word a knife:

"There’s free fluid in the abdomen." "She’s losing too much blood, likely a major vessel rupture." "Prepare for emergency laparotomy." "Internal hemorrhage confirmed."

Clark stood frozen, pacing up and down the corridor.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He flew straight to his apartment. He changed hurriedly, but looking around hit him harder than any explosion: the balloons already sagging, the roses wilting in their vase, the table set for an anniversary that never was. Everything still there, waiting for you. The dinner he had booked at that luxurious restaurant you’d longed to visit now meaningless. The tears he had held back fell uncontrollably. He covered his face with his hands, realizing what he was about to lose.

He returned to the hospital. He landed silently on the rooftop, unseen. Then he descended a service stairwell and sank into one of the chairs outside the operating room door. His hands trembled. He heard nothing—not the bustle of doctors, not the murmur of nurses. All he could feel was the emptiness left by your weakening pulse, your life slipping through his fingers, and the terrifying possibility that this time he might not save you.

Clark sat in front of the OR door, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He had sent quick messages to Lois and Jimmy, asking them to keep quiet, to tell no one else. He didn’t want pitying looks, didn’t want newsroom rumors. He just needed company.

The phone vibrated in his pocket. A call. On the screen, the name: Intern M.

He took a deep breath before answering.

"Yeah?" he replied in a low, rough tone, trying to sound calm.

On the other end, Margot’s voice came through, dripping with fake professionalism.

"Clark, your girlfriend hasn’t come back. We can’t leave our article like this. I’m sorry, but it’s unprofessional. I understand you love her, but if she’s jealous of me, that’s no reason to ruin your work."

Clark closed his eyes, clenching his teeth. His breathing quickened.

"Then do it." His voice cracked so loudly that several people in the room turned to look at him. He immediately lowered his gaze, holding back his anger. "All those weeks I spent explaining it were useless. Tell someone else to do it." He hung up abruptly.

Silence returned, broken only by the sound of his own racing heart. He wiped his tears with his sleeve. He needed to calm down, but every time he thought something could’ve happened to you, his head started spinning. And hearing someone belittle you like that, insult you that way, was the last thing he needed.

That’s when he heard hurried footsteps. He looked up and saw Lois and Jimmy running down the hallway. Lois had tears in her eyes; Jimmy held her arm to keep her from stumbling.

"Where is she?" Lois whispered, her voice trembling.

"In surgery," Clark said, barely managing to get the words out. Lois sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand.

"How… how did it happen?" she asked, her eyes red. "Didn’t you feel it with your… Kryptonian thing?"

Clark shook his head, swallowing hard.

"No."

Lois frowned, almost angry. "You should’ve felt it, you should’ve sensed the bomb."

Jimmy shook his head gently, as if asking her not to blame him anymore. Lois lowered her head, biting her lip to stop herself from saying more.

"Did you talk to her before it happened?" Jimmy asked carefully.

Clark closed his eyes, and this time, he couldn’t hold back the tears.

"No. She was mad at me." His voice broke as he said it.

Jimmy looked down. He knew there was no worse punishment than having anger be your last memory. And Clark knew it better than anyone.

The hours passed slowly, like centuries. Lois and Jimmy stayed with him for two hours, saying little else, just sitting in silence—sharing tears, squeezing his hand. When they finally returned to the newsroom, they only told Perry and Cat. They didn’t give details, didn’t start rumors. Only short messages of support began to appear on Clark’s phone. Words that couldn’t heal the wound, but reminded him he wasn’t completely alone in that endless wait.

The clock kept ticking, each second like a hammer, and behind those doors, the question that was tearing him apart kept beating: would you survive that surgery?

Clark turned off his phone. He didn’t want more calls, more excuses—he didn’t want to hear any voice but yours when you finally woke up. He stood up immediately when the doctor came out, looking tired but composed.

"Superman told me about my… my girlfriend," Clark said, his voice trembling, every word an effort.

The doctor nodded. "Yes. She lost a lot of blood. We managed to stabilize her. The bruises on her hands will heal with time. What worries us are her organs—they were exposed to the smoke and are extremely sensitive. We’ll keep her under observation tonight. If she makes it through without worsening, tomorrow we’ll move her to the stable patients’ ward."

Clark swallowed hard, his gaze pleading. "Can I see her?"

The doctor shook his head gently. "Not yet. Tomorrow, yes. I’m sorry."

Clark lowered his head, closing his eyes tightly. He stayed there, in the cold hallway, unmoving. He didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t even step outside when the sun went down. He only allowed himself to stand by the window, looking at the night sky—but he didn’t fly. He couldn’t. It felt as if leaving that place meant losing the only connection to your heartbeat still fighting in another room. The hours turned eternal.

"You can go in now." The doctor’s voice was a lifeline in the middle of the void.

Clark turned instantly, nodding quickly. They handed him a special gown to enter, and he adjusted it with trembling hands. "She’s not in the stable ward yet. But once your visit is over, we’ll move her there, and you’ll be able to stay with her," the doctor explained.

Clark didn’t wait another second. The door opened, and the sound of the machine tracking your heartbeat hit him square in the chest. The steady beeping was the only thing reminding him that you were still there—still fighting.

He used his vision, subtly, just to be sure: the swelling in your organs was going down, the internal bleeding already under control. For the first time in hours, he could breathe again, if only a little.

"I’ll leave you," the doctor said softly, stepping out and leaving him alone with you.

Clark moved closer slowly, as if one wrong step could break you. He sat by your side, took your cold hand in his, and his tears began to fall uncontrollably.

Clark approached slowly, as if he feared breaking you with just one step. He sat beside you, took your cold hand, and tears began to fall uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I failed you. I failed you as Clark and as Superman. I should’ve been there, and I wasn’t. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, but I don’t want to lose you. I couldn’t live in a world without you." He pressed your hand against his face, letting his forehead rest on it as he sobbed like a child.

That was when he heard your weak voice, almost like an echo. "Clark?"

He lifted his head abruptly. Your eyes were slowly opening, disoriented. The sight hit him hard—you were alive.

"Oh, sweetheart…" he murmured, wiping his tears with his sleeve before leaning closer.

"The girl…" you said, your voice raspy as you licked your dry lips. "Where is she? There was a…"

"She’s fine," Clark replied quickly, brushing your cheek gently. "She’s stable now. Lois interviewed her parents—she’s safe."

Your eyes searched for his. He couldn’t take it anymore; the guilt was tearing him apart. "Forgive me, love. Please forgive me. I didn’t make it in time. I haven’t made it in time this entire month. I failed you on our anniversary, I failed you as a man and as a hero. I don’t deserve your love. God…" His voice broke again, and the tears returned.

You looked at him with a small, tired smile. "It’s okay, Clark… it’s fine."

He shook his head, desperation burning in his eyes. "No, it’s not fine. Nothing’s fine if you’re hurt." He leaned closer, gently running his fingers through your hair.

Clark buried his face in your hand again, holding on as if that touch were the only reason he had left to breathe.

Days passed in the hospital. You remained under observation, and Clark stayed with you. Perry, knowing how hard both of you had worked, gave him a few days off without hesitation. The room was small, barely big enough for a sofa—which, for someone as tall as Clark, was painfully uncomfortable—but he never complained. He made do, knees bent, head resting on a cushion, waiting each day for you to heal. You watched him at times, doubt growing in your chest: should you tell him what Margot had said?

One morning, Clark was folding the blankets neatly, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt.

"Go home," you told him softly but firmly. "You’re tired. You haven’t slept well."

He looked up at you and shook his head.

"I’m fine. A little sunlight is all I need." He smiled, as if nothing in the world could break him as long as you were there.

A light knock at the door interrupted the conversation.

"Visitor," announced a nurse, opening the door.

"Thanks." Lois’s voice filled the room. She carried a bouquet of tulips in her hand. Upon entering, she stopped when she saw the vase beside your bed, already filled with fresh tulips. "Told you, Jimmy. Clark beat us to it." She frowned in mock disappointment.

"I told you we should’ve gone with the lilacs," protested Jimmy as he followed behind her.

"Olsen’s just looking for an excuse to buy another carnivorous plant," Lois said, rolling her eyes. She handed the bouquet to Clark before walking over to you. "How are you?"

"Healing," you answered with a small smile.

"I’m glad." Lois nodded and sighed. "The newsroom’s a mess. And by the way, the gossip’s out of control. Which one do we start with first?" She dragged a stool next to you, while Jimmy collapsed onto the sofa—fitting much better there than Clark ever had.

You smiled at the scene, and Clark, now sitting beside you on a small bench, gently took your hand. His eyes stayed fixed on you, as if Lois and Jimmy were nothing but background noise.

"Start with the crazy intern," Jimmy said suddenly.

You and Clark turned to him at the same time.

"Crazy?" you asked, frowning.

Lois raised an eyebrow and pulled a USB drive from her jacket pocket.

"Recordings. The other two interns working with Clark made them. She was deleting articles… ones that, conveniently, always disappeared from your computer, Kent." She looked at you seriously.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. Lois continued:

"Perry confirmed it. He said to put a password on your files, and Margot’s been reported. Also, the pieces you kept praising her for weren’t even hers—the other two wrote them."

"The poor guys were being threatened," added Jimmy from the couch. "They said if they talked, she’d ruin them. And they mentioned something about you." He pointed at you. "The day of the accident, she came up to you before you left the building. They think that because they stayed quiet, you ended up here."

"Why?" you asked, your heart tightening.

Jimmy fumbled with his phone, looking nervous.

"They told me to show you this." He turned on the screen and played a video.

The image shook slightly—it was Jimmy recording. In front of the camera stood Claire, a young intern with a nervous face who kept her eyes down.

"We want to apologize to you," she said timidly. "If we had spoken earlier about how awful Margot was to us, you’d be fine now. But she forced us to stay with Mr. Kent for every late meeting."

Beside her, Eiden, the other intern, nodded.

"Yeah… we’re sorry. Mr. Kent was always very kind and professional. On your anniversary, we tried to hurry; we actually finished early, but Margot spilled coffee on my computer on purpose. We couldn’t do anything. We stayed for hours. She blamed me, and… well, Mr. Kent didn’t get angry, he just looked frustrated because he wanted to leave. In the end, we stayed until everything was done."

The video stopped.

Lois crossed her arms.

"That’s why Perry said this will be the first and last time he lets interns work under Clark and Jimmy’s supervision." She shook her head.

Silence filled the room. Clark squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes locked on yours, as if screaming without words: See? I wasn’t lying. No one matters more to me than you.

You looked at him closely. Clark had his gaze lowered, thoughtful ever since Lois and Jimmy had left. The tension of the past few days still lingered in the air, as if the emotional wound took longer to heal than the physical one.

“Are you sad because you won’t see your favorite intern anymore?” you asked, your tone half-ironic.

He shook his head slowly, not even lifting it. He moved the stool and sat beside you, taking your hand in his—so large and warm that it seemed to envelop yours completely.

Clark pulled the stool closer and sat beside you, holding your hand gently. “My mom always told me that teaching was essential, that when someone younger comes with questions, an adult shouldn’t feel envy or annoyance, but patience.” He paused, lowering his gaze. “And that’s what I tried to do with all the interns.”

He rubbed his forehead, as if it weighed on him to admit it. “I didn’t see much interest from the boys, and Margot kept asking me questions all the time. I thought I was doing my job well, that I was truly teaching something. I believed I was following what my mom taught me: giving second chances, being patient, never giving up on anyone.”

You looked at him tenderly, understanding him better now. “But you did teach, Clark. Eiden and Claire turned in good work, didn’t they?”

He nodded. “Yes, but I thought that was their own merit, not mine. And when Margot told me I was a great teacher, I accepted it because I wanted to believe it.” He took a deep breath, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “And in the end, it wasn’t appreciation… it was manipulation.”

You squeezed his hand. “No wonder you answered all her questions, Clark. Not because you cared what Margot thought of you… but because you truly believed she wanted to learn.”

He lifted his eyes to you, his voice soft. “Exactly. I wanted to see the best in her, like I always try to with everyone. And all I did was give her space to use me.” He leaned a little closer to you. “Forgive me if that hurt you, love. It was never about her. It was about that urge I have to believe everyone deserves to be heard.”

“I know,” you said with a weak smile. “And even if you’re sometimes too good, that’s what makes you who you are.”

Clark smiled, tears glimmering in his eyes. “Still, I won’t let anyone ever make you feel lesser again.”

You looked at him in silence, giving him space to continue.

Clark lifted his gaze and, for the first time, let the truth in his heart escape. “How could I stop loving, from one day to the next, the woman I want as the mother of my children?” His eyes grew wet. “There’s no one else in my mind or in my heart. Only you. Everything I do, everything I try to improve, it’s because I imagine a future with you. And if I was ever kind to anyone else, it was just my nature… it never meant anything.”

Your breath caught at his words. Clark leaned closer, caressing your cheek tenderly.

“How long have you been thinking about whether we’ll have children?” you finally asked, genuine curiosity in your voice.

Clark adjusted himself a little, his lips curving into a shy smile. “Since you moved in with me. I thought it’d be nice to buy our own house. With several bedrooms and… a big field.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “A field? In Metropolis, that’s impossible, love.”

“Of course,” he replied playfully. “That’s why I’ve been looking at plots in Smallville. There are plenty. I thought it would be the perfect place. Quiet, safe… I imagined our kids running around without fear, knowing their mom and I would always be there for them. And even if the world sees me as Superman, I want them to see me as Clark Kent. Their dad. Nothing more.”

You looked at him—this man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet in that moment thought only of you and a shared future.

“Clark, I’m sure that when that time comes, our children will be proud. Not of Superman, but of Clark.”

Clark leaned in carefully, so as not to hurt you, and pressed a long, delicate kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he whispered, curling up against you gently, as if afraid of breaking you.

You held him weakly, resting your forehead on his chest. And there, between the machines keeping pace with your heart and the distant hum of the hospital, it felt as if the whole world had vanished. There were no villains, no chaos, no doubts. Only Clark, you, and the promise of a future where nothing mattered more than the two of you.

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

You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.

You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.

That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."

Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.

Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.

Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.

And that was when you discovered it.

The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.

"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."

And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.

And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.

Literally.

Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.

One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.

"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.

The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.

Then his eyes met yours.

You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.

Superman's cheeks turned red.

You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.

It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.

He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.

"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.

Everyone looked at him strangely.

It was normal for Superman to speak.

It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.

His nervousness did not go unnoticed.

He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.

Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.

"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.

You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.

Superman turned even redder than an apple.

"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.

"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.

He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.

"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."

"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."

And that wasn't all.

He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.

Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.

Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.

And of course, that couldn't happen.

Clark knew that.

But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.

Weak.

Weak.

Weak.

Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.

Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.

Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.

Very heroic.

Very professional.

People applauded.

Reporters took pictures.

And then he saw you in the crowd.

You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.

But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.

Literally.

Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.

One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"

And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."

There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.

It was a completely clear day.

He slowly floated down.

Far too slowly.

As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.

His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.

He tripped.

Yes.

Superman tripped over a hose.

A hose.

The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.

A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"

And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."

"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"

"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.

"Good," he said.

And then he just stared at you.

Without saying anything.

Just staring.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.

Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.

That was how he gave himself away.

Because you didn't look at Superman.

To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.

No matter how tight the suit was.

No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.

No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.

You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.

He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.

But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.

That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.

It wasn't the first time, of course.

But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.

The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.

You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.

"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.

But it wasn't Clark's voice.

It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.

Like he was auditioning for an action movie.

You turned around, pausing your cooking.

You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.

You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.

His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.

His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.

It was quite a show.

"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.

Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.

He was trying.

He really was.

His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.

But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.

You could see it perfectly.

He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.

"I... the window... I can fly," he said.

And his voice cracked a little at the end.

You laughed.

You couldn't help it.

It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.

"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.

He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.

You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.

"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.

His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.

And he smelled like the sky, as always.

Like that clean air above the clouds.

You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.

Fast.

Very fast.

As if he had just finished running a marathon.

"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.

Clark immediately became nervous.

He ran a hand through his hair.

His hands went to his hips.

Then behind his back.

Then back to his hips.

He had no idea what to do with them.

Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.

He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.

He pressed his lips together.

Furrowed his brow.

Hardened his gaze.

But his eyes couldn't stay still.

Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.

"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.

He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.

He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.

"And men who..." he continued.

Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.

He was turning red as a tomato.

He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.

"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."

He practically whispered the last word.

The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.

His ears.

His ears had turned red.

You didn't even know ears could get that red.

He tried to recover his composure.

He straightened his back.

Lifted his chin.

Put his hands on his hips again.

But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.

When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.

He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.

Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.

He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.

Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.

When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.

Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.

He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.

"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.

You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.

You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.

"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.

One foot slid backward.

The other moved forward.

It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.

He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.

"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."

He attempted a serious smile.

Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.

He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.

Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.

"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.

Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."

Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.

He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.

The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.

And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.

He tried once more to look serious.

He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.

Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.

But then you smiled.

Just a little.

And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.

His entire face softened.

His eyes turned gentle again.

With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.

"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.

And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.

"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.

You stepped a little closer.

He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.

"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.

Bread.

Lettuce.

Cheese.

Everything was there.

Except for one thing.

"I don't get nervous," he said.

His voice came out high-pitched.

Almost squeaky.

He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.

He touched it with a finger to stop it.

Then the other eyebrow started twitching.

It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.

You looked at him.

His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.

"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.

He smiled.

A huge, awkward smile.

The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.

Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.

His entire face lit up.

His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.

"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.

You laughed and nodded.

Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.

"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Okay," Clark said.

His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.

"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.

Literally.

"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.

"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."

"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.

"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."

You said it completely seriously.

Very seriously.

Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.

He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.

When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.

Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:

"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."

"Okay," Clark said.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

It was a soft kiss.

Quick.

Nervous.

He smiled against your lips and whispered,

"I promise I won't buy two boxes."

You smiled and nodded.

His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.

But you still liked hearing him say it.

When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.

He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.

His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.

And the smile never left his face.

He was so nervous.

So excited about going to buy the mochi.

His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.

"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.

Clark took three steps outside the apartment.

Then four.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked down at himself.

Touched his chest.

Looked at his cape.

Looked at his boots.

As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.

His eyes widened.

"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.

At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.

He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.

Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.

"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.

"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.

You laughed.

A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.

"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.

"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.

A loud thud echoed through the apartment.

Something hit the floor.

Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.

A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.

His jeans were slightly crooked.

His shirt was buttoned wrong.

And his hair was a complete mess.

He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.

"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.

He took one step.

Then turned around again.

"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.

"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.

"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.

"That's what you said last time."

"This time I mean it," he replied.

And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.

Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.

You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.

And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.

Not even if he came with a cape and all.

Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.

You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.

You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.

You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.

No one important.

Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.

But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.

Since this morning.

Since the moment you arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.

One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.

You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.

“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You didn’t type a single word.

You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.

“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.

You laughed.

A nervous laugh.

The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.

Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.

The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.

“A guy?”

Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.

It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.

But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.

When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.

He wasn’t Superman.

He was just Clark.

And somehow that made things weird.

One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.

The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.

He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.

You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.

Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.

No one did.

Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.

Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.

It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.

Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.

If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.

Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.

And you were the girl he liked.

The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.

The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.

Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?

Right?

Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.

How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?

It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.

Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.

Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.

“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.

“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”

Then he glanced at you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.

“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”

His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.

As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.

“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.

There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.

“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.

Andrew.

The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”

Then he looked toward Andrew.

“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”

Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.

Clark couldn’t help smiling.

The day continued that way.

People coming and going.

Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.

Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.

Clark looked at you.

Then at Andrew.

Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.

You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.

Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.

A heaviness settled in his chest.

Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.

Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.

The one who never got the girl.

The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.

Maybe under different circumstances.

Maybe in another life.

Things would be different.

“You’re here!”

You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.

Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.

You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.

For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.

That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.

Then he looked closer.

The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.

Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.

The same smile.

The same eyes.

The same lightness in her walk.

Clark tilted his head, confused.

Then he smiled.

Your mother.

There was no doubt.

Not after the way you hugged her.

Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.

You smiled.

That big smile that only ever appeared around her.

“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.

Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.

Every laugh.

Every touch of your mother’s arm.

“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”

You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.

Your mother nodded seriously.

“Mhm.”

She looked around.

Then leaned closer.

Without taking her eyes off the office.

“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.

You blushed instantly.

Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.

“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.

Even though she’d spoken quietly.

Even though it was barely audible.

“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”

Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.

Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.

“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.

Just a tiny gesture.

Your mother followed your gaze.

Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.

He could hear two racing heartbeats.

One closer than the other.

And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.

He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.

Tilted his head.

Tried to hide it.

Oh, sure.

This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.

Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.

But moments like this?

Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?

That made every second worthwhile.

“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”

Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.

She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.

You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.

“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.

You laughed and shook your head.

Embarrassed.

Happy.

Both at once.

Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.

You shrugged with a mischievous smile.

“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”

Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.

From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.

Then Clark stood up.

Not gracefully.

Not remotely.

It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.

His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.

His eyes shifted from you.

To the floor.

Back to you.

As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.

Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.

A real reason to approach you.

A legitimate excuse.

Not one he’d invented.

Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.

He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.

With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.

You looked up as he approached.

Your heart stopped.

Or maybe it stopped twice.

Or maybe it stopped altogether.

Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.

You looked at her.

Or maybe you swallowed.

You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.

You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.

And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.

So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.

He smiled at you.

A trembling smile.

The kind that escaped before he could stop it.

His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“No, no,” you replied immediately.

Far too quickly.

Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.

“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.

You sounded as though you were apologizing.

Or answering a question he’d never asked.

He only wanted to hand you a paper.

Not meet your mother.

At least, that’s what you assumed.

But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.

And it was far too late to catch up.

Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.

He extended a hand toward your mother.

Then immediately pulled it back.

Wiped it on his jacket.

Then offered it again more carefully.

As though presenting something fragile.

“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

His voice came out slightly higher than usual.

The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.

You smiled at your mother.

The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.

“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She dropped the words casually.

Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.

“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.

Far too quickly.

Far too obviously.

Your voice sounded rushed.

Artificial.

You fooled absolutely no one.

It was as obvious as the sky being blue.

As obvious as coffee being hot.

Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.

Clark turned as red as a tomato.

“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.

Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.

“She is. She’s the best.”

Clark’s words came out instantly.

Purely.

Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.

Even he looked surprised.

You stared at him.

Speechless.

Your mother stared at him.

One eyebrow raised.

A huge smile spreading across her face.

Lois stared at him too.

Barely managing not to laugh.

Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.

You smiled without entirely understanding why.

Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.

“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”

She paused for a moment.

Thinking.

“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”

She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.

“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.

The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.

He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.

A habit he always had when he was nervous.

Though he had no idea he did it.

“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.

You smiled.

One of those smiles that appeared without permission.

The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.

Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.

You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.

“It really is good.”

Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.

“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.

You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.

“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.

Your mother didn’t even look at you.

Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.

“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.

Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.

He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.

“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.

His fingers brushed yours.

Just for a second.

Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.

As though the contact had shocked you.

“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.

Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.

He nearly tripped over a chair.

Caught himself at the last second.

Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.

And kept going.

His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.

You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.

Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.

“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.

Your mother simply nodded.

Serious.

Thoughtful.

As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.

Saving every detail for later.

For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.

When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

When did that "problem" happen? When did that problem decay into the fact that you were actually that problem?

Talking about "it" was uncomfortable. You couldn't tell your mother or your friends. Because how would you just come out and say? You know what? In my two relationships, never, never once did I have an orgasm. And the worst part is that both men told me I was the problem. No, just thinking about it would make you sink with shame. You would want to disappear, to never have opened your mouth. Even worse when you heard everyone saying they had an orgasm with their boyfriend. They commented on it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that always happened. And even though you knew that men only seek their own satisfaction, not yours, you also knew very well, maybe the problem was you. Because two different men repeating it to you, over and over again, had to mean something, right?

"Ah, of course it's not me, you must have problems," one said when you had confessed that you only felt a little warmth, but an orgasm, nothing. He lay there calmly, lying back on the bed, not even looking at you. As if what you had just told him was an annoyance, your own mistake that he didn't have to fix.

"Now you want everything to be dedicated to you, please, you must have a problem," said the other, looking at you with those eyes that you used to like and that now only made you feel small. "I have made thousands of women come," he boasted, crossing his arms as if he were a prize. As if you were the only one who didn't work right.

So you stopped trying. Maybe it was work stress, maybe the nerves of being with someone new, maybe the discomfort of seeing how a man could finish in bed with you, ejaculate and that's it. No more work, no more caresses, no more nothing. Because he had already gotten his part. And you stayed there, looking at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with you.

But now the fear had returned. You had been two years without a boyfriend, two years without having to worry about this. And when you started dating Clark, you didn't mention it to him. Of course, you were just going on dates, it wasn't anything formal. Besides, he didn't seem like the man who takes you to bed on the first date. He was slow, everything about him was slow: his way of speaking, his way of looking at you, his way of getting close to you. And that slowness also made your heart race. You didn't want him to get annoyed and end up leaving your life like the other two.

Clark was cute. Too cute, even for your taste. You had always said your type were serious men, with few friends, who looked like a block of ice and were intelligent. But you ended up with an intelligent man, yes, but with the prettiest shyness you had ever seen and the loveliest smile anyone had ever given you. A man so tall and so big that to you, who wasn't small, he made you feel protected. You loved holding his hand everywhere, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. You loved it when he pushed the stray locks of hair behind your ear and smiled at you as if you were the prettiest thing he had seen all day.

But you knew the next step was coming. Or maybe you only thought it one day, while he laughed at something silly you had said. Clark was a gentleman, truly. He wouldn't continue doing something if you told him you felt uncomfortable. Never. That was clear. But interrupting him mid-kiss was awkward. You would make him feel uncomfortable. And he would pull away. Like the others. Or worse, he would stay out of pity.

It wasn't planned. You had only agreed to eat at your apartment, but nothing more. It was after the movie. You kissed him first, almost without thinking, and from there you had been kissing for almost thirty minutes. Your lips were swollen, your breathing uncontrolled, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beat. His curls tangled between your fingers. He was squeezing your waist slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. But then that thought returned. You pulled away to breathe more air. He leaned in as if wanting to let you know he wanted to keep kissing you, but not finding your lips, he buried his face in your neck. You sighed, caressing his curls. You longed to feel him so much, but your fear invaded you. Should you fake an orgasm again? You remembered how ridiculous you felt doing that, those fake moans, that lie that only served to make him finish faster.

"Do you want to stop?" Clark whispered in your ear when he saw that you were only touching his curls without saying anything.

He looked at you. His cheeks were red, but his blue eyes were dilated, dark. Lips swollen like yours. You pressed your lips together. If you were the problem, you repeated to yourself, you'll ruin it. Again.

"No," you said. But you lowered your gaze to his shirt, playing with his button.

Clark tilted his head. He waited for your answer. You knew he didn't want a kiss to continue. He didn't want you to just keep going as if nothing was wrong. He wanted to know why you were nervous. And it wasn't normal nerves, he noticed it. There was something behind your trembling hands, behind the way you avoided his eyes.

"It's just that… I… have a problem," you whispered. And you felt your cheeks burn with shame.

"Problem?" said Clark. He moved on the couch to see you properly. Very carefully, he moved the lock of hair that covered your face and put it behind your ear. "Is it serious?" he asked, and his voice sounded genuinely worried.

"No… no… nothing like that," you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just… well… I have problems with… that." You made a vague gesture with your hand, not daring to look at him.

Clark frowned, confused.

"I… never… well…," you tried to say, but the words got tangled.

"Hey, pretty, it's okay," he said, and his voice was soft, calm. He caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do you want to tell me? Go ahead. If you don't feel ready, nothing will happen." There was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. It was just Clark smiling with those dimples that appeared on his cheeks.

"I've never had an orgasm," you finally said.

You watched him blush. He nodded without saying anything. And your heart sank. You thought he would start to hate you. You thought you should have kept quiet and just faked it like you had done so many times before. The silence grew long, too long.

"No… but it's my problem," you blurted out, the words coming out fast, barely breathing. "I really enjoy it, it's just that… I won't reach that point. But we can keep going, don't worry about me." You said all that with the intention of making him forget, of him kissing you again and that's it.

Clark looked at you fixedly. "Not worry about you?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood correctly.

He guided you onto his lap gently. You sat on him. The friction was evident, noticeable, but he was focused on you, not on himself. His hands remained still on your hip, not squeezing, just resting.

"It's not just your problem," he said slowly. "Is it a problem? I mean… why do you say it's a problem? Did a gynecologist tell you that?" he asked, and he said it wanting to understand, not to judge.

"No," you played with his shirt again, not looking at him. "It was the… people I was with before," you said, and the word people tasted ugly in your mouth.

"Or they were the problem," Clark said simply.

You looked at him. How could he say it like that, so easily, as if it were obvious?

"But it's two people saying the same thing," you said, and you felt your throat close up. "Two, Clark. It's not a coincidence."

Clark nodded. He had left his glasses on the table an hour ago, since he started kissing you. Now his blue eyes looked at you without a filter.

"We can try it right now," he said simply, like someone says let's have a drink or let's watch another movie. He looked at you with that calm that only he had. "And we'll check if it's true or if you just had two people with low resistance next to you." He smiled a little. "You know I'm very resistant, don't you?" Clark asked.

And you, despite the fear, despite the shame, smiled blushing.

And then you kissed him.

You didn't think anymore. You didn't give yourself time to think. You just leaned your face in and your lips found his again. Clark made a small sound, a low moan that was lost between you two. Your hands went up to his neck. You felt his hot skin, his rapid pulse under your fingers. His hands were on your hip at first, still, as if he was afraid of squeezing too hard. But then they went down to your thighs and there they did squeeze, with desire. He went back to your neck, stopped kissing your mouth to go down to that soft spot right under your ear. He stayed there for a while. Just kissing, just sucking a little, just breathing against your skin. You felt him so good that you moaned uncontrollably. It wasn't a low or subtle moan. It was a moan that came from deep within, without you being able to do anything to stop it.

"Oh, Clark!" you said. And your hands clenched his curls tightly, as if you were about to fall and he was the only thing holding you up.

You took off his shirt. It wasn't easy because he wouldn't stop kissing you, but you managed. The fabric went up his back and he let go of your lips just long enough to take it off completely. Then you took off yours with his help. His hands were large and trembled a little as they unbuttoned the buttons. You didn't know if it was nerves or desire, maybe both. When your shirt fell to the floor, Clark looked at you for a second. Just a second. His blue eyes ran over your face, your neck, your shoulders. And then he kissed you again as if he had been waiting for days to do it.

Clark took your waist and sat you on the couch. But he didn't sit next to you. He did something strange. He crouched down, lowered his body in front of you. A movement you didn't understand. What did he intend to do? He pulled away from your lips, very slowly, as if it cost him effort. He kissed your neck again. Then went lower. He kissed your chest, the top part, right where the heart beats strongest. Then lower down. He kissed your abdomen, right in the center, and you felt your skin pucker from how soft it was. You looked at him. The living room lamp let you see little, just shadows and glints. But the sighs came out of you as soon as you felt him remove your pants. He unbuttoned them, lowered them slowly, looking at you as he did so. Then he took off your panties. Also slowly. His fingers hooked the fabric and lowered it down your legs. Your hands were trembling. Everything was trembling.

His huge hands parted your legs. Gently but firmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. You opened your legs more for him, without thinking. Your pupils were so dilated you could barely see. But when you looked at his face, he was looking directly at your center. You threw your head back. You couldn't look. You were embarrassed and yet you didn't want to stop looking.

"Clark," you moaned. His name came out broken, like a long sigh.

He leaned in. He kissed your vaginal lips as if they were your regular lips. With the same softness, the same calm. Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe what he was doing. No one had kissed you there before. No one had taken that time. You felt his tongue lick your line, that little opening you had been so afraid to show. Then he opened it more with his tongue, carefully, and even penetrated you a little with it. The sounds coming from below were wet, lewd, shameful. But you didn't want him to stop. Everything was different. Everything was so strange and so good at the same time. Your hands tangled in his curls again. Your hips lifted on their own, as if your body came to life and wanted more from Clark. More of his mouth, more of his tongue, more of everything.

"Do you like it?" you heard him say. His voice came out hoarse, low, and he was still between your legs. "My pretty girlfriend, you taste so good," he said. Then he pulled away slightly. You looked down and saw a line of saliva hanging from his lips to you. You smiled, blushing, and thrust your hip towards him. He understood. He didn't protest. Oh, he never would. Clark found that exquisite, you could see it in his eyes. To see how his mouth could melt you. He just thought how you must have felt when they pointed out that you didn't have orgasms. When they told you that you were the problem. Surely they were the problem, Clark thought. And he set out to do it the second you told him the reason for that fear. He would show you. He would show you they were wrong.

"Oh, Clark!" you said again. But this time it wasn't just pleasure. It was something else. A strange tremor ran through your body, started in your belly and went up your back. Your legs contracted on their own. Your hands in his curls pushed his face further against you, even though he didn't need you to push him. "God, I… no… Clark," you said. And then it happened.

A strange sensation ran through your entire body. It wasn't like anything you had felt before. It was as if something inside you broke but in a good way. As if you let go of something you had been holding onto for years. Slow spasms, undulations that went up and down your legs, your belly, your chest. You breathed as soon as you could, but it was hard. The air didn't come in well because your whole body was shaking. Clark approached slowly. He kissed your thigh, then your abdomen, then your neck. He kissed softly, very softly, while your body still shook a little.

"My beautiful girlfriend was treated so badly," he said. He gave you kisses on your neck, one after another, while you recovered from the previous wave. You didn't have the strength to even speak. Then he kissed you on the mouth. His saliva and your juices mixed with your own saliva and you didn't care. Nothing mattered more than continuing to feel what you had just felt.

Clark pulled away just enough to take off his pants. He lowered them quickly, this time without calm, and kicked them off completely. He looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.

"I don't have a condom," he whispered. And his voice sounded almost apologetic.

You shook your head. "It's okay," you nodded. You said it so fast you barely thought about it. You were lost. Needy for him. Not just anyone. For him.

Clark smiled looking at you. "Good," he whispered. But nothing happened. Not at first.

Until you felt something enter you. You moaned, brushing your lips against Clark's. It wasn't what you thought. It wasn't him. It was his two fingers. He inserted them slowly, one first, then another. He needed to stretch you a little more so you would adjust to him later. But the simple position had already warmed you up more than you thought. His swollen lips close to yours. His hand working below, inside, moving with a rhythm you didn't know. His other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders, clinging to him. The closeness of his face, the warm air coming from his mouth mixing with yours. The dilated pupils of both of you, so large you could barely see the color of his eyes.

You opened your lips to say something but no words came out. He moved closer, their teeth clashed a little, and he kissed you. It was a messy kiss, wet, with both of them breathing poorly. They moaned between kisses. His fingers entering and exiting you, faster each time. Your tongue playing with his. A third finger entered and you felt everything stretch down there. You closed your eyes tightly. You pulled away from his mouth just to breathe, just to not suffocate. He took your neck with his free hand, very gently, and pulled you close again. And then…

"Damn it… again," you said. Your voice trembled. Everything trembled. "I… oh," you said. You couldn't finish the sentence.

Your body shook entirely. A new wave, stronger than the first, shook you from head to toe. Your hands squeezed Clark's shoulders as if you were sinking. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Clark held you tight, pressed his chest to yours and held you while you shook. You breathed with difficulty, your face buried in his neck. He didn't move. He just held you. With one hand he massaged your leg with fingers stained with you, and that soft caress helped you come back. Little by little. Very little by little.

And then he carried you.

You didn't even have time to say anything. Clark put his arms under your body, one behind your back and the other behind your knees, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your arms circled his neck by reflex, and you pressed your face against his shoulder. You felt his hot skin, his smell, his agitated breathing. He walked towards your room. He knew the way. He had learned every step of your house when he came to visit you and helped you leave something in your room. A jacket, a bag, a book. He always noticed everything, even if you didn't realize it. He knew where the bed was, where the door was, where the lamp was. When they arrived, he entered without bumping into anything. He placed you on the bed gently, as if you were something fragile. The sheet was cold against your back and that contrasted with the heat of his body on top of you.

You felt his member brush against your entrance. Barely touching you. Just a graze. And you, without thinking, lifted your hip towards him. Your body moved on its own. You were no longer afraid. You no longer wanted to hide. You just wanted to feel him inside you.

"That's it," Clark said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His member became stained with your juices as he rubbed against you, barely entering and exiting, just the tip. You moaned every time he brushed against that place that needed him so much. "We're going to show them who the real problem was," he said. And then he gave you a kiss on the jaw, right where your face ends and your neck begins. That kiss was soft, but he said it with a certainty that made you believe him. That was enough for him to insert himself into you. Not all at once. It was slow. Very slow. You felt him fill you little by little, centimeter by centimeter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Just air.

Then the thrusts began. Slow at first. Very slow. Every time he entered, your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his movement. They went up and down like small waves. Clark's lips went straight to them. He kissed the tip of your nipple, which was already hard, very hard. He kissed it softly, with closed lips, then with his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet. Your hand tangled in his curls again, squeezing gently, pulling a little. His hot breath lingered on your skin every time he parted his lips to breathe.

"Oh, Clark," you said. Your voice came out choppy, broken by moans. "You feel so good," you admitted. It wasn't a lie. You had never felt anything like it. He filled every empty space you had inside.

"No," Clark said, shaking his head while continuing to move inside you. "You are the one who feels so good." He bit your nipple carefully, barely a pinch with his teeth. "So adapted to me," he said, and then he took your entire nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, playing with his tongue around it.

You stayed underneath him on your back for a good while. Then he turned you over gently and you were face down. He penetrated you again and again, from behind, and you buried your head in the pillow to keep from screaming too loudly. Clark's fingers dug gently into your hip, guiding you, moving you to his rhythm. Then he took you and arranged you on top of him. You sat on his stomach and he looked up at you from below. You set the pace yourself. Your hands trembled as they rested on his chest. You bent down from time to time to kiss him, and he took that moment to grab your buttocks with his large hands. He gently spread them to sink deeper into you. That made you moan louder. But you kept your rhythm. Your hips made slow circles. Your breasts moved in a back-and-forth sway, left and right. Clark squeezed them with his hands, massaged them while you moved on top of him. You moaned, but this time it wasn't just any moan. You were almost singing to him, letting your voice out with each rise and each fall. You felt so close. Clark noticed it because your rhythm began to get slower, clumsier. You were tired but you didn't want to stop.

"I… Clark, help me," you whispered. Your voice was barely audible.

He didn't need you to repeat it. You leaned on his shoulders and he lifted your body with force. Clark began to penetrate by lifting and lowering his hips. He led the rhythm now. Both moaned together, at the same time, as if their bodies were one. They were both so close. Clark grabbed your bottom with one hand, with the other he grabbed your hip, and penetrated deeper. Your eyes became moist. You didn't know if it was from pleasure or something else. You looked at him blurry, because the tears hadn't fallen but they fogged everything up. Clark's senses heated up seeing you like that. You breathed so fast you almost felt dizzy. And then you trembled. In the last thrust, your body contracted entirely. You trembled like a leaf in the wind. And you felt Clark fill you, hot, inside. Enough for you to fall onto his chest without strength. Still trembling. Still shuddering when Clark's arms hugged you tight.

He didn't let you go. He didn't push you away. He didn't turn his face to the wall like the others did. Clark kept you on his chest, with an arm around your back and the other hand caressing you gently. He waited for your breathing to normalize. He didn't speak. There was no need. He just held you. And you sank into his chest tired, happy, calm. Hugging him too. With your eyes closed. With a smile he couldn't see but surely felt.

"Confirmed," Clark said after a while, his voice still hoarse but with a laugh hidden in the words. "You are not the problem."

You laughed. A small, trembling laugh, but real. He felt your laugh on his chest, the vibrations of your throat against his skin. And he also laughed. His laugh was low, soft, like everything about him.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look at him. You gave him a short, quick kiss on the lips. And then you hugged him again, burying your nose in his neck.

"I really like you, Clark," you admitted. Your voice came out small, as if you were still embarrassed to say it.

Clark blushed. You felt him get warm under your lips. "I am in love with you," he said. He paused, as if thinking the word embarrassed him too. "A lot," he added, so there was no doubt.

You hugged him tighter, not looking at his smile, but you knew it was there. You felt it in how his chest moved as he breathed.

"Let's clean ourselves up," Clark whispered after a while, running a hand through your messy hair. "We'll take a shower."

Clark did it. He got out of bed, took your hand and led you to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited for the temperature to be right. Then they got in together. You curled up against his chest, stuck to him as if it were the safest place in the world. He soaped your hair first, carefully, undoing the knots with his fingers. Then he soaped your body, slowly, running the sponge over your back, your shoulders, your arms, your legs. There was no hurry. The water fell over both of them and the bathroom filled with steam. Then he soaped himself, with your eyes watching him. In the end they dried off with a large towel that Clark ran over your body first before running it over his. Then they went back to bed, still with damp skin and the smell of soap.

Clark already had his purpose for every night. He wouldn't let you think again that you were a problem. He would show you whenever necessary. With kisses. With caresses. With patience. With that very way of his of looking at you as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. That night, when he turned off the light and hugged you from behind, with his nose buried in your nape and his arm crossed over your waist, you knew you weren't alone. That you would never have to pretend again. That Clark would stay. And you, for the first time in a long time, closed your eyes and felt calm.