#no brain

He was sure of that, mostly because you loved to call Clark “nerdy”, affectionately, of course. You said you liked that about him.

He smiled, involuntarily, remembering the way you'd adjusted his glasses yesterday, pushing a few unruly curls off his forehead with a quiet “hold still, Kent.”

You were such a good girl. Warm in a way that made even the sun feel second best.

"Superman! Right on time, thank you." There you were, the woman who made his always-steady, always-calm heart do those strange, looping flips inside his chest. Your face held none of the warmth you usually reserved for him. No familiar grin. Just a professional courtesy-smile, the kind you gave strangers.

Right. A stranger. Superman. Not Clarkie. He had to remind himself of that every two seconds just to stop his hand from instinctively reaching out to brush your cheek.

He nodded, still wearing that smile he'd had on since sunrise.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet my number one critic.” He folded his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly, like he was sharing a secret.

Because the truth was, the person he loved the most was also the one who had been hardest on him, at least in print. Your articles on Superman often questioned his choices, dissected his motives, challenged his actions. Half the time he hadn’t even considered the angles you brought up.

But instead of a witty retort, your lips stayed pressed in a polite, almost tight line. Your tone was formal. He cleared his throat, surprised to find himself… uncomfortable. With you.

You gestured forward with your portfolio, murmuring a soft, “Shall we?” that barely carried above the newsroom noise. He followed without thinking, keeping a respectful distance, resisting the urge to walk beside you. Clark Kent would’ve matched your stride. Superman held back.

He felt the eyes on him. But not the familiar, teasing glances of coworkers—there was no recognition in them. Just awe, curiosity, and a touch of suspicion. The swish of his cape dragged against desks as he walked by. For the first time in his life, he felt like an intruder in his own workplace.

He nearly stopped at your desk out of habit. But then you kept going—toward a little-used conference room. He followed. You held the door open with a flick of your wrist and nodded him inside. As he brushed past you, he accidentally grazed your arm and muttered a quiet “sorry.” Your scent hit him like a freight train. His shampoo. You’d used it yesterday after showering at his place.

He barely managed to hold back a low hum of satisfaction.

The door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the sound of the newsroom.

He smiled again—soft, utterly smitten—just from seeing you back in his line of sight. You were sorting papers, focused, all business.

“You may sit, Superman,” you said, without looking up.

He blinked out of his daze. “Of course,” he murmured and moved toward the chair.

In one smooth motion that turned into a complete disaster, he sat—only to trap part of his cape beneath him. The fabric pulled taut at his neck, cutting slightly into his throat. He shot up, pulling at the cape to free it, which jostled the table hard enough to knock into the pitcher of water you’d set out. He reached to stop it and smacked knees with you under the table.

“Sorry—! I, uh, sorry—” he kept repeating as the pitcher wobbled, nearly tipped, then settled with a splash. Your papers fluttered from the breeze of his movements.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the ground would swallow him. Then he heard it: a tiny laugh.

His eyes opened slowly, one at a time.

You were smiling, just a little,and it made something unfurl in his chest.

“I’m not… usually like this,” he said.

“I should be the one apologizing,” you replied, your voice cool but amused. “Had I known you were this… large, I might’ve chosen a room with more space. I assumed you’d be about the same size as my…”

You stopped. Mid-thought. Mid-sentence.

He leaned forward slightly, waiting. Hoping. You never called him your boyfriend, not out loud. Not officially. But the way you moved, the way you curled around him in your sleep, he felt it. Still, it would’ve meant the world to hear you say it.

Instead, you shook your head and looked away, focusing on your notes.

He sat back, watching you. Watching the way your fingers moved across your pages, the way your brows furrowed in concentration. He fidgeted beneath the table, twisting his cape in his hands just to keep himself from reaching over and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Then, you opened your portfolio too fast, and several papers flew out. Instinctively, he reached to help.

And there it was.

A photograph.

Small, worn from being carried around. It had slipped between pages and tumbled out onto the table, face up. His heart stopped. It was of you and Clark, well…him. You were kissing his cheek, catching him off guard mid-laugh. His glasses were crooked. The photo was blurry from motion, but your smile? Clear as day.

He stared at it for a moment longer than he should have. You gave him the sun, every single time you smiled like that.

He handed it to you, trying not to tremble.

“You and him… is he your boyfriend?” he asked, carefully.

Your fingers took the photo back, slipping it into your folder with barely a glance.

“Something like that,” you said.

His body reacted slower than his mind.

He’d leaned in, waiting for your answer, nervous, even. The euphoria had already burst through his veins before he truly registered what you said.

Something like that.

He collapsed against the back of the chair, the wood groaning beneath his weight as though something inside him had deflated. He couldn’t stop his face from reacting. His mouth twisted briefly, his lips pushing forward in what looked like a clumsy kiss of confusion. His brows pulled impossibly tight at the center of his forehead.

He couldn’t make sense of your words. He couldn’t process that the same woman who kept a photo of the two of you, laughing, happy, had dismissed the idea of being together so easily.

If someone asked him the same thing, he’d smile and say it clear as day: yes. He was yours.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

There was no safe way to ask what you meant without sounding nosy… or letting the mask slip. But then you looked up, eyes catching the confusion on his face.

He watched as you opened your mouth, like you were going to say something—maybe explain. But you closed it just as fast and turned your attention back to the scattered sheets on the table.

Without looking at him, you asked:

“What about you, Superman? Do you have someone?”

You sounded indifferent. Detached. Like the question was purely conversational. But something twisted in his gut, jealousy, maybe. Of himself. And wasn’t that just ridiculous?

“Is this off the record?” he asked, careful.

“Of course. I’m not a gossip columnist. I’m just trying to ease the tension. You seem nervous.”

He nearly blurted out that it wasn’t nerves. That what made him act this way was you. You, filling the small room with your presence, your scent in every corner, muffling his super senses. You, whose steady heartbeat was the lullaby he fell asleep to on countless nights.

But instead, he just told you the truth.

“Yes. I have someone.”

You looked surprised. Like you hadn’t expected him to actually answer. And just like that, your expression shifted—back to professional, guarded. The air changed.

“Oh. And… is she okay with all this?”

“Sorry?”

You weren’t looking through your notes anymore. You weren’t preparing for the interview. All your focus was on him—and while he usually adored when your attention was on him, now it made the hairs on his arms stand up.

You were angry. He just didn’t understand why.

“Well, yes. I think so. She’s worth the effort.”

“You think so?” you echoed, eyes narrowing slightly. “So… she doesn’t know?”

“It’s better this way,” he said, more defensively than intended.

“Better this way,” you repeated, almost to yourself. Like the words tasted wrong on your tongue. He felt exposed. Judged. But… how could you judge him? You weren’t supposed to know him. Not like that.

And then you said:

“Can I ask you something else? Off the record, again.”

He was already angry with himself, for how easily he'd slipped. For letting your questions pull at the seams of his disguise. His mind was racing, calculating, connecting the dots, wondering why you seemed so damn interested in Superman’s relationship.

“How long,” you asked, soft but sharp, “have you thought your girlfriend was stupid?”

His instinct was to respond, fast, almost automatic, but then he processed what you said. He planted his palms flat on the table, needing something solid to calm the chaos in his head.

“I—Sorry, I don’t think I heard that correctly.”

You tilted your head, lips curling in something colder than amusement.

“For someone with super hearing, that’s disappointing.”

His mouth twitched again. That same puzzled little frown. His brows hadn’t relaxed since you first minimized your relationship with him. But now he realized something else had changed.

Your breathing was louder. Not erratic—controlled, but forceful. Your nostrils flared slightly. A flush spread across your cheeks.

You were furious.

And suddenly, everything, the way you redirected the conversation, your body language, your eyes, clicked into place. He let out a slow, tired breath, his entire frame softening. Like he’d been carrying tension for too long without knowing it.

Your name slipped from his mouth, not an accusation. A plea.

“How long have you known?”

“Does it matter?”

You leaned back, crossing your arms as you mirrored his posture, putting distance between you. But the space felt like more than a few feet, it was a chasm. And despite his speed, he wasn’t sure he could cross it.

You straightened again. But this time, you looked… hurt.

You toyed with your pen, like your hands didn’t know what to do.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, Clark?”

The name landed like a blow to the chest.

No one called him that when he wore the suit. It wasn’t just his name—it was the truth, spoken aloud like a secret stripped bare.

“God, last week I fixed that same stubborn curl again.” You pointed at his forehead.

His hand shot up to push the curl aside. Too late. Useless.

“I really think you believe I’m an idiot. How could I not notice? Same height. Same build. Same heart.”

At the mention of that heart, his own did a full somersault. He nearly staggered.

“If I hadn’t figured it out sooner, I would’ve the second I saw you in the hallway this morning.”

You leaned in now. Your voice softened, but your eyes were burning.

“There’s only one man in my life who’s ever looked at me like that, Clark. And you looked at me the same way again today.”

He blinked.

His breath caught. Something caved in behind his ribs, like a door giving way under pressure. He looked like he wanted to speak—maybe even apologize—but you raised a hand before he could say a single word.

“Don’t,” you said sharply. “Don’t say it was to protect me. Don’t you dare come out with some noble crap like ‘I just wanted you safe.’”

He flinched, not because you were wrong, but because he’d almost said it.

You pressed on, voice low but trembling: “You knew. You knew I’d figure it out eventually. And you still lied. Every single day, Clark.”

“I didn’t do it to protect you,” he said suddenly. Urgently. “That’s not—it wasn’t that.”

You faltered. He sounded so raw, like his chest had split open and the words were spilling out faster than he could shape them.

“I did it because I was scared,” he said, eyes fixed on yours. “Because I didn’t know if you’d still want to be with me once you knew. Not just me, but everything I come with. Everything I carry. I was afraid I’d lose you the second you saw the whole picture. That I’d never be able to give you a normal life. That I’d always have to leave, that I might not come back.”

That silenced you.

The heat in your chest, the stubborn burn of betrayal—it flickered, twisted into something more complicated.

Clark Kent, who faced down aliens and firestorms and god-knows-what on a daily basis, had been terrified… of you walking away.

You let out a slow breath.

His hand was still braced on the table, knuckles white. He looked smaller now, somehow, like his strength couldn’t shield him from this. And he wasn’t hiding behind the Superman voice anymore. This was just Clark. Your Clark. Messy. Afraid. Honest.

“I never wanted you to be someone else,” you said, finally. He stared. “You’re not perfect. God, you’re so far from it. You burn your toast. You forget your keys. You talk to my cat like she understands quantum physics. And you lie like someone who’s never had to before.” You smiled, barely. “But you also take care of everyone. And I mean everyone. Even when you’re breaking inside”

Those last words hung in the air like a charge. He didn’t even seem to notice his own breath hitching, how his posture straightened like something vital had just anchored him to the moment.

“It’s this, this maddening, impossibly good part of you, that’s exactly what made me fall in love with you.”

He blinked.

Fell in love.

With him.

You didn’t notice the way he went still. Or maybe you did.

He felt breathless.

He swallowed. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Fragile.

“You said you… love me.”

You met his gaze. Steady. No fear in your eyes now, just the kind of truth he’d always been afraid to reach for.

“I do.”

It landed like a miracle.

He’d flown through storms. He’d held up buildings, outpaced explosions, taken bullets to the chest, but nothing had ever struck him as hard or as beautifully as that.

“You love me,” he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth. Holding it between his teeth like a secret he'd kept even from himself.

You gave a soft, shaky laugh.

“I just… I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say it.”

“Well,” you said, stepping closer, “maybe next time, don’t lie to your girlfriend for six months.”

He moves before he thinks.

Not fast, he’s fast, of course, but this isn’t that. This is slow, trembling, reverent. He leans in like something sacred’s pulling him forward by the ribs, because you just said you love him, and that’s all he’s ever needed, all he’s ever wanted—

But your fingers press to his chest before he reaches you.

“Easy, big guy,” you murmur, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like it’s got teeth. “The walls have eyes.”

He freezes.

Right. Right. Interview room. Security cameras. Superman costume. Full heart, no brain.

He steps back quickly, heat flaring up the back of his neck, cape tangling briefly around his leg like it’s laughing at him. He clears his throat, awkward and giant and suddenly very aware of how broad his shoulders are in this tiny room.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I got a little—uh—caught up.”

You smiled at him, and for a moment Clark felt like every shield he had ever worn (the suit, the cape, the persona) was made of paper. He looked nothing like the hero who could hold up collapsing bridges or drag people out of burning wreckage. Right now, he was just a man, all raw edges and open nerves. You saw that. And something in your anger softened at the sight, like a knot loosening. Not gone, not entirely—because lies leave splinters—but enough that he could breathe again.

You’d told him you were in love with him, and the way his face had lit up—like the sun had risen twice—made your fury feel almost petty. Almost. Because no matter how much you loved him, the truth was he had lied. And that still stung.

With that sharp clarity anger gives, you cleared your throat. A tiny, deliberate sound that sliced the air between you. Clark’s senses tuned to it instantly, watching how you shifted, sliding back into your professional skin, the one that looked at him not like a man but like a headline waiting to be written. It struck him, for half a heartbeat, that maybe you weren’t so different from him. Maybe you had two faces too. Sweet, sleepy girlfriend in the mornings; relentless, razor-edged reporter once the sun went down.

Your hand moved toward the recorder. Slow, intentional. Like you wanted him to notice every inch of the motion, to make sure he understood that the game had changed. A soft click, a red LED. Recording.

“So, Superman,” you said, your tone shifting into that velvet-steel cadence he knew too well, “is there some kind of green card for immigrants from other planets? How is that kind of migration even handled?”

His mouth opened, but no sound came. Whiplash. One second he was holding onto your love like it was the last warm thing on Earth, and the next you were tossing him a policy question like this was the six o’clock news.

“Gosh da—” he muttered under his breath, catching himself because, oh God, Ma would hear that from space.

You arched a brow, eyes gleaming.

“Careful with the language, Superman. I’m recording.”