#davidcorenswet

By the age of fifteen, you had your own personal chaffeur. He'd drive you around the block with a big grin and a janky car that rattled when it turned, while your mom watched proudly from the living room window.

He loved her too, of course. So very much. Sometimes, they'd go about their day and you'd just smile and watch them; how he spun her around the kitchen table, the giggles that fell from her lips, the open bills forgotten on the table right next to them. None of them mattered. They ceased to exist the second they laid their eyes on one another.

He'd kiss her cheek, ruffle your hair, call you both his best girls.

You told yourself it was a love you wanted one day- when you were a little bit older maybe, when the right man finally came along. Your father showed you best how a woman should be treated; made it so that princess treatment wasn't a 'luxury' to you, nor would it ever be.

It was a god-given, fully expected birthright.

However, little girls had to grow up sometime.

So when twenty-two finally came, and you packed your bags and headed off to the big city of Metropolis- your father's tearful wave accompanying the faint smell of smoke that always clung to him in the hug goodbye- you simply didn't have it in you to prepare for the dangers ahead.

"You call me if you need a thing," he said gruffly, though the tears in his vision contrasted his voice completely. You nodded, falling into yet another tearful hug, "Don't be a stranger."

You tried.

But- as expected- life took over. You got busy. You'd still call, but visited far less frequently.

And the downside to previously having such a loving dynamic followed you right through adulthood.

The deadbeat boyfriends that you trusted, the almost-fiancé that only wanted a ring on your finger for the status. They took your naivety as gospel and used it to load their pistols of incompetence; missed dinners, connections to their exes, coersion.

How could they be so awful, when your father had only ever shown you the kind side to men? How did you accumulate so many horrible dates, land in so many awful situations that would have the man who raised you barrelling down the freeway with narrowed eyes and anger emcompassing every acceleration?

Your first situationship wasn't real. It was experience.

Your first ever boyfriend didn't like you. He liked the idea of you.

And your second boyfriend-turned-fiancé had none of the qualities you wanted in a partner. So when he came home one day, excited over colour swatches and bouqets for a wedding you just couldn't envision- well, you broke it off. Right then and there.

Because he'd never proven himself, not really. And you needed that proof like your very existence needed oxygen.

He never opened doors for you, never bothered to memorise your coffee order. The vanity you bought months and months ago sat untouched, collecting dust at the corner of the room because he'd promised to put it together one day and just... never did.

Your father would have. He would have driven the whole twelve hours down to central, just to get his hands on a hammer and a nail, and you'd be powdering your face in a fresh mirror within minutes.

So, you took a leap of faith and ended the three year relationship. You moved out into your own studio apartment right in the heart of Metropolis, a few blocks away from all your favourite places.

You thought, maybe love just wasn't for you. Perhaps there was something wrong with you that meant nothing human would ever measure up. Or perhaps, you winced, you truly were as spoilt as your many exes had accused you of being.

"Daddy's girl." your first one had scoffed.

"Ain't ever gonna land a good man with that attitude," the second one spat.

"How... but... I-I did everything right." the third lied tearfully.

But then, just when you started to lower your expectations and announce to the world that you were finally giving up on finding the perfect man, you met him.

Clark.

Clark Kent.

And everything those horrible exes had tried to convince you that you were flew entirely out of the window.

He was soft, sweet. You both met on a rainy day in July, the water warm and faint, making everything smell like fresh air and ozone.

"Oh! I'm sorry-" you blushed, your body bumping against his as you failed to watch where you were going.

"No, no- that's alright," his smile was kind. Patient. The type of smile to base a frequent daydream off of. "Please, after you."

"Thank you."

He'd held the door to the café open for you to walk inside, watching quietly as you claimed your seat in the corner of the lobby before going up to order yourself a drink.

Clark got his first. He paid for yours in advance, tipping the barista 40%, before slipping unannounced straight back out of the door.

When you finally decided on an oat milk vanilla latte, he was gone.

The second time you met him, the key to your apartment had jammed in the lock, and you'd gone back down to the lobby to ask someone for help.

And for some reason, the kind man from the coffee shop was right there; only just about to get in the elevator, when he caught your eye and once again, let you in first.

You were neighbours, would you believe? A few floors apart, sure, but living in the same building regardless.

What were the chances? You made a mental note to thank him for your coffee another time, hopefully on a better day under happier circumstances.

"How's your morning been?" he asked you politely.

On a good day, you typically wouldn't overshare- it was just super unfortunate that he happened to catch you on a very, very, very bad day.

So naturally, you told him everything.

How the wind had ruined your hair the very second you stepped out of the building to go to work; how none of the emails you'd sent made any sense, and how your lunch was gross despite the fact that you always got the same thing. Then finally, how you came home absolutely exhausted and still, your key got stuck- with nobody in reception willing to lend a helping hand.

"It's a couple hundred dollars for a locksmith," Clark's eyebrows raised, in a slightly stunned way that would have had you blushing if you weren't already so frustrated. "I'm not one, but... I could take a look? If you'd like? I grew up on a farm, and we had these old fashioned keys that'd get jammed all the time... I know my way around a keyhole."

You tried not to let the surprise on your face show. You didn't have to beg, plead, barter for this man to help you out- he just did, wanted to, for seemingly nothing in return.

And you weren't even acquiantances, let alone friends. He owed you nothing and still, came to your floor and jimmied the key right out. No struggle, no sighs of exasperation to make you feel bad- just a pleased smile and a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes.

"There," he grinned, plopping it in your palm carefully, "All fixed."

You thanked him, weak at the knees. It was then that you realised just how gorgeous Clark really was- if it wasn't the baby blues, it was the smile, the dimples in his cheeks and the impressive way his shoulders filled out the dress shirt he wore.

But most importantly, he was kind.

That just made him all the more stunning.

You ran into each other for a while. Often in the elevator, and afterwards he'd walk you to your door like it was midnight in Gotham. Never asking to be invited in, just happy to speak to you for an extra twenty seconds of his day.

When you did eventually muster up enough courage to ask him to come inside, you had no idea what you were in for. Truly.

Because that one cup of decaf coffee turned into multiple. It turned into dinner under the lowlight of your apartment (a thanks for the coffee he'd bought weeks ago) and another dinner a couple of weeks later at Clark's penthouse (a thanks for your thanks for the coffee he'd bought a month ago), right at the top of the building you both shared.

Naturally, it turned into something more.

A drawer at his, a space at yours. Two toothbrushes in both bathrooms, one tube of toothpaste. Your mugs began to invade his cupboard space, amended articles with his neat handwriting filling your coffee table.

So when Clark asked you to be his girlfriend four months after your first official date, of course, you said yes. Because by then, you already knew.

He wasn't like the others. They were boys, silly little things that knew nothing of what it meant to really, truly love someone.

But Clark did.

He remembered everything about you, not even just the important stuff like what you didn't like and what you loved- he remembered the exact way you liked your clothes folded, your skincare routine, how you hated cobblestone paths because it made your footing uneven. You were a carefully penned article, one that he was determined to memorise.

Clark never made you feel like you were asking for too much. If anything, he made you feel like you deserved it all and more.

The bookshelf arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.

It came in a flat-packed cardboard box that was nearly as tall as you were, dropped unceremoniously in the hallway outside your apartment by a delivery man who barely spared you a glance before disappearing back into the elevator.

"Delivery for ya, little lady."

You stared at it for a long moment.

Clark was working late at the Planet. He had texted you that morning, a bunch of emojis clouding his gentle words of, Don’t wait up, honey. Perry’s got us chasing three different stories today.

You told him to take his time. Said you’d order takeout, enough for him to come home to, and curl up with a book.

Instead, you dragged the box inside.

It started innocently enough. A pair of scissors slicing through packing tape. The rustle of protective styrofoam that went everywhere and made you huff. Instruction manuals unfolding like complicated maps written in languages you only half understood.

"God." you muttered miserably, narrowed eyes glaring at the box with vice.

By step four, you were sweating.

For step six, you had somehow assembled two panels backwards. Step nine wasn't any better, because that was when the screwdriver slipped in your grip and your knuckles slammed hard against the unfinished wood.

You hissed, sucking in air through your teeth, blinking rapidly as tears pricked your vision. A thin line of red blossomed across your skin.

It wasn’t even the pain that made your chest tighten. It was the echo of a memory.

A different apartment. A different box. A different man sighing loudly from the couch while scrolling through his phone, irritation dripping from every exhale as you asked, softly, if he could help you assemble the vanity he’d promised to build weeks ago.

In a minute.

After this game.

Why can’t you just do it yourself?

It had taken you three weeks of gentle reminders and swallowed pride before he finally assembled it- muttering the entire time like your request was a personal inconvenience. Only to drop to one knee a couple of months later, claims of you being the love of his life dripping from his mouth like venom.

The screwdriver clattered from your hand. You tried again anyway, because who else was going to do it?

Clark found you sitting cross-legged on the floor when he finally came home, surrounded by wooden panels, scattered screws, and instructions wrinkled beyond recognition. The bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, uneven and half-assembled like it might collapse if someone breathed too hard.

The smile on his face dropped, gaze trailing down your arm to your hand, wrapped clumsily in paper towels speckled pink.

He froze in the doorway.

"Honey?"

You looked up, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Hi."

His eyes flicked between the blood, the mess, the lopsided shelf, and something inside his expression shifted. Not anger- never anger with your sweet, careful Clark- but a quiet, wounded confusion that hit you harder than you thought it would.

"…Why wouldn’t you ask me to do it?" the softness in his voice made your throat tighten.

You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the carpet fibres beneath your fingertips. "You were working. I didn’t want to bother you."

Clark set his bag down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between you.

"You’re never a bother," he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His large hands hovered near yours before carefully taking your wrist, inspecting the cut with such delicate concentration it made your chest ache. “Does this hurt?”

"Not really."

It did. Just not in the way he meant.

So, you explained it to him.

The string of bad exes. The sighs of annoyance that used to follow your requests like thunder chasing lightning. The vanity you once loved and now hated because it took weeks of quiet grovelling just to convince someone who supposedly loved you to build it.

The slow, creeping shame that made you believe asking for help meant being difficult. Being high maintenance. Being too much.

"I just..." you winced, "I just got so used to my dad doing everything for me. I'm sorry."

Clark listened to every word.

"You never have to be sorry for that," he told you gently, reaching a warm hand out to soothe you. "All it means is that you grew up knowing what real love looks like."

You went quiet for a bit, not really knowing what to say back. Never in your life had you told a man about your dad and been met with anything other than an eye-roll or a raised eyebrow.

"I’m not like them," he then said, softly.

You swallowed.

"I said I’d take care of you," he continued, his thumb ghosting across your knuckles with careful tenderness. "Let me take care of you."

There was no arrogance in it, no possessiveness. Just quiet certainty, like gravity. Like sunrise. Like truths that simply existed without needing to be proven.

And then, because your ever-loving boyfriend was Clark Kent, he kissed your injured hand like it was the most natural thing in the world before standing up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, and assembling the entire bookshelf in under thirty minutes.

"Take a seat, baby," he cleared the couch of instruction manuals and nails for you, "Relax for me, okay?"

You didn’t question how he managed it so quickly. You just watched him, warmth blooming in your chest like something long frozen had finally begun to thaw.

It reminded you of home. Of laughter spilling from kitchen walls, smoke clinging to familiar flannel, strong hands that had spent your entire life making the world feel softer around the edges.

And maybe that was why the next step felt less like a choice and more like destiny.

Meeting your father was… inevitable.

Terrifying for both of you, but inevitable.

Clark ironed three different shirts before settling on the blue one you told him brought out his eyes. He rehearsed greetings under his breath. He even brought flowers for your mother, even though she’d insisted repeatedly over the phone that it wasn’t necessary.

"We just want you both here, safe!" she chirped happily. Even so, you still felt like throwing up and Clark was still ruffling a nervous hand through his unruly hair.

Your father opened the door with that same familiar scent of cedar clinging to him, his pose rigid, still protective, still the safest place you’d ever known. He sized Clark up in less than three seconds.

Clark extended his hand immediately.

"Sir," he nodded slowly, "it’s an honour to finally meet you."

Your father gripped his hand firmly, gaze sharp but not unkind. When he spoke, you felt your boyfriend loosen up a little, though the dread was still apparent in the way he stayed a respectable distance away from you.

"Any man willing to drive six hours just to make sure my daughter doesn’t travel alone already gets a few points in my book." your father replied.

Dinner was loud. Warm. Filled with overlapping stories and constant laughter that bounced off the four walls you'd grown up in. You watched them carefully, nervously, but it didn’t take long before your shoulders relaxed.

Because your father refilled your glass without a word.

And Clark draped a neatly folded napkin across your lap, a soft smile brushing your lips before he turned back to your mother’s story.

When your plate ran low, your father quietly spooned more onto it, telling the story of the day you were born as if the two moments were on- care and memory intertwined.

And then Clark, silently, took the cherries from his own dessert and placed them on yours, his fingers brushing yours just enough for you to notice, your favourite part of a favourite thing now doubled.

Together, wordlessly, seemingly without noticing- they moved around you like two steady orbits around the same sun.

By the end of the evening, you wandered toward the living room while they insisted on washing up. You meant to help, but your footsteps slowed when you heard your father’s voice through the kitchen doorway.

He handed Clark the final dish, water dripping from his hands.

"I know you’re a good man," your father said quietly. "And I trust you’ll take care of her. But please… if anything ever changes. If you ever feel different… don’t hurt her."

Silence stretched for a moment.

"Just bring her back to me."

You peeked around the corner just enough to see Clark swallow, his shoulders straightening with quiet resolve.

"Yes, sir," he said, steadily.

"But please... believe me. I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t even think of it."

Your father nodded once, satisfied. You pressed your hand against your mouth, blinking rapidly as emotion swelled behind your ribs.

And Clark was right. He never hurt you. Never even came close.

Not even when he finally told you he was Superman.

He confessed on a quiet evening, glasses set carefully on the coffee table between you like a confession waiting to breathe. His voice trembled in a way you’d never heard before, words tumbling out in uneven fragments about responsibility and fear and how loving you had become both the bravest and most terrifying thing he’d ever done.

You listened. You watched the man you loved stand before you stripped bare- not of strength, but of certainty.

You forgave him before he even finished explaining.

Because deep, deep down, you believed that you had always known.

Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in ways you could put into words. But the late nights, the impossible saves. The way he sometimes looked at the sky like it was calling him home, the sirens that alerted him more than they should.

You loved Clark Kent. And in turn, you were also in love with Superman.

It didn’t change the way he warmed your side of the bed before you climbed in, or how he held all eight grocery bags in one hand and yours in the other. It didn’t change the way he still insisted on tying your shoelaces if he noticed they were loose, dropping down on the busy pavement just to provide you some ease.

If anything, it only deepened your understanding of how extraordinary it was that someone capable of carrying the world still chose to come home and carry you, too.

Years passed.

The love- as well as the space- that you both shared, grew.

Two apartments turned into just one, and that one apartment became a four bedroom house just outside of the city; one bought with a nursery and young child's bedroom in mind one day.

Your wedding day smelled like fresh flowers and nervous anticipation.

Your father’s arm trembled slightly where it linked through yours as he walked you down the aisle, though whether from emotion or age, you couldn’t tell. You clutched him tighter, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his steps.

Clark waited at the altar, eyes glassy, smile already breaking across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His good friend Jimmy sobbed into a napkin, Lois right next to him hissing to pull it together- though you could see it too, the glossiness in her piercing blue eyes.

Halfway down the aisle, your father leaned closer.

"I loved you first," he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.

"I know," you whispered back, hoping for a joke, hoping for a threat towards the only man in the world you knew he'd ever approve of. Anything to ease the nerves, the dread of everyone's eyes on you.

But instead, your father nodded towards where Clark stood, voice barely a croak.

"And now, he gets to love you forever."

Your chest squeezed painfully, beautifully, as he placed your hand into Clark’s waiting one.

Clark held it like something sacred, irreplaceable, something he would protect with everything he was and still had yet to be.

Your father pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back, pride and heartbreak and joy colliding in his eyes all at once. When the officiant began to speak, and you caught Clark's eyes boring so lovingly into your own, it was then that you fully realised.

You were never impossible to love.

And it was never that your expectations were too high.

You were simply raised knowing what love looked like when it was done right- when it showed up without being asked, when it stayed without being begged, when it took care without making you feel guilty for needing it.

Clark never tried to compete with the love you grew up with. Never tried to make you feel smaller for wanting it to last forever. He never asked you to unlearn the gentleness your father built your world around, or reshape yourself into something easier to hold.

Instead, he treated it like something special, something worth protecting. Something worth proving, day after day, that it could exist outside childhood memories and smoke-scented hugs goodbye.

And in the end, he never tried to stand where your father had. He simply stepped in beside him, honoured- ready to continue the love that raised you.

“Hey,” Jimmy said with mock offense. “Raccoons are adorable and resourceful.”

Clark smiled as he typed. “So… when do we get to meet your family? You talk about your sister all the time, but she’s like Bigfoot. Many claims, no sightings.”

Jimmy sat up straighter, a glint of pride—and nervousness—flashing across his face. “Actually… she’s stopping by today.”

Clark looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just visiting. She’s got a layover in Metropolis for a few days, and I figured, hey, why not subject her to the madness?”

“Is this the sister who beat you at Mario Kart for twelve years straight?”

“The same,” Jimmy said, dramatically. “Y/n ‘Turbo Mode’ Olsen. She’s smart. Cool. And—”

He paused.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “And?”

Jimmy sighed. “Okay. Just… do me a favor and don’t, like, fall in love with her.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious, man. It happens every time. I introduce her to my friends, and boom, instant crush. It’s like her mutant ability. She walks in, says hi, and suddenly people are writing sonnets.”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being traumatized. My college roommate asked her to marry him after one game night. She beat him at Scrabble. That was the trigger.”

Clark gave a small smile. “I’m sure she’s great.”

“She is,” Jimmy said with a nod. “But she’s also the only person alive who can roast me to dust in ten syllables or less, so just… brace yourself, okay?”

Lois muttered, “This is going to be so good.”

—

The elevator chimed.

No one really noticed it at first—not with Lois muttering something under her breath about fiscal fraud, and Clark flipping through zoning maps of Metropolis’s aging sewer infrastructure. Jimmy was elbow-deep in his camera bag, swearing softly as he dug around for a spare lens cap that was clearly lost in a black hole.

And then Cat Grant looked up—paused mid-step in her strut toward the break room—and blinked.

Hard.

A few heads turned after her, curiosity piqued by something in her expression. Even the intern closest to the elevator stuttered in his phone call, suddenly tongue-tied.

Then Lois turned around too.

“Oh,” she said, voice dry but vaguely impressed. “Okay. Yeah. That’s Jimmy’s sister?

Clark followed her gaze instinctively—then froze.

⸻

It was less like someone stepping out of an elevator and more like someone stepping onto a stage.

You weren’t subtle.

You wore a short, flared white dress that framed your figure with an almost dangerous precision. The puffed sleeves sat high, the deep plunging neckline left no ambiguity about your confidence, and the skirt swished above your thighs with each step. A wide, square collar framed the bare skin at your chest, soft scalloped trim catching the light. Your long hair tumbled in loose waves over your shoulders, and you smiled like you knew exactly how many heads were turning.

The room… paused.

Not froze — just stuttered. Reporters stumbled over their sentences. Keyboards stopped clacking. Even Perry White’s door cracked open slightly, as if the universe itself demanded witness.

Clark had only seen people react like that to Superman (himself) — and somehow, this was better.

Cat let out a low whistle. “Oh, Jimmy,” she muttered. “There’s no way she’s related to you.”

Lois blinked. “He’s gotta be adopted. No offense.”

“Rude,” Jimmy said automatically — then followed their gaze and froze. “Oh no.”

You spotted him

“JIMMY!” you beamed.

He stood up too fast, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter and scrambling to catch it before it hit the floor.

“Oh no,” he repeated, louder this time, and bolted toward you. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” you grinned, arms open. “Fashionable? Charming? Socially competent?”

You collided in a hug halfway across the bullpen, nearly knocking over an intern.

“You wore the dress,” Jimmy hissed as you separated.

“You said you weren’t gonna wear it!”

“You dared me,” you said sweetly. “And you know I’m petty.”

“Yeah, well, now Clark’s gonna short-circuit and Lois is gonna draft a wedding registry before lunch.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He groaned. “How long are you staying again?”

You ruffled his hair. “Long enough to emotionally damage you. Like a good sibling.”

Clark hadn’t moved. At some point, he’d lowered his zoning map and just… stared. Glasses slightly fogged. Lips parted like he’d forgotten how oxygen worked.

Lois nudged him. “Close your mouth, Smallville. You’re gonna catch flies.”

“I’m fine,” Clark said, definitely not fine.

“You’re blushing so hard, Smallville. She’s got you down bad.”

“Lois.”

Cat crossed her arms. “This is gonna be so entertaining.”

Jimmy led you to his desk, rambling nonstop — mostly to distract everyone from how completely wrecked Clark looked.

“You remember that bakery I told you about? Still gives me muffins. I think they legally adopted me. Also, my neighbor definitely thinks I’m FBI, which is fine, I’m not correcting her—”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “God, you talk more when you’re panicking.”

“I am not — okay, yeah, I am,” he admitted. “But you wore that to a newspaper office.”

You waved vaguely. “You said it was casual.”

“This is not casual. This is… I don’t know, every man’s sexual fantasy come to life.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Lois leaned back in her chair, sipping coffee. “She’s even better than I imagined.”

You turned and smiled. “You must be Lois.”

“That obvious?”

Jimmy gestured between you. “Lois Lane, my sister Y/n. Y/n, this is Lois Lane.”

You offered your hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard… stories.”

Lois shook it. “All true.”

“Even the one with the stapler?”

“He unplugged my monitor.”

“Justified,” you said.

Then came Cat. “Cat Grant,” she said. “Resident taste-maker, HR’s worst nightmare.”

You grinned. “You’re the one with the killer shoe collection and the office playlist that makes Jimmy cry?”

Cat beamed. “I knew I liked her.”

Jimmy made a strangled noise. “Stop bonding with my coworkers!”

You turned, finally, to the one person you hadn’t met.

Clark Kent.

He stood up automatically. Tall. Nervous. Shoulders too broad for his sweater vest. That smile — not dazzling, not flashy, just real — hovering uncertainly on his lips.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathless. “I’m Clark. Clark Kent.”

You smiled — and something in your expression softened.

“I’m Y/n. Olsen. But I guess that’s… obvious.”

You shook hands.

Clark blinked.

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

He nodded too fast. “Yeah! Just, um. Processing.”

Jimmy groaned. “He’s a goner. He’s already gone.”

Cat leaned over to Lois. “He’s gonna write poetry about her, isn’t he?”

“Oh yeah,” Lois said. “Free verse. There’ll be metaphors.”

You didn’t let go of Clark’s hand right away. “You’re not what I pictured.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“Jimmy said you were kind of a nerd.”

Jimmy threw his arms in the air. “You weren’t supposed to say that part out loud!”

“Don’t worry,” you said. “It’s a compliment. I like nerds.”

You lingered near Jimmy’s desk, fingers idly looping around the strap of your bag as your eyes flicked around the Daily Planet bullpen. Phones were ringing. Someone was swearing at the copy machine. Lois was pacing with a folder tucked under her arm, eyebrows furrowed like she was mentally rewriting a headline. Cat Grant stood near the coffee station, turning her spoon like she was plotting either a column or a murder.

It was, you thought, a lot. But it suited Jimmy. The noise, the movement, the messy kind of brilliance in every corner. And truthfully? You liked it. It felt alive.

Clark, on the other hand, hadn’t moved much at all.

He stood beside his desk in a perfectly pressed gray suit, tailored just a bit too well for someone who still managed to look like he’d feel bad if he took the last cookie in the breakroom. One hand braced the back of his chair like he couldn’t decide if he should sit, stay standing, or jump out the window. The other hovered near his belt awkwardly, then slowly migrated to his tie like maybe it needed straightening. It didn’t.

He adjusted his glasses.

Paused.

Adjusted them again.

You looked at him again.

And smiled.

Not the dazzling, walk-into-the-room-and-own-it smile you’d used coming off the elevator. This one was smaller. Tilted. Intimate, almost. Like you were already in on the same joke, even if neither of you had told it yet.

Clark’s heart, which had already been on something of a joyride since you arrived, gave another wholly unnecessary lurch.

“Um…” he cleared his throat. “Do you… want to sit? I mean, not that you have to. Obviously. You’re probably just stopping by. Visiting. And I’m sure you’re fine. You look fine. Not that— I mean—”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh, man. He’s spiraling.”

You turned toward Clark fully, your mouth curving with something halfway between amusement and danger.

“Are you always this smooth?” you asked.

Clark gave a helpless little shrug. “Not intentionally.”

Then he sat down. Realized you were still standing. Shot back up.

His chair scraped loudly across the floor, making Cat flinch from across the bullpen.

Lois glanced over her shoulder, coffee halfway to her mouth. “Jesus, Kent. What are you doing, proposing?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone did,” Jimmy muttered, thinking of his college friend.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Just trying not to be rude.”

You stepped forward, into his orbit, until he had to look down to meet your eyes. You tilted your head, gaze sweeping up the full length of him.

“You really are tall,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly like you were running the numbers.

Clark blinked. “I’ve… heard rumors.”

“I mean, I assumed Jimmy was exaggerating. He said you were like… polite skyscraper tall. I thought he was being dramatic.”

“I am never dramatic,” Jimmy muttered from his desk, which no one acknowledged.

“I feel like you could change the lightbulbs in my apartment without standing on anything.”

“Probably,” he admitted, cheeks going slightly pink. “Though I try not to flaunt it.”

“No, you should flaunt it. I mean…” Your eyes flicked over him again. “Statistically speaking, this is a very generous use of vertical space.”

Clark made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been an internal scream.

You smiled again — soft this time, almost fond. And then, as if to really test the theory, you stepped forward until you were fully in his shadow. You tilted your head, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“I stand corrected,” you said, still studying Clark. “Do you always wear suits this well, or is that a Tuesday-only kind of deal?”

Clark blinked again. “I—I don’t know. It’s just work.”

“Well,” you said, smile deepening. “You’re really out here making cardigans look like a missed opportunity.”

Cat, nearby, nearly choked on her coffee.

Lois, still observing with the detached joy of a spectator at the zoo, raised a brow. “How are you doing, Smallville?”

Clark didn’t answer.

Because you stepped even closer. He could feel the edge of your dress brush against his pant leg — soft, light, and completely ruining his ability to form full thoughts.

You tilted your head back to meet his eyes again.

Even in your heels, you barely made it to the middle of his chest.

“I get the feeling you duck through a lot of doorways,” you murmured.

“Historic ones,” Clark said, trying not to smile. “Or Perry’s. He refuses to raise the frame.”

“Do strangers ask you to reach things in stores?”

“Almost daily. Someone once handed me their toddler like I was a cherry-picker.”

You laughed, and it was warm and breathy and real. “Do you accept bribes for shelf assistance?”

“I take muffins. And the occasional heartfelt thank you.”

“Duly noted.”

Behind you, Jimmy groaned again. “I swear, if you two start writing poetry to each other in the middle of the newsroom, I’m transferring."

“You wouldn’t survive at the Gotham Gazette,” Lois said.

“I definitely wouldn’t,” Jimmy admitted.

Clark looked back at you. You hadn’t moved away.

Neither had he.

“You’ve got a good thing here,” you said, glancing around. “It’s loud, but smart. Has that weird mix of chaos and community?”

“It’s basically a co-dependent newsroom family with aggressive deadlines,” Clark said.

“And a lot of caffeine,” Lois added.

“And someone crying near the elevator every other Wednesday,” Cat muttered, eyes still on you like she was sizing you up for a feature piece titled The Woman Who Made Kent Forget English.

You smiled again, looking back at Clark. “So. Lunch?”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“I’m assuming you were about to invite me somewhere. Or were you planning to just keep towering over me and talking about lightbulbs?”

Clark cleared his throat again. “I was… yeah. I was going to ask. I mean — I am asking. I was headed out for lunch. There’s this place — quiet, kind of tucked away. They have this lemon tart. Or maybe it’s lime. It’s… citrusy. Which doesn’t sound impressive, but—”

“Clark,” you interrupted gently, eyes sparkling.

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me out?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then gave a tiny nod. “Yes. I think I am.”

There was a beat.

“You’re really bad at this,” you said, softly.

Clark looked down at himself — his pristine suit, the pressed line of his pants, his shiny shoes — and then back up at you. “I know.”

“I like it,” you added, voice low.

He swallowed, nerves making everything in him tense just a little.

“You’re very…” he started, then hesitated, mouth twisting as he searched for something accurate but not too much.

You waited.

“…effective,” he said at last, a little helplessly.

You blinked. “Effective?”

“In the sense that I lost all coordination for like twenty minutes. And probably half my vocabulary.”

That did it.

You laughed — loud and delighted and completely unfiltered. It made Lois smile. Cat smirk. And Jimmy sigh like his soul was leaving his body.

You reached out and touched Clark’s arm lightly, steadying yourself. “God, you’re cute.”

Clark’s mouth opened, no words came out.

You stepped back, finally remembering the world around you. Your eyes flicked to Jimmy, who was slumped over his desk in defeat.

“Oh,” you said, suddenly wincing. “Right. Sorry, Jumbo.”

“Don’t call me that in front of witnesses.”

You ignored that. “I got a little distracted.”

“You think?”

You grinned at your brother, then reached over and nudged his shoulder. “But hey… that thing I came to tell you, when I originally came here to spend time with you?”

Jimmy sat up slowly, suspicious. “The layover?”

“Not a layover.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I’m moving here,” you said simply. “To Metropolis.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“What?” Jimmy squawked.

You just smiled sweetly. “I found a place. Signed the lease yesterday. I figured if you were gonna keep making me sound like Bigfoot, I might as well haunt the city myself.”

Clark blinked. “Wait, you’re moving here?”

“Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p’. Then you turned back to Clark with a shrug. “Guess that makes this lunch slightly less ‘last chance’ and slightly more ‘welcome to the beginning.’”

Cat nearly dropped her coffee.

Jimmy looked like he’d just witnessed a robbery.

And Clark, adjusting his glasses one last time, managed a small, stunned smile. “That’s… effective.”

You laughed again and nodded toward the door. “Lead the way, Kent.”

He held it open for you — ducking slightly to clear the frame — and followed you out into the city.

Jimmy stared after you both, slack-jawed.

Lois took a sip of her coffee, her voice dry. “Your sister just moved to Metropolis and stole your newsroom.”

Cat grinned. “Honestly? Iconic.”

Jimmy groaned, head dropping back to the desk. “I hate everyone.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, muscles tight. “Sweetheart… just call out,” he tries again, voice barely above a whisper.

She lets out a quiet, humorless laugh as she tucks in her crisp white button-up into her skirt. “Clark,” she warns. “I told you, it’s a blackout day, I’ll get fired.”

“I’ll talk to them-”

“You can’t talk to the country club, babe.” She says, keeping her voice low yet sharp. “The members don’t care that it’s Thanksgiving. They don’t care that they’re keeping us from our families, and the club knows these people pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to be there and expect service on holidays.

He stands, pacing a tiny line between the dresser and the bed; her room was too small for his frame when he was anxious.

“Ma’s expecting you,” he murmurs, softer this time. And as unfair as it is that he brought it up, it kills her, because it’s not even about him; it's about his family. It’s about what he wanted to share with her. “I told her you were coming. She’s making extra brussels sprouts…” Her chest aches, but she doesn’t have the luxury of breaking down right now. “I know,” she whispers. “I wanted to come, I still do.” He stops pacing and looks at her. Then the room stills: “You didn’t try hard enough.” It’s so incredibly unlike him, so out of character, but it slipped from his lips anyway, and there’s no taking it back now if he still wants to make his point. She’s motionless. The quiet in the room turns sharp and uncomfortable. “That’s not fair, Clark,” she says, voice low and controlled because her roommate is awake and packing up to go to her parents’ house. “No one gets off on the holidays. If Miss Darlene doesn’t get to be with her family on Thanksgiving, they’re definitely not going to give the little pipsqueak cocktail server who’s still in college the day off.”

Clark flinches at her shift in tone, but he doesn’t back down. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, but the words are thin and flimsy, like a bandaid stuck onto the edge of a gaping wound.

She glances at him through the mirror as she adjusts her bowtie. “But it’s exactly what you said.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to mask the frustration bubbling beneath his skin. “Because I don’t understand why this is the one thing we can’t bend on, why you can’t just make it happen for us. You’ve called out before-” “Because it wasn’t Thanksgiving,” she snaps. Her voice is sharp and cuts through the air as she swiftly turns around to face him. Her voice is loud, final, despite her attempt to stay quiet. “And I’m not about to get a write-up or be the reason the team gets screwed over because I want brussels sprouts and time with my boyfriend’s family.”

“You’re not being fair,” he mutters.

“Me?” She retorts. “I’m the one who’s being unfair, Clark? You just told me I didn’t try hard enough.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. There isn’t anything to say because he knows he’s being unfair, he knows exactly what line he crossed, but he doesn’t know how to back track without admitting how gut-deep this disappointment feels.

She turns away, buttoning her vest with shaking hands.

“I can’t fight about this,” she says, voice strained, tight like it gets when she’s trying not to cry. “I don’t want to be late.

“That’s convenient,” he shoots back before he can stop himself. Before he could even register what was about to leave his mouth.

Her spine straightens. Slowly, she turns back from slipping her shoes on.

“What did you say?”

He swallows hard, regret flashing across his face, but the irritation won’t let him back down. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into himself, but he doesn’t know how to snap out of it. “I said it's convenient. You don’t have time to talk about it, you don’t have time to figure something out-”

“I’ve been figuring things out my entire life, Clark.” She delivers it a lot louder than intended, and she can hear her roommate stop shuffling about in the kitchen. “Things you’ve never had to think about. Picking between groceries, rent, or textbooks. Working Holidays so someone else doesn’t have to. That sounds like convenience to you?” She’s out of breath, exasperated, and confused as to where this is even coming from. “Look, I get it. I get that Superman and Clark Kent are two very straining things to carry and maintain, but that is a choice you made, and no excuse to speak to me like this.” He looks away. He’s red with pent-up agitation and frustration, a steady sweat settling above his brow and on the back of his neck. “I just wanted today with you.”

“And I wanted it too,” she says. It’s softer this time, yet it’s not any less tense. “Wanting doesn’t get me the day off.”

Her roommate passes through the open doorway, pretending not to notice the tension, eyes fixed on something else. She waits until the footsteps fade before speaking again.

“You’re allowed to be upset and disappointed that we couldn’t make it work this year,” she says quietly, “but you’re not allowed to make me feel guilty for being responsible and considerate.”

He flinches almost like she slapped him.

“I’m not trying to guilt you,” he whispers, but he sounds like someone who isn’t sure that’s even true.

She grabs her keys and coat, “I have to go.”

Clark follows her closely to the door. Yet not close enough to touch, not like he usually would.

“Let me drive you,” he offers.

She shakes her head. “I need space. And you… You need to cool off.”

His jaw clenches, but he steps back; he’s still the gentle Clark that she loves. “Fine.”

She doesn’t kiss him goodbye.

And he doesn’t ask for one.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Clark.” And the door shuts between them with a dull, final click.

Clark stands in her room afterward, staring at the hollow space she left behind; the half-folded shirt she slept in, the mug she used last night, the pillow still askew and wrinkled from sleep.

And for the first time all morning, he feels the sting of realization that he didn’t just hurt her, he pushed her away.

She doesn’t look back as she walks to the car; she doesn’t let herself. Not at the window, not at the porch, nor at the place where she knows Clark is probably still standing behind her closed door.

Her fingers tremble as she unlocks the driver’s side. Not a violent shake; just enough to make her fingers miss the start button.

The engine rumbles to life, and the radio snaps onto whatever song she’d been listening to last, and she shuts it off immediately, the silence hitting her like a slap to the face. 

For a moment, she just sits there, hands on the wheel, forehead pressed against the horn.

Breathing.

Steadying.

Trying not to let tear streaks ruin her makeup.

Because crying won’t help her get through a ten-hour Thanksgiving shift.

Crying won’t fix the argument, nor will it change anything.

She pulls out of the driveway and heads towards the club.

The city is quiet on Thanksgiving Day: empty streets, closed shops, houses, and driveways filled with families. Every stoplight feels slower than usual, like the universe is taking its time just to spite her.

Her mind just can’t seem to slow down. You didn’t try hard enough.

She knows he didn’t mean it. God, she knows that. But that doesn’t stop it from digging beneath her sternum like a splinter.

He’s never spoken to her like that before.

Not once, not ever.

Clark, who apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it.

Clark, who blushes at his own frustrations.

Clark, who carries the burden of being the world’s savior, spends his free time making people feel safe.

Clark, who always makes her feel safe.

Until today, "He’s just upset,” she whispers to herself. “You’re upset, too. It’s okay. Today will be better starting now.”

But her words don’t quiet the ache in her chest; they just sit there. Heavy and foul.

Her phone buzzes on the passenger seat. She doesn’t look. She can’t look.

Because if it’s Clark, she’ll cry. And if it’s not him, she’ll cry anyway.

As she gets closer to the club, she drives through the wealthy suburbs where the houses only get bigger the further she drives. Perfect wreaths and picture-esque lawns only remind her that these people certainly aren’t home with their families today. And she hates that she relates more to them than to the people behind perfectly decorated doors.

Her heart sinks as she pulls into a parking spot she finally found after circling the employee section for nearly ten minutes. The parking lot is full; everyone showed up. Everyone had to. No one was spared, not even sixty-eight-year-old Miss Darlene.

She could call Clark. She could text him. She should say something, anything, to soften the morning. But she knows that if she reaches out now, she’ll break. She knows the tears will be relentless, and she will walk into the pristinely decorated ballroom with a blotchy face and puffy eyes. Mr. Raymond will pull her apart and ask what’s wrong, and she will completely break down in the tiny area by the kitchen, shielded from the sight of any members.

So she takes a deep breath, straightens her nametag, and opens the door to the cold, the weight of her fight with Clark sitting on her shoulders as she heads into work.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

Her phone is forgotten next to her bag on a chair in the silver room, notifications silenced and placed on Do Not Disturb.

The club is buzzing with people, both coworkers and eager members. The main ballroom looks beautiful, as does the west. The specialty rooms look just as perfect, decorated just right with warm, holiday-themed colors.

The main bar is empty. Mr. Turner, the pianist, is leaning against the bar, awaiting his Shirley Temple as he jokes with the bartenders.

“Good morning, Missy,” Mr. Turner smiles, arms wide in expectation of gifting one of his club-famous hugs.

She forces a smile, tilting her head just enough to melt into his hug, “Morning, Mr. Turner,” she says, voice light but distant.

“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart. Let’s make it a good one, yeah?” He says.

“Always,” she squeaks out, voice high-pitched and overly friendly, what she calls her “customer service voice.”

As she moves behind the bar to grab her serving book, she scans the bar. The room is small but crammed with large tables, leaving only one couch and a coffee table near the fireplace. Regulars are already filing in, familiar faces with familiar patterns. Table 213, the one near the double doors that lead to the balcony, has the Tanners filling the chairs; she’s served them every Thanksgiving for the past three years. Three generations are chaotically settling into the chairs as Mr. and Mrs. Tanner wave her over. Mrs. Tanner greets her with a warm hug before holding her at arm's length.

“Good morning! Busy, busy day, thank you for being here with us today!” She beams.

“It’s always a busy day here,” she smiles, pulling out Mrs. Tanner’s chair before lowering her onto it.

She smooths her hands down her vest and tucks her book into her pocket: “Good morning, and happy Thanksgiving, everyone!” She begins, plastering a fake smile that starts to soften around the edges, beginning to melt into the first genuine grin of the day. “Thank you for spending the day with us here at the club. Can I start anyone off with a glass of champagne or a mimosa? First one if complementary…”

That phrase becomes one that repeats in her head over and over, and over again, as she approaches each new table.

She slides past tables, delivering flutes of champagne, taking orders, filling glasses, and nodding at coworkers with quick smiles. The hustle keeps her mind occupied, feet moving, and hands full.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

Clark’s day had been quiet yet restless. He spent the morning helping Ma in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and grating cheese, all the while glancing toward the farmhouse door constantly. As if expecting her to walk through it.

“Clark, honey, don’t worry so much,” Martha said, handing him a tray of rolls. “She’s working. You know the club won’t let her off on a holiday.” “I know, Ma,” he muttered, jaw tight. He swallowed hard, trying not to let the knot in his chest show. He tried to distract himself by stirring the gravy, tasting the cranberry sauce, and rearranging the centerpiece on the dining table. A creak of the door, a laugh in the living room, and the familiar hum of a truck turning off in the driveway made him jump.

He thought about her incessantly, about how she didn’t get to choose, and how she was probably smiling for strangers right now as she served champagne and kept her exhaustion hidden behind her polite, practiced warmth.

Around noon, Jon came by with a stack of firewood. “You okay, son?”

Clark forced a grin. “Yeah… just… just wishing she could make it.”

By mid-afternoon, he had set the table perfectly. Plates aligned, silver polished, and candles lit. He checked the clock again. And again. Every minute stretched like an eternity. He knew she wouldn’t have her phone all day, but he couldn’t help checking his own for notifications.

He tried to busy himself with little tasks like polishing silver again, refolding napkins, arranging the cutlery just so, but each clink of a fork, each faint noise outside the kitchen pulled his thoughts back to her.

Is she okay? Did she get to work safely?

He poured himself a glass of cider and took a slow sip, only to find it tasting faintly of worry rather than sweetness.

Every few minutes, he’d glance at his phone, as if it could magically have a message waiting for him. Nothing. Not a text message, nor a missed call, not even a notification that could hint at her whereabouts.

By late afternoon, he found himself standing at the window, looking down the driveway and across the quiet country road. Every passing car made his chest tighten, and every bird that landed on the fencepost startled him.

He tried to relax, he really did. Tried to focus on dinner, on the family bustling around him. But his thoughts kept drifting, always circling back to her: what she was doing, how she was doing.

The house smelled of a perfectly roasted turkey and cinnamon from Ma’s pie; comforting, homey smells that only made her absence sting all that much more.

He set another candle on the table and straightened the napkins, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

He knew what she’d do after work. He knew she’d be too tired to do anything but go straight home, eat bits and pieces of whatever snacks she could find in her pantry, and strip her work clothes off before falling into bed and promptly falling asleep. He can almost hear her whine of exhaustion as she attempts to unbutton the never-ending buttons on her uniform, which he usually takes care of for her.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

Every so often, her gaze drifts towards a family laughing together or a child reaching for their parent. And for a brief moment, her chest tightens.

Clark’s voice seems to keep creeping up in her thoughts, soft and almost accusing: I just wanted today with you.

She shakes it off, refocusing on her list of drink orders to recount to the bartenders and narrowing in on the next full tray, the next guest. Spilled champagne and dropped napkins, sweeping up broken glass from behind the bar: nothing major, just enough to keep her mind from drifting.

She gives herself a pat on the back, only three spilled drinks, all of which landed onto herself, and a single broken champagne flute; that’s pretty good considering her state of mind this morning.

Mr. Turner’s voice can be heard humming from the corner, ethereal classical musing flowing throughout the room from his station. She pauses as she adjusts a glass on her tray, stealing a glance at him. He winks, tipping an imaginary hat towards her between notes. It makes her laugh, really laugh.

It’s after picking up her 5th ticket of the second round of guests that she swallows the lump forming in her throat.

Each person balancing a plate of perfectly cooked turkey and a glass of an elaborate cocktail makes her chest ache. This is what Thanksgiving should be. Laughter, good food, and time spent with family, not arguing and silent treatment.

I can still make it to him, she thinks, the decision quietly solidifying in the pit of her stomach. If I just get through this shift… I can still make it.

The next few hours fleet past in a blur. She moves from table to table, drink to drink, and clears plate to plate. Always smiling, always polite, always equipped with jokes and warm regards. She memorizes the same orders she’s taken for years, has drinks ready for the arrival of regulars she’s grown to love, and greets the same families with practiced warmth.

There are a few mishaps: a couple of stray napkins and forks pulled to the floor by toddlers, a child knocks over a glass of wine, and a tray wobbles just enough to send a sip of champagne down her shirt. She steadies it, apologizes, and laughs along with the family.

The bar pulses with warmth and noise, which she lets wash over her. Each laugh, toast, and clink of silverware reminds her of what she’s missing: the simple comfort of Clark sitting beside her, attempting to cut her turkey up for her through the soft chaos of his family’s farmhouse, the scent of fresh pie filling the air.

During a brief lull, she glances toward the balcony doors. A family of four is taking pictures against the picturesque landscape, and a little girl is squealing as her dad hoists her into the air. Her chest tightens, and she swallows hard, trying to push down the ache.

I can’t miss him. I just can’t.

The thought solidifies. It finalizes from a wish and into a plan. As soon as her shift ends, as soon as the main bar has been set back up into the relaxed, intimate space it usually was: small marble tables gleaming under soft amber light with leather chairs clustered just so, and a silence settling into the room, she’ll rush to clear the ballrooms and get every glass and plate back in it’s original place. Then she will finally, finally, get into her car and drive the three and a half hours to Smallville before it’s too late.

She straightens her bowtie and adjusts the collar of her button-up before taking a deep breath. One final round of members, one final round of smiles. One final attempt to be present for the club, the members, and her coworkers.

Tonight, the holiday will be exactly what she wants it to be - with Clark.

After every dish had been washed and put in its place, once every room had been swept and wiped down, once all guest had been seen to their cars and every last light was shut off in the club, she rushed to her car. Her bowtie was flung to the backseat, the top few buttons of her shirt undone as she put on the directions to the farmhouse she missed oh-so much.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

Clark leaned against the counter, staring at the empty driveway. The sun had dipped lower now, the sky a warm pink that scattered deep orange sunlight across the farm, yet there was still no sign of her. He tried to tell himself that she would come, that maybe she would make it on time to eat, but the rational part of him, the part that had seen her be so unwavering this morning, refused to let hope creep in.

She’s tired. She’s upset. She’s not coming.

His hands fisted the edge of the table while his family raved about Ma’s cooking. Every creak outside, every rustle in the yard made his heart leap, only to fall achingly in disappointment. He thought of her voice, so sharp and steady earlier that morning, and winced internally. He had pushed too hard, gone too far. And now… now he couldn’t imagine her forgiving him enough to even send him a text back.

“She’s not coming,” Clark whispered to Pa, barely audible over the chatter surrounding the dining table. He rubbed his hand across his mouth, the fork serving only to push his food around on his plate.

Then, miles away, she pressed harder on the gas.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

Meanwhile, three and a half hours away, she was stacking the last few sets of chairs to be rolled out to the back room. Her arms ached, and her back protested from all the exertion, but she didn’t dare slow. Each thump and clang of wooden legs played in her mind like a metronome, counting down the seconds until she could leave.

With only a few chairs and two large tables left, she wiped her hands on her pants with a deep breath. The ballroom was empty now, members long gone, their laughter and chatter replaced by the sighs and quiet jokes between coworkers. She moved quickly, deliberately, each motion practiced from years of busy holiday shifts.

And somewhere in the farmhouse, Clark’s chest tightened. He helped Pa carry the carved turkey to the dinner table once his family had finished the appetizers. She’s not coming. She’s not. We left things… bad. She won’t-

She rolled the last eight-foot table through the double doors to the back room, took a deep breath, and, without a second thought, grabbed her coat and keys. The decision had been made long before she wiped the sweat from her brow: she was going to him.

Clark, continuously glancing at the window, didn’t see it coming. He didn’t dare imagine it. Every instinct told him she would choose rest over confrontation, the safety of her bed over him. Yet as she swung her coat over her shoulders and headed for the door, the faint hum of a car starting somewhere miles away went completely unnoticed by his superhearing, but not for long.

The sky was nearly black by the time she finally pulled into the farmhouse driveway, headlights cutting through the crisp night. Her hands trembled on the wheel. Not only from fatigue, but rather the anxious anticipation that had been building deep in her gut. Every mile of the three-and-a-half-hour drive had been spent imagining his face, wondering if she'd made the right choice, worrying if she’d been too late. Would he even be happy to see her after the way they left things?

Inside the farmhouse, the air was hushed. The day’s laughter and chatter had long since faded, leaving only the clinking of dishes and faint hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen. Clark stood beside Ma and Pa, carefully unloading the last load of plates and cutlery, his movements delicate but distracted. The table had been cleared, the family gone home with full stomachs and warm hearts.

“Careful with those,” Pa said softly, breaking the silence.

Clark just hummed and nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. Every plate he set into the cupboard felt like a countdown: the closer the task came to completion, the more hollow the house felt. He had long since accepted that no matter how hard he stared, she wasn’t going to appear in the soft glow of the porch light. He had now resorted to trying to tune his hearing into the beat of her heart, yet it was difficult to hear anything when his mind was going a million miles a minute.

Outside, she cut the engine, letting the car settle into the gravel. She sat in the growing cold for a heartbeat, staring at the dark silhouette of the house while every nerve in her body screamed for her to run inside, to call his name, to tell him she had made it. But she didn’t. Not quite yet. Not until she felt the last tug of exhaustion loosen its grip on her.

She stepped out into the cool night, shoes crunching over the gravel, coat wrapped tightly around her frame. The farmhouse smelled faintly of turkey and fresh bread; the ghost of the afternoon clung stubbornly to the walls. She moved toward the door, soft steps that masked the sound of her racing heart in her ears,

Clark, oblivious to her presence just a few feet outside, carefully stacked the last plates in the cupboard. He wiped his hands on a towel, glanced at Ma with a sigh, and then finally stood in the quiet kitchen, alone with the reality of today settling in.

He closed the door to the china cabinet softly, the quiet click echoing far louder in the motionless kitchen than it should have. His shoulders slumped, head bowed as he braced both his palms against the island counter. The hollowness of the house felt crushing, a reminder of the place she should have been: laughing with Ma, snacking on rolls before dinner, running her hand across his back just to get him flustered.

“Clark?” Martha’s voice was soft behind him, knowing, sad. It only made him feel even more depressed and pitiful.

He inhaled shakily. “I’m okay,” he lied.

But then - the front porch creaked,

Once. Then again.

Not the wind, nor an animal. Steps, slow, careful, and familiar.

Clark’s breath stilled, his body went taut as something bright and aching flared to life beneath his ribs.

No, he thought. It couldn’t be. He must be imagining it, he heard things all the time: things miles away. He was tired and emotional, there was no way-

Another step. Her weight shifting, followed by a tiny, nervous exhale.

His head snapped towards the front of the house, and Martha looked up too as her hand paused over a dish rag. Pa froze mid-step. Clark blinked, barely able to breathe and not daring to hope.

Then the faint, unmistakable sound of gravel crunched under her shoes reached him, backed by the telltale thud of her heartbeat. It was quiet and hesitant, as if she was afraid to come any closer, like she was afraid she’d made a mistake by coming. It was late, cold, and intrusive.

His heart slammed against his ribs: she’s here.

Before he could even think, he moved. He didn’t dare run, but he was fast enough that the air stirred and whizzed around him. He crossed through the kitchen and living room within seconds, chest tight and hands trembling as he reached for the doorknob.

On the other side, she stood with her fist raised mid-knock, breath hitting the cold air in small puffs of white. Her hair was messy from a long drive and an even longer shift, her uniform wrinkled, and her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She looked small. Determined yet terrified.

She looked perfect.

The porch light washed her in a holy shade of gold, and Clark’s breath left him entirely.

And for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Her hand slowly lowered from the door; she swallowed, eyes glossy and chin wrinkling. “Hi,” she whispered, voice trembling and hoarse.

Clark let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, emotion breaking over his whole expression like a wave. Relief, love, guilt, and disbelief all tangled around his heart at once. “You came,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You- God, sweetheart, you really came.”

His hands hovered over her arms, almost touching yet terrified she’d vanish if he moved too fast, like a skittish cat. “I thought- I thought you’d just go straight home, I thought I ruined today. I didn’t know if you’d give me another chance.

Her shoulders slumped, and her lip wobbled as her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want today without you.”

That was all it took. Clark stepped forward and pulled her into him with such gentleness that contradicted the fervor and desperation in his bones. Her cold face pressed into his chest as he wrapped his arms around her like he’d been holding a place for her all day long.

She melted instantly, ice-cold fingers curling into his shirt as if she could anchor herself for eternity. She pulled back and kissed him with such fervor he’d never seen in her before, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as he pulled her even closer.

The farmhouse behind them was warm and glowing, and the night around them was cold and crisp. Against the doorway, wrapped in each other and the soft hum of what could’ve been lost, and they finally exhaled.

Clark kept her close for another long moment, his hand smoothing up her back as if reassuring himself that she was honest, warm, and there with him. When he finally pulled back enough to look at her, his forehead nearly bumped hers.

“C’mon,” he murmured, thumb grazing her cheek in an attempt to smooth away the cold. “Let’s get you inside, you’re freezing.”

He guided her over the threshold, his hand steady at her back. The warmth of the home greeted her instantly, the soft glow of lamps, the lingering smell of turkey, and the flicker of the fireplace, and she blinked hard and fast as emotion rushed up once again.

Martha and Jon were still standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Oh, honey…” Martha breathed, her eyes growing wet the moment she saw the girl’s fae. She stepped forward slowly, like approaching a baby calf. “You must be exhausted, and absolutely frozen.” She could only nod once, too tired and too emotional to string any coherent words together without breaking down.

Jon cleared his throat, a smile tugging at his mustache. “Well, if this ain’t a Thanksgiving miracle.”

She tried to smile back, but it trembled, and that was all Martha needed before she cupped her cheek with warm, butter-soft hands.

“You drove all this way after a shift?” Martha’s voice was hushed. Aching and so incredibly tender, it made her heart squeeze. “Sweetheart, you didn’t need to… but I’m so glad you did.” The girl’s breath hitched, and her eyes dropped to the floor, overwhelmed with feeling.

Clark’s hand slid tenderly down her arm in an attempt to ground her. “She hasn’t eaten,” he murmured.

“Oh, well, that settles that.” Martha straightened, all businesslike. “Sit her down. Jonathan, get the plates.” “Already on it,” he said, on his way to the cabinets.

Before she knew it, she was being guided into a chair at the kitchen table; the same seat she always took, all the while Martha moved with dedication, pulling out foil-covered dishes and a container of gravy while Clark wrapped her in a blanket.

He stayed at her side, fingers brushing the back of her shoulder, checking on her constantly.

“You can relax now,” he whispered, leaning over so only she could hear. “You don’t have to do anything else tonight.”

Her throat tightened around a soft, broken sound,

Within minutes, warm plates of food landed in front of her: toasted rolls, steaming mashed potatoes, and turkey glistening beneath a fresh drizzle of gravy, and lastly, Martha’s famous Brussels sprouts that she loved so much.

“There we go,” Martha said gently. “Eat as much as you can, darlin’. You earned every bite.”

She nodded, muttering a small “thank you,” and started eating slowly, the warmth settling into her bones and warming her from the inside out.

Jon patted Clark’s shoulder on his way out, “We’ll give you two some space.” “Goodnight, sweetheart,” Martha added, brushing the girl’s hair back before following her husband down the hall.

The kitchen fell into silence once again, but now it felt full, rather than hollow and disappointing.

Clark slid into the chair beside her, elbow brushing hers as he stared at her with that soft, lovesick expression she’d longed for all day.

When she finished, pushing the plate away with a weak sigh, Clark stood and offered his hand. “Let’s get you out of that uniform,” he said quietly, thumb brushing her knuckles. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

She let him help her up, leaning into him without resistance, and he guided her out of the kitchen towards his bedroom. Towards warmth and rest.

He guided her down the hallway with a steady hand at the small of her back, slowing his steps to match her tired shuffle. Every few paces, she swayed just a little, and Clark tightened his hold, steadying her as if she were made of porcelain.

“You’re running on fumes,” he mumbled.

She only hummed in agreement as she was too drained to offer anything more. They reached his room, the familiar space dim and warm, lit only by the lamp on his desk. She breathed out shakily at the sight of his bed. The Soft blankets, a thick comforter, and fluffed pillows were calling her name.

“Sit,” he whispered, voice low. He nudged the mattress with his knee.

She did, shoulders slumping and eyes falling half-closed. He crouched down in front of her, knees hitting the ground, and hands ever so gentle as they grasped her calves to slip off her shoes and socks. The moment they hit the floor with a soft thud, her toes curled gratefully against the rug.

“There you go,” Clark breathed, fingers brushing her bare ankle before he moved up, hands hovering over the buttons of her vest. “Can I…?”

She nodded, utterly exhausted and trusting. “Please.”

Clark exhaled like that one word had undone him. To be fair, it did.

The vest was quickly unbuttoned and discarded onto the floor. He seamlessly moved on to her uniform shirt.

Her buttons were always a little stubborn; small, pearl-like, too pretty for how irritating they could be, and she usually complained about them after every shift. Tonight, her hands were too tired even to try, so Clark did it for her without hesitation.

He did so, one button at a time, slowly and carefully

His fingertips were stable in spite of the storm of emotion bubbling in his chest. Each undone button revealed a little more of her collarbone, her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the swell of her chest. All the familiar lines he’d missed all day.

“You worked so hard,” he murmured, finger brushing the edge of the fabric. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her breath hitched, “I just wanted to be here.” “I know,” he closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing. “You didn’t have to come. But the fact that you did?” His voice cracked softly as he frantically tried to keep his emotions from pouring out. “Thank you.”

When the last button slipped free, he slipped the shirt off her shoulders, careful not to tug or pull, just letting it fall into her lap. He folded it absent-mindedly and set it on the dresser before coming back to her, palms warming her arms.

She gave him these soft, pleading eyes that only served to break down his resolve further. His hands slid gracefully around her, reaching to unclasp the bra that he was sure she couldn’t wait to rid her body of.

Once the garment was placed neatly beside her folded shirt, he padded back toward her with a soft t-shirt in hand.

“Lift your arms,” he whispered.

And she did without question as he tugged the shirt - one of his from high school that she always stole - over her head. The fabric fell over her skin, cozy and familiar, the hem draping over her waist. She instantly curled into it, inhaling the faint scent of him and fabric softener, and Clark could feel his chest ache at the sight.

He brushed the fallen hairs out of her face, tucking them gently behind her ears.

“You’re home now,” he stated softly. “You can rest.” He began to tenderly take her hair down.

Her bottom lip wobbled, and she leaned forward to press her forehead to his. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

“I’m sorry about today,” he whispered. The two couldnt help but smile hopelessly as they both apologized insync.

He whispered again, cupping her jaw. “And we’re okay. I promise.”

She let out a tiny, broken sigh. It held relief, love, and pure exhaustion all intertwined together. And Clark stood, scooping her up with no effort. She melted into his chest, arms wrappying around his neck in a loose, sleepy hold.

He laid her down on the bed with reverence, pulling the comforter up and around her shoulders before slipping in beside her.

The moment he did, she began to reach for him blindly, snuggling into his side with a needy little sound that unraveled him completely and settled deep in his stomach.

Clark kissed the top of her head, pulling her impossibly close. “You made it,” he whispered into her hair. With her finally in his arms, warm and safe with all problems resolved, he finally relaxed.

Твои бёдра прижимаются к его, когда он завороженно смотрит на твою изогнутую по-кошачье фигуру. Он чувствует себя слегка неправильным, делая это таким образом, но его мысли сейчас слабее плоти. Член твёрдый и немного покрасневший, головка мокрая от собственной смазки, яйца тяжёлые, пальцы крепко держат твою плоть, пока взгляд заворожённо направлен на твои влажные и припухший от его языка и рта губы. Он чувствует этот запах похоти, твой запах, твоё желание, как его нужда смешалась с твоей, благодаря своей неземной природе, он ощущает больше, чем обычный мужчина, и чувствует, что его спальня пахнет вами.

— Пожалуйста, Кал-Эл, — произносишь ты, снова двигаешь бёдра назад, дотрагиваясь до его твёрдости и двигаешь ими вниз и вверх, лениво, размерено, заставляя мужчину сходить с ума. Он вдыхает глубже, думая, что это поможет ему сосредоточиться, прийти в себя, но это делает только хуже.

Отстранив тебя, заставляя создать между вами пространство, он слышит твоё нытьё. Ты скулишь от желания, от потребности. И он не может отказывать тебе. Кто он такой, чтобы отказать тебе или себе.

Его кончик касается твоих губ, медленно погружается, чувствуя твой жар и влажность. Ты падаешь вперёд, приживаясь грудью к постели, ещё выше задирая бёдра и сжимая губы, в надежде не быть такой развратной, крича на всю квартиру.

— Ты такая идеальная, будто создана для меня… — он говорит в пол голоса, даже не сразу осознавая, что произносит это вслух.

Ему сложно не думать о большем с тобой, когда он двигает бёдрами, когда растягивает тебя так идеально, когда его кончик попадает в нужное место, а руки крепко держат твою плоть.

— Ты можешь войти глубже, — произносишь ты. — Кал-Эл.

Ты разваливаешься под ним, в очередной раз за такой маленький срок. Он баловал тебя, мучил и заботился о тебе весь день, его рот не отрывался от твоей сердцевины, его пальцы было лучше твоих. И теперь он пользуется своим до смешного большим членом, заставляя тебя краснеть, стонать и расплываться по постели. Ты знаешь, что ваши соседи, даже если ты была приличной девушкой, не крича на весь дом, точно услышали пару стуков кровати об стенку или ваши вздохи. Но это последнее, о чём ты сейчас думаешь.

— Если что-то…

— Всё будет в порядке, — ты заверяешь.

Кал-Эл смотрит на то, как его член в большей части скрывается в тебе, и это одно из его любимых зрелищ. Он старается быть правильным человеком, старается не думать о более порочных вещах, чем он уже занимался. Но это сложно. И ты никогда не протестовала, ты всегда выглядишь такой довольной, всегда такая нежная с ним после. Если бы это было не правильно, ты бы не вела себя так с ним. Тебе нравится то, что он делает. И Кал-Эл уверен, что ты не расскажешь и не признаешься, но тебе нравится, то, что он делает, когда его терпение и выдержка подходит к концу. Когда, пытаясь догнать своё освобождение, он хватает тебя сильнее за мягкую плоть сзади, когда его зубы впиваются в твоё плечо, когда он прижимает тебя своим весом к матрасу.

Он проливается в тебя, наполняет тебя до краёв. Его семя густое и горячее, и ты кончаешь от одной мысли, что он дал тебе это. Ты не признаешься Кал-Элу не только в том, что он подозревает тебя более желающей его страсти, но и в том, что где-то глубоко в мыслях ты считаешь его богом, снизошедшим до тебя. Потому что он таков и есть. Он больше большинства мужчин, которых ты видела, он сильный, не просто сильный парень, перетащивший бочку воды для кулера, он может удержать чёртово здание и он тот, кто имеет хорошие намерения. Он честный, добрый, внимательный. Тебе сложно не поверить, что он не бог, может быть тот кто спустился с Олимпа, ради твоей киски, каждый раз ты улыбаешься собственной шутке, от её абсурдности и глупости.

Его семя капает на постель, пачкает твои бёдра с внутренней стороны. Ты глубоко дышишь, когда постепенно приходишь в себя. Его член такой же твёрдый, всё ещё внутри тебя, когда вы падаете на постель. Сильные и крепкие руки обхватывают тебя, прижимая к себе, когда он ложится на бок. Ты прижимаешься ближе к нему, прикрывая глаза.

— Я… думаю мне нужен ещё один, — он скромный, всегда такой милый.

Конечно, ему нужен ещё один. Это не удивительно, дело в его неземной природе или в силе, но Кал-Эл всегда нуждался ни в одном раунде, и ты не хочешь это признавать, но его сперва не закончилась на том, что уже в тебе и на вас.