#ruby writes clark

It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader – which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more. 

With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.

"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."

You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.

He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.

"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"

"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.

"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?" 

"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.

It's all bark and no bite really.

Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about you—that you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.

The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy — though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance. 

Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!

One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.

Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.

Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hi–sorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get that—" 

He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.

It's just for a moment—then he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward. 

Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.

"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"

He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers. 

Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.

"My panties." You say plainly. 

Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin – then watch Clark.

His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it. 

You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if he’s had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.

In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear. 

A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.

"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range. 

"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."

You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one… blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.

Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.

"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.

"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.

"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"

Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."

You don't dignify that with a response—mainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant. 

You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.

Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism – he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"

He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.

You're nice. You are.

It's just… There's something about Clark Kent – something that seems to irk you specifically. 

Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero —which does indeed drive you up the wall— there is just something about him that gets under your skin.

He's so perfectly polite – so nice, it's almost to a fault. 

You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.

He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.

It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature — well, maybe Superman — and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below. 

The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.

Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass. 

They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.

You like to think you know better now.

And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second — he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now — is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.

You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.

Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water. 

You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.

Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort. 

It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.

(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him). 

It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.

Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.

The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.

You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.

You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen. 

The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.

You start typing just to get it to stop.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.

It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work. 

You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks. 

Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.

Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away — if you're not too late, that is.

You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.

You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interrupted—then clocked the treat in her hand.

"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.

Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your stride— broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.

Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.

As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.

Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.

And—there. 

On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them. 

There are only two left.

Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.

"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in time—"

Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate. 

"Oh, gimme," you urge.

Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand. 

It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.

Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.

Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowed—but don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.

"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would you— that's why I didn't bring you one!"

Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons. 

And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.

What's some itching in the throat? 

Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?

Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergy—or that he would've brought one to your desk.

Your eye twitches. "You— how do you even know that?" 

"You… You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish. 

He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. 

Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.

"That—" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.

Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute — which is infuriating — a pettiness rises within you. 

Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat? 

"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."

You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.

Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.

Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision. 

Your hand shoots out, but Clark is faster—and he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.

Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic. 

Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole. 

"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.

Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence. 

You stare at him. 

What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose – or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you. 

You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.

Woah. Cute? You blink hard.

The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.

You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude — and then you catch Jimmy's eye. 

And you remember his stupid comment about being nice—and think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.

Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.

Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.

Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go. 

He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.

Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.

Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.

Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently? 

You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.

Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.

Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.

Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly — and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.

You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job well—and that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.

Too bad it's completely fruitless.

Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.

"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this. 

"How's that wooing going for ya?"

Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.

He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for you—despite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.

Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.

"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."

"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."

Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes that—not at all.

Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."

He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.

It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.

His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest move— and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.

Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.

It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.

Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice. 

His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.

"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about… Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?" 

Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone. 

"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Wha— but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."

Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."

Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.

Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.

"Better clean that up before Perry sees it — otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."

Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.

Half a plan.

The beginnings of one.

It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully. 

The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.

Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly. 

Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that – and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.

With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.

Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.

How on earth could he possibly fumble that?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk. 

It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold. 

It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it. 

You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident — solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right. 

Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.

Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).

So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.

All of this is to say—nowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.

Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.

Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for… something.

But they're just flowers.

Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.

You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive. 

Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake — you are not the person who just gets flowers.

Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.

Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.

Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.

No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.

They are… lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you. 

Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.

When was the last time you got flowers?

The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back. 

Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would he…? 

No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.

He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.

You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.

If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.

Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor. 

The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up. 

You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?

"Good morning." 

Speak of the devil — you've spoke a smidgen too soon.

You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up — which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.

"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?" 

You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."

"Aren't they? They're on your desk." 

You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills. 

But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet. 

He turns it in his hand—and your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters. 

Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.

After a moment, your brows knit together. That… might not be a good thing.

Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow? 

Are you being pranked right now? 

Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely. 

Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer. 

They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.

You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back. 

I hope you can forgive me.

Blinking hard, you read the words again. 

What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.

You read the card again.

Then once more, just to be sure—eyes darting between it and the date.

"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears. 

You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.

Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.

The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.

This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked. 

Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.

"Woah, okay, what—?" 

You ignore Jimmy and his surprise – you'll explain it later, or maybe never – and scoop up the flowers from the vase. 

Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?

Goddamn, you thought this was done.

You thought he was out of your life for good—and that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more. 

But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.

To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.

Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival. 

You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, hey—" 

He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.

"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are nice—"

"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.

“You don’t…?”

Clark’s sentence trails off as you don’t even pause, breezing right past him.

The flowers crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.

With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.

They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.

You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.

"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.

You glance up, relieved to find Lois—even if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.

She asks, "What'd they do to you?"

You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."

Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.

"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."

Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.

You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.

You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.

The thought of who gifted them to you—of him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk number—is nearly enough to make your lip curl.

A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.

Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.

You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.

Right. You were fine. This was fine.

Just because— you weren't— just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.

You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.

Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.

You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.

Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.

Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.

You open your mouth — then close it.

How does that apology even go?

So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriend— who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against —sent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me — or maybe just to fuck with me — which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.

Bit of a mouthful, really.

You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.

For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.

Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.

He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.

What the fuck, man?

"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.

"Just, y'know," you're muttering now, "Like, god, it's just— ugh, dating, and—you know?"

It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.

He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.

Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.

Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.

God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?

The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.

You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.

Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.

It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that they— that you might be wrong.

But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.

You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.

Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.

He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.

Clark watches it worriedly — it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.

"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasé about that potential for Clark's liking.

He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.

Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.

He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.

"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- I—"

He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.

He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.

It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.

You're inscrutable.

Or completely uninterested — in him.

"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."

"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."

"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.

"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It… It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."

Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense — but Jimmy beats him to the punch.

"How'd you pick the flowers?"

Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."

"Social media? Which one?"

"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."

"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.

"The search bar…?"

Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he pushes back to his desk — coffee floundering again — and returns with his laptop in one hand.

"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did you—"

In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.

He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.

Clark straightens up instinctively — then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.

It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.

You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.

You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.

You're half an editor for the office – hence the office shark title – but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's… a steady work in progress.

Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.

Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.

The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.

But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.

You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine – though it is Monday.

It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.

Huh.

And it continues that way.

Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.

You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.

But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.

Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.

You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.

Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.

Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.

So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.

"Is Clark avoiding me?"

You're stopped at Lois' desk.

She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.

"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"

"You know, the funny thing about avoidance is…" You say dryly.

Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."

That has your eyebrows raising.

A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?

You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?

"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's not—"

"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."

Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"

Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.

"Need more coffee?" You offer.

"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.

You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.

Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.

Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.

And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.

You maintain: no-one is that nice.

And not to you, least of all.

You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be… harsh.

According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).

You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reason—but, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.

You're… unpalatable to some.

You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.

Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.

You still can't stand talking to Steve.

But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.

There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.

Because if there is, the grudge is easy.

Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.

You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.

The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.

It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.

When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.

You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.

You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.

As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're… just not going to think about it.

Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.

Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.

You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.

Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.

Time dwindles by.

Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.

Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.

Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.

You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but — "You coming tonight?"

You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"

"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"

Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.

The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.

You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.

Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.

You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Monday—since the very moment those flowers graced your desk—and the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.

"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."

Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."

Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.

Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.

Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.

Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.

The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.

Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.

You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.

It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.

Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.

Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.

That had been surprising to find out — because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.

Not that you would admit that. Aloud.

As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.

Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.

You look back up, making sure you're still with the group — and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.

But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.

His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.

The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.

Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.

A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.

Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.

The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat left— the one next to Clark.

He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.

You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.

You look at the seat again, considering.

Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.

Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.

The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinks— a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.

You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.

Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.

The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.

You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.

It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.

Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.

You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.

It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.

The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.

You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.

And an irresponsible hook-up.

Cat would forgive you — in exchange for the gossip.

Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.

It's a man — a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.

He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.

But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.

Eyes which fix on you for a moment.

Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.

You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.

"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"

It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.

You know exactly the kind of guy he is.

He won't call you. The sex will be good… enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.

Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.

"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.

That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."

"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."

It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.

You go for a more simpering look to make up for it — but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.

They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.

"Everything okay over here?"

You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.

Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.

Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.

"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"

Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.

His 'tough' demeanor — tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body — melts under your glowering gaze.

"I'm— I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.

"I don't need you to—"

"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.

You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?

"No," you say — at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"

You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.

You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.

"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."

You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.

The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene — which is more than you can say you would've done.

Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What… just happened?"

Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."

"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."

"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.

"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe you– you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."

"Hookup?" Clark says — and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?

You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"

Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.

But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about this—especially considering it's none of his business.

You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.

"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025—"

Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.

You barrel on, "—which means I don't need to be married to—"

"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate that— I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can… do as you wish…"

It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.

He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.

He does seem genuinely remorseful — because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does — that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.

However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.

"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."

Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I— I'm just sorry."

God, how are you in this situation — where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?

Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.

You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."

"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.

It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.

He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."

He nods, not at all confidently.

Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.

Though, the thought does amuse you — Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.

God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.

His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been… a week."

Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.

Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contri—"

"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."

You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"

Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."

"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."

He watches you go.

The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.

Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct — that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.

He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.

The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.

It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.

Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.

There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes – and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.

It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.

Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.

He's only half hoping you'll come.

A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.

It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point – one that he was rather desperate to break.

Yet still, some other part of him – a larger part if he was really honest with himself – still wanted to see you here tonight.

Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.

And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.

It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.

And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.

As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.

There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.

You look captivating.

Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.

He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him – you don't owe him a single darn thing.

But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.

And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.

Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.

It's one Ma sent for his birthday – spotted and autumnal in colour.

He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.

"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."

Jimmy hands one cup to Clark – who takes it – and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.

With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.

Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.

His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.

The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.

"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."

Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.

"Jimmy–"

"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts – and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if you– just, wait–"

He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.

A few clicks and then— he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.

It's you – and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.

Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"

"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."

He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."

Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.

Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them – smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.

"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"

He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen – taking in the date of the post in particular.

"It was on their goddamn anniversary."

Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.

"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.

You hadn't known it was him.

You'd thought it was – your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.

An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid of—an ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.

Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.

Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar – just for him to ruin that too.

Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.

Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.

"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."

"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.

Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.

He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."

"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.

It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."

"Wha– Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't getting– getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."

He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.

No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.

Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.

"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just… telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."

Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.

"Sorry, sorry. Just – maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"

Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.

You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.

Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.

"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."

An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.

Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.

"Attaboy!" He crows – going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."

Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better – but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.

He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.

Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.

Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.

As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"

"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.

Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.

Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.

Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.

You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.

"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.

That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.

"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."

She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight – a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.

She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."

You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.

"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."

You glance around the party filled with your co-workers – and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.

"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinks…" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.

She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.

Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, when– "Was it because of Clark?"

You blink, a little surprised at her question.

"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."

Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."

You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though – it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.

You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?

Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.

She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"

She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?

Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.

You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.

He just… vexed you.

He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice — and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.

He's– He's Clark!

You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."

It sounds weak, even to your ears.

For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.

"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"

Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.

"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Because– because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"

Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.

Which, yes, you know that Lois — but isn't she supposed to be on your side?

"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any other—you can't expect him to share that."

You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.

Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.

"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.

"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.

"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"

"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."

It comes out scathing — as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.

You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.

Oh shit. What did you just say?

"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you… Do you have feelings for Clark?"

A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.

No, you've never thought of Clark in that way—nor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.

You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.

Your denial is fast.

"No!"

Lois is faster.

"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"

"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm not—"

Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.

You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.

Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him – and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.

And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.

"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.

"Yeah–and yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"

You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my ex–"

Someone clears their throat behind you.

You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.

"Hi, Clark," She says – and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.

God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?

God, you can't catch a break.

"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.

You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.

No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.

You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.

It doesn't deter Clark.

In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.

"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."

Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.

Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.

It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."

Still, Clark nods.

He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.

Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.

"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactly…"

He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.

It'll be private for sure — no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.

Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.

You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.

Outside is a whole different world.

Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.

The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.

It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.

Private, indeed.

Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.

Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.

Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.

You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.

Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.

"I want to apologise."

You blink. Huh?

"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.

"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "I– it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but I…"

Signed the card…? You know you must be looking very confused right now.

"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."

A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.

The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?

The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.

You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.

There are a thousand questions.

One stands out.

"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"

"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also because…"

Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.

"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."

Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.

That must be it – this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.

Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you… he likes you.

Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.

Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.

Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.

"You…" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"

"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.

That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.

It doesn't compute.

"But I'm…" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.

The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."

"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."

"I'm distrustful." You counter.

What are you doing!

"You're protective!" Clark claims.

"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.

Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.

Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?

"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."

"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."

"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."

"I'm…" You're running out of things to say now.

How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?

How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided… still says he…

"I'm mean." You say firmly.

So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?

That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.

He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."

You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.

"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.

Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of — and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.

It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.

Good intentions only get you so far—and whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something – of you.

"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- we— I couldn't."

Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, I–"

You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.

You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope – magnified and impossible to ignore.

You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair, clearly.

This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?

"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you're– you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had… I had feelings for you."

There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.

But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"

You want to laugh again — because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.

"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.

You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.

Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.

"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean… you wouldn't? Why not?"

"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.

You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.

"I'm why not. I'm—"

You cut yourself off to a mutter.

"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date and– and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.

Oh god, please don't have convinced him.

You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knot—waiting for the one he can't undo.

Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.

"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.

Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this – you can't be this devastated.

And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, but…"

Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.

"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."

Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.

God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?

You can do this. Can you do this?

He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.

You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?

Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?

Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?

You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.

"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."

You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.

You force yourself to be brave, to look up — and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.

Clark is beautiful when he's happy—grinning with the radiance of the summer sun.

You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.

"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."

God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.

You might not get to have this – but you get to try. And that's enough.

Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak when–

"Yo!"

A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.

It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.

He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.

His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors – or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.

"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.

It stretches the rules a bit — you and Clark aren't under it — though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.

His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"

You fluster a little, turning back to Clark – who, adorably, looks much the same.

"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."

Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.

The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.

How did you deserve this?

It’s a small voice in your brain you’re becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.

You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.

He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.

"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.

But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.

He's looking at you like you're all he wants.

"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.

You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.

He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. You've think you’ve wasted enough time already.

Pressing up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and – for the first time in months – you meet him midway.

And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?

You can't even feel the cold anymore.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A lot of people like him. Like, like him a lot. You’ve heard there’s even a Twitter account set up just to post live updates about his whereabouts.

People take photos pretty much constantly - though most just manage to capture a blue blur. They film with their phones during fights, creeping closer to dangerous situations just for a better view. A thousand images that make up a mosaic of Metropolis’ biggest hero.

You certainly aren’t one of those silly people.

You know that danger = run. In the other direction.

You’re fairly certain everyone had that taught to them as a child, but maybe that’s being presumptuous. Not everyone has had the same upbringing as you.

Or, maybe, Superman is the exception to that rule.

Though, you swear you’d read his statement in one of Clark’s articles, asking that people avoid active danger zones. Cited civilian injury rates, the estimated cost to the city, and everything.

Do people not read Clark’s articles? You like to think they’re pretty good. You’re definitely not biased just because Clark is your boyfriend.

(You are, a bit.)

Perhaps, it was just another thing that you couldn’t get. That the sight of Superman was enough to warrant putting yourself in danger for.

Either way, whatever the true reason was, you’ve chalked it up to brightness. Or rather, a lack thereof in Metropolis’ population.

It also means you’re probably one of the only people in the city who hasn’t actually laid eyes on the hero.

Sure, you know what he looks like… you think.

Blue suit, red cape, occasionally with a dog.

(That makes him quite a bit more trustworthy in your opinion —but you need to see him with a cat to know for sure.)

And you’re quite alright with that - with not seeing him. Because, to be honest, if you do see him, it probably means you’re in a bit of trouble.

Like—“Don’t run, don’t scream, and we won’t have any trouble.”

Like now.

You freeze on the staircase leading out of your work, hand still on the railing, a little perturbed. You’re sure you don’t know the woman who was coming up the stairs, opposite you.

Her words take a second longer to process. It’s in part due to tiredness and in part due to the noise-cancelling headphones you’re wearing.

So much so that you actually push back the headphones and say, “Huh?” before you realise what she’s said.

Ah, you’re being mugged.

A glint of the knife in her hand confirms it. Well, wielding a knife at you is a more apt description.

You blink at her, dead-tired, and wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do in this situation.

“Good,” The woman flashes you a smile, faux and worse than some of your own masked smiles. She gestures with her free hand towards your bag. “Your wallet.”

You blink again, finally some instinct kicking in to raise your heartbeat and get fear running through your veins. You grip your bag tighter and blink violently again.

Oh. You don’t want to get stabbed. You imagine it would hurt very, very, very much.

What did Clark say to do again?

Your poor boyfriend, despite his size, seems to be the pick of the litter for mugging. That’s why he comes home with cuts and bruises from time to time.

If someone threatens you, just go along with what they’re asking, okay? He’d told you, blue eyes serious. If you do, they won’t hurt you.

You listen to him because he’s survived enough muggings, so he must know what he’s talking about.

Knowing exactly where it is in your bag, your hand dives in— and stops when the woman threatens the knife again.

“Slowly!” She barks, her wild eyes darting between your hand and your bag frantically.

You eye the knife warily, pulse still skyrocketing. Then you wrinkle your nose, because it’s never nice to be shouted at, especially by someone robbing you.

Besides, she didn’t specify any speeds to begin with.

It’s hardly fair. You’ve never been mugged before.

“Okay,” You say timidly, so she knows you’re listening. “I’m moving slowly.”

Doing as she says, you move at a much, much slower pace. You’re not exactly sure what she thinks you might pull out of the bag that could constitute a weapon.

Your notebook wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a knife. Not that you would sacrifice it. Your water bottle, maybe?

“Not that slow,” The woman growls when it’s been a few seconds and you still haven’t retrieved your wallet. “Are you stupid?”

That one stings a bit, with a tinge of frustration. Have you encountered the most indecisive mugger in all of Metropolis?

You swallow back your fear with a shaky inhale. Then wonder if she’s mugged Clark before.

With a shake of your head to answer her question, you pull your wallet out at a regular pace — then hold it out to her. “There isn’t very much money in it,” you tell her truthfully.

Ignoring you, she gestures flinchingly to the ground with her knife.

You follow the motion, then follow her instructions and open your fingers, letting the wallet drop. It bounces once and lands just a couple of inches from your feet.

“Oh, you are stupid.” She hisses, beginning to advance forward, knife still wielded chest high.

You watch her, wide-eyed, breathing coming heavier as your own feet shuffle back, panic spiking. You’re probably going to get stabbed now.

Every first-aid thought you can recall rushes to the front of your mind, furiously trying to remember the acronym for RED to deal with surface wounds.

If she stabs you, you’ll keep it in, you think bravely.

The woman bends down and snatches your wallet up, her knife trained on you the whole time—

“I don’t think that belongs to you.”

There’s a third person in the stairwell with you.

The mugger stumbles back, whipping around with a ferocity that makes your heart a bit weak. She certainly has no qualms about slicing people up with her knife.

You can’t tell where the other person is, same as your attacker. You watch, eyes still wide, as she looks left, right, but there appears to be no one else with you.

Her gaze slices back around to face you, and the knife follows, raised again, trembling this time. “I don’t know how you’re doing that, but—”

“I said,” the voice repeats, sounding nearer. “I don’t think that belongs to you.”

You’re caught between floors. The library you work in sits within a high-rise building, closer to ground-level. There are several stories above you, a roundabout staircase weaving its way up to each floor, but most everyone uses the elevator.

You’d been the last one out of the library. Unless it’s someone from many stories above…?

You both locate the new voice at the same time.

It’s somewhat satisfying to hear the choked noise your mugger makes as Superman drifts down the spiral in the middle of the stairwell.

Funny how the first thought in your mind is how this opportunity is probably being wasted on you.

Sure, you’re being mugged—but apparently getting a save from Superman is a pretty coveted thing, according to the internet. Looking at him now, you guess you can see the appeal.

He’s pretty. You mean, he’s not as pretty as Clark, but, yeah, on paper, you get it.

He’s tall, he’s strong, he’s come to your rescue.

He lands without flourish, his eyes scanning across the situation with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes land on you and he does a sort of double take.

Whatever it is, he focuses instead on the woman before you, one hand held out placatingly.

He doesn’t appear to blanch in the face of the knife. You wonder if super-bravery is one of his powers.

“Ma’am,” he says calmly. “I understand that it’s hard conditions that tend to drive people to commit these crimes. I also choose to believe that you don’t want to do this.”

There’s a tense moment, then, surprisingly, the woman nods tersely. The knife is still shaking in her hand, slowly lowering.

“Alright,” Superman says, offering a comforting smile now. “What is it you need?”

The knife is completely lowered now; the woman transformed from her angry state just a moment ago. Suddenly, she’s skittish. Embarrassed.

“Money,” she murmurs. Then, louder, with a gesture of your wallet, “I need money.”

Superman nods, no ounce of judgement on his face.

“Alright,” he says again. “You don’t need to take it from others, though. There are resources for when you’re in crisis. People who can help. Tonight, I hope I can be one of them.”

He reaches back, one hand searching beneath his cape. When he pulls his hand forward, there are several crisp bills in his grip.

The woman eyes it widely.

She looks up at him as though she can’t believe he’s serious. You suppose that’s understandable - how many superheroes carry cash?

He offers it out.

You realise at the same moment that the woman does that in order to take the money, she needs a free hand.

She glances down at the knife, then your wallet — then tosses the latter at your feet.

It lands with a loud slam in the empty stairwell, making you twitch violently. Superman’s eyes dart to you, a quick furrow to his brows. It’s wiped away in the next second.

The woman steps out, reaching for the cash - but when she pulls, it doesn’t budge.

You watch closely as her gaze rolls up apprehensively to look up at Superman. There’s a tinge of nervousness to her expression now.

“I give you this—” He’s still calm as ever. He should seriously consider being a hostage negotiator, you think. You’d be much worse in this situation. He bargains, “You give me the knife.”

He tilts his head, nodding to the knife still in her grip, wavering at her side. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, curled and the colour of coal.

Again, a little bit of you gets it. He’s handsome.

Not that you’d choose to be mugged again. Or run into danger to see him.

The woman nods again, still tense.

It’s a quick transaction — she holds the knife up, non-threatening this time, and Superman releases the grip on the cash as she hands it over. He grabs the knife by the blade with seemingly no problem.

Then the interaction is done.

With the likeness of a rodent who’s narrowly escaped a trap, your mugger quickly scurries away, down the stairs and out the door you were supposed to be out of 15 minutes ago.

You watch her go, still tensed up, your heart rate still far too near tachycardia for your liking. You can’t tell if you’ve under- or over-reacted in this situation.

The door slams loudly behind her, and you flinch in surprise. You hate loud noises enough as it is.

The slam echoes up the stairwell, empty now, except for you.

And Superman, of course.

“I believe this,” Superman breaks the silence with ease, shortening the distance between you to retrieve your wallet from the ground. “Belongs to you.”

The knife has been hidden away already, as you can’t see it anywhere. When you look up at his face, he’s smiling at you, a softened and comforting expression.

His hand holds your wallet, a well-worn purple butterfly one that your mother has been begging you to throw out for years. It looks small in his grip.

You take it. Nod and make your best attempt at eye-contact, which is barely a glance up, then down.

You say, “Thank you,” but it comes out much quieter than you’d like.

Are you supposed to say goodbye before you leave?

It would feel impolite not to. There’s a good chance he just saved your life. Or at the very least, keep you from getting stabbed.

Should you give him some money?

He did sort of just pay to keep you stab-free.

But finder’s fee is a thing, right?

But, well, your wallet wasn’t actually lost. In fact, you knew exactly where it was the whole time.

Too many questions. You don’t have any answers. Unknowingly, Superman adds another to the mix.

“Are you okay?” He says, taking another step forward, bringing you closer. “Are you hurt at all?”

Fingers flexing on your wallet, you swallow heavily and force yourself to meet his gaze.

There’s a furrow in his brow that looks like concern. Combined with his closeness, the interaction feels oddly… intimate.

“Yes,” you say in response to his first question.

Alarm flashes over Superman’s face. “You are hurt?” He questions, blue eyes already scanning over your body for the apparent injuries.

“No,” you remedy, with a shake of your head. “You asked if I was okay. I am. She didn’t stab me.”

“Oh,” Superman deflates in relief, enough to drop his shoulders a few inches. You’re not sure if this is his usual memo, but you’re a bit taken aback by how much he seems to care.

A different question niggles at you. You ask it before you can think the better of it.

“You carry cash?”

Something close to surprise ripples across his face before it settles into a smile. You spot the dimples on his cheeks, and it makes you think of Clark.

“Sometimes I get hungry,” Superman says, as if admitting a guilty secret. “Can’t exactly use a card to pay, can I?”

You blink at him for a moment before — ah, yes, secret identity.

A card would have been connected to a name. Would a bank let him open an account as Superman? You haven’t thought about that before.

You nod, a little unenthusiastically, because, with the danger gone, what little energy you have is being sapped from you.

“I’m—” You wave at the door with your wallet—remembering mid-way that you still need to put it away (you don’t want to get mugged again).

You bury it away in your bag before you forget, head ducked, before looking back up at Superman.

“Um.”

Wow, no one mentioned the awkward part at the end of being saved.

The one where Superman lingers closely, an expression you can’t puzzle out on his face, and the journey back home you still have to make.

“Thank you. I have to go now.”

Then, before he can catch you with another question, you turn and head down the stairs, feet pitter-pattering rapidly.

Maybe that’s rude - or maybe he’s used to people asking for a selfie, which you really don’t want to have to explain that you’re okay without if he offers. The cringe at the mere thought of that awkwardness is enough to make your skin crawl.

You’re out onto the street in record time.

The streetlights are a little brighter. You’ve missed your usual train. Frustration irks in the back of your throat.

Shaking it off as best you can, you stride fast towards the subway station. In your back pocket, your phone buzzes with a text.

You’ve set it to only do that for important people, so it pulls you up to a stop. You fish out the device, squinting at the screen.

Clark (Lois’ Co-worker): Hey :) I miss you, can I come see you tonight?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark always knocks with a special pattern, so you know it’s him, before you even open the door.

Tonight, when you hear it, it sounds a lot like relief.

You don’t move from your spot on the couch — where you’ve been since you got home — because Clark has a key to let himself in.

A moment later you hear it, his key jiggling into the lock. It clicks with its unlock. The door opens and your boyfriend follows in.

“y/n?” His voice wraps around the corner to find you in the living room. “Knock-knock.”

He comes round the corner of your front entrance into the living room in a manner of steps. Your apartment has a small front entrance. And a small everything else too.

He spots you, seems to melt a little, and a smile spreads across his face.

“There you are.” He sighs, the sound laced with relief. As if maybe you wouldn’t be here, even though you said you would.

He’s wearing his work clothes still, but one of the buttons of his dress-shirt —the one you sewed back on— has been put in the wrong hole. You wonder if it’s been like that all day. He nudges his glasses up his nose.

“Hi,” you say. You haven’t moved, but you’re already beginning to smile. “Why do you say knock-knock when you’ve already knocked?”

Clark grins wider at your question, rounding the couch and moving to sit next to you.

He pauses when he notices the boots still on your feet, and instead, he kneels beside you.

He’s going to take your shoes off for you, you realise with an ache of love.

“To be polite, I guess,” He answers you, flashing you another smile. He beckons your foot forward, and when you shift it slightly, he begins the task of undoing the laces for you. “Let's you know that it’s me who’s coming in.”

“That’s what the knock is for, isn’t it?”

Finished, he pulls on the boot, and you give your ankle a little wiggle to help him. It slides off.

He starts on the next, giving a little shrug. “Yeah, but still, it’s nice to do. Maybe you didn’t hear the knock.”

He tugs the other one off, and when it comes free, you slump a little further into the couch, happy to have one less thing touching you. Clark notices, as always.

“Rough day, huh?” He says sympathetically, pairing your boots together. “Give me a quick sec.”

He rises to his feet, your shoes in hand, and quickly deposits them at the door. This time, when he’s back, he finds a spot on the couch next to you. Close, but not touching.

“Alright for a kiss?” He asks.

It’s one of the things you and Clark do to make sure he’s not overwhelming you. Particularly after tiring days—much like today.

But a lot of your usual boundaries break down for Clark. Because he waits. Because he asks.

You nod, because yeah, a kiss sounds like something you need right now. “Yes, please.”

Clark smiles again, dimples appearing, and he leans in slowly, his hand finding the curve of your jaw. He waits for the adorable hitch in your breath.

Kisses from Clark are a bit like coffee to your system.

His lips are warm. The feeling it gives you perks you up. You sink into him, letting him sap some of your tiredness.

You don’t even realise how much you’ve let yourself rest on him until he’s pulled back and you’re still leaning into his hand. He doesn’t make a move to pull it back though, so you figure it’s alright to rest here a little longer.

“Rough day?” He asks again, a little quieter this time. His thumb swathes across your cheek dotingly.

You nod with a sigh, and it moves his hand in time with you.

While he’s still close, Clark dots a kiss on your hairline, soft as sunlight. He keeps his tone low as he murmurs, “Want to tell me about it?”

You cast your eyes downward, thinking back to the stairwell. It had been scary, but ultimately you’d been okay.

Really, you’re most miffed about the change in routine.

It’s evidently not safe to take the stairs anymore, but you don’t want to have to start taking the elevator now.

The one at your work was old. It creaked and juddered terribly before it got to any floor. It wasn’t anything like the nice one in Clark’s apartment building.

Pulling back from Clark’s gentle hold, you let yourself slump back against the couch instead. Clark follows suit, matching your position, his head leaned up against the back of your couch. His hair looks particularly tousled tonight, you note.

“I have to start taking the elevator at work.” You say.

Clark blinks, bewilderment passing across his face so fast you almost don’t catch it.

“Oh,” He says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. A moment later it’s replaced with his usual compassion. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

You give a little shrug. “Not really. Like, nothing technically.”

That makes Clark squint just for a moment, thinking hard on your words. He chooses his next carefully.

“Did something… almost happen?”

Which, well, yeah, a lot of things almost happen every day.

It feels like a vague question, but you know Clark isn’t prone to asking those. Even so, you shrug again, unsure how to answer that correctly.

Instead, you tell him, “I met Superman today.”

That makes him sit up a bit straighter.

“What?” He says. “Why? I mean, what happened?”

You shrug again. You’re shrugging a lot tonight, maybe because you’re not quite sure how to put it.

You were almost mugged? You were in the middle of getting mugged when Superman stepped in and said, ‘Hey, mug me instead’?

“A lady at work had a knife,” you say candidly. Then you hear the words and quickly correct yourself, “Not a lady from work. She was just at my work. In the building.”

Clark frowns, thick brows knitting together in the middle. “A knife? Was anyone hurt? What did she want?”

He’s usually better at not asking so many questions in one go, but you forgive him this time. If anyone showed up at his work with a knife, you’d be pretty worried too.

He sounds pretty panicked as well, his voice a little more strained than usual, discomfort obvious on his face.

A bit of your stress must show on your face, because Clark’s suddenly filled with apologies: “Sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ask so many questions or overwhelm you, honey. I just — I’m surprised you didn’t call or text me about this.”

For the nth time, you shrug again.

“Technically nothing actually happened. She just tried to mug me.”

“She tried to mug you?” Clark repeats, brows raised. His voice is pitched up a bit, which isn’t like him. He breaks eye contact, staring at your coffee table with a strange intensity. “Gosh…”

Tracking your eyes to the coffee table, you check to see if there is something specific that’s caught his eyes. Finding nothing, you nod to answer his question.

“Which, I tried to tell her I don’t have much money, but she didn’t care.” You frown, recalling the interaction. “She was quite mean, too.”

That makes Clark frown too. He nudges his glasses up again.

“So, I have to start taking the elevator now. So, bad day.” You explain, with a put-out pout, already sighing at the thought. “It’s like a superpower that you knew to ask to come over tonight.”

That makes Clark laugh for some reason, a loud barked-out noise that he clamps down immediately after he makes.

“That,” He says, adjusting his glasses once more. “Ha, well, I actually wanna ask that every night. Just got lucky, I guess.”

His eyes widen. “Not that you getting mugged was in any way lucky! Just, y’know, lucky that I… happened to text.”

He’s nodding along so much, you feel you should nod too.

It feels nice to know he wants to spend every night with you - and nicer that he knows you need some nights by yourself. Tonight isn’t one of those.

“What did you think of, uh, Superman?” Clark asks after a moment. He’s stopped fidgeting with his glasses, but his fingers toy with his tie, giving away his nerves.

It’s sweet. Clark has always been a sweetheart. You also know he and Superman are sort of friends. As you’ve learned over the years, that probably means he wants you to like him too.

“He was… nice.” You say, making sure you’re not too honest.

He had been nice. He’d also been… well, a bit too nice for a stranger. Stood a little too close. Was that wrong of you to judge when he’d saved your life?

You decide that if he’s Clark’s friend, you won’t speak ill of him.

“Nice,” Clark echoes, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s good, right? I noticed you, uh, don’t have much to say about him. Not like a lot of Metropolis.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or not.

“He’s… Superman,” you say with another little shrug. “I don’t think he cares too much about what I think of him. He’s busy saving the world.”

Something in your words must be funny because Clark’s grinning again, his fingers no longer fidgeting with his tie. Instead, he reaches for the knot of it, beginning to loosen it.

“I’ve got a feeling he cares,” Clark says, blue eyes bright. “He cares what everyone thinks. But Superman-Schmuperman, enough about him. Have you eaten yet?”

The way he says schmuperman is enough to make you giggle. Clark gets that besotted look in his eyes that you just adore. You shake your head to tell him no, you haven’t eaten yet.

He makes breakfast for dinner for the both of you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You do take the elevator when you head back to work the next day.

It creaks and it judders in that terrible way, but it delivers on its intended purpose and gets you to your floor. Does the same on your way home.

It’s a new normal that you’re gritting your teeth to come to terms with.

Except, surprisingly, apparently not.

Because come Friday morning, there’s a sign taped over the doors with a big arrow directing people to the stairs.

And when you enter the stairwell, you’re far from the only one taking the stairs.

“What happened to the elevator?” You ask one of your coworkers, the first words out of your mouth when you get behind the desk.

It’s Sandra, a nicer older lady who wears perfume a bit too strong for your sensitive nose. But she never yells when you wear your headphones on quiet shifts, so you decide you like her.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” She says, eyes glittering. Sandra also loves gossip - which is a good and bad thing. Today, it’s good.

You shake your head. Sandra’s eyes shine brighter.

“Some big-shot reporter at the Daily Planet published a scathing review on how poorly kept up to code the elevators in Metropolis are. Name-dropped our building. Big advocate for us less-than-able folks.” She taps her leg, the one with the bad knee, and grins.

“Body-corp had to step in. The whole thing is being replaced.”

You feel your eyebrows raise, surprise parting your lips. You have a feeling you already know who wrote that article.

“That’s good news. Do you still have the article up?”

She nods, then waves you closer, behind her cubby at the main front desk. Her monitor has a dozen different tabs open, but like you, Sandra seems to know exactly where everything is.

She clicks her mouse, and the screen reloads.

A Daily Planet-style article fills the pixels, with the familiar globe spinning on its axis in the corner. Your eyes search, and even though you’re half-expecting it, your heart still lurches.

There, the byline.

Written by Clark Kent.

Which—oh. It never stops being unexpected, the ways in which he loves you.

Your knuckles rise to your sternum without thought, pressing in to try to calm yourself.

“That’s really good news.” You say, smile a bit wobbly. The strong dose of affection passes after a moment, and you speak a little clearer, “I hated the old elevator.”

“I know you did,” Sandra hums knowingly. “Don’t you have a boyfriend at the Planet?”

You smile because it’s nice to know other people are paying attention to you as well as those who are supposed to. Even simply co-workers.

“Yeah,” you say, pressing your knuckles harder again, just in case another wave threatens you. “Uh, yeah, I do. That’s him.”

“Oh!” Sandra lights up at that news - and you briefly wonder if it’s a mistake to have told her. But she smiles sweetly, goes to put her hand on your arm and then seems to think the better of it.

“That’s wonderful. He seems like a good egg.”

You’re not quite sure what she means by that, but it sounds like a good thing. Smiling, you give a little nod.

“Yes. He’s… very nice to me,” you say, almost bashfully. “I love him a lot.”

“How sweet,” says Sandra, though she’s already turned her attention back to the screen. You see her mouse move, drifting up to Clark’s name, blue and linked. She left-clicks with a satisfying click!

That feels like your cue to leave. Quietly, you readjust the bag on your shoulder, treading past Sandra and her oogling stare, now zooming in on your boyfriend’s work identification photo. Guess that's what you get for telling her.

You just catch the last of her words as you turn into the backroom.

“Well, he’s nice to look at, but he’s no Superman…”

You smile to yourself, think of your darling Clark, and quietly disagree.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Post-attempted mugging, you like to think you have a pretty uneventful week.

Beyond the elevator replacement, which started kicking in on Friday, nothing much happens that you would warrant calling an ‘event’.

Well, nothing that affects you in particular.

A kaiju finds its way into uptown. Superman and Justice Gang fight it off.

You, as always, don’t join the swathes of foolish people who run towards the dangerous sounds of battle.

It all goes down on a Sunday, the day you always go over to Clark’s to make dinner with him. Thankfully, his apartment isn’t affected, and the battle is all wrapped up by the time you'd planned to head over there.

The elevator makes your stomach swoop, as always, and you nearly knock the fresh chives in your bag loose by accident. You silently hope you picked a good enough cauliflower for tonight’s dish.

At his lime-green door, you rap your special knock — then, after a moment, let yourself in with a key.

This is usually where you’re greeted.

Tonight… You stand in the entranceway of Clark’s apartment, and he doesn’t come to meet you. So you strain your ears. There’s water running.

Wandering further in, you deposit the bag of groceries atop the countertop and pause, head tilted. The kitchen looks clean. Nothing’s been started, not even a chopping board out on the bench.

It’s odd behaviour for Clark.

You follow the sound of running water to the bathroom, walking slowly.

You’ve been here countless times, but without Clark greeting you, it feels wrong to stroll around as if you own the place. You don't call out — though you probably should, as it might help you locate him.

“Honey.”

You jump, even though he’s spoken softly. You turn to where the noise came from. Head poked around the bathroom door, Clark looks… a little worse for wear.

There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his left eye has definitely taken a punch, evidenced by the yellowed skin around it. He’s breathing a little heavily.

“Hi,” he says. “I know. Looks worse than it is, promise.”

It does look bad, you agree. But he smiles so brightly that you can’t imagine he’s not telling the truth.

“What happened?” You ask worriedly, especially as Clark cringes at the question. “Did you get mugged again?”

Something relaxes in Clark’s face, and you think it might be understanding. He nods ruefully. The bright smile is back on his face in an instant.

“Did you find a good cauliflower?”

You blink, surprised by the change in topic. Though, he had complimented you in the past on your particular penchant for picking perfect produce.

Maybe he likes this dish you make — cauliflower steaks — a little more than he'd let on. He's impossible to get an opinion out of sometimes; you maintain that anything you make does not qualify as a favourite food.

“I did.” You nod. “It’s in the kitchen.”

Somehow, you can’t leave without offering help. “Do you need any help? I can find the arnica, or—”

A shake of Clark’s head cuts you off, his handsome smile still at full beam. “No, no, I’m almost done. Had, uh, had some arnica already. Just give me a minute in here, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?”

Six minutes would’ve been a more accurate time estimate.

You try not to hold it against him, especially considering he's obviously had a bad day already.

You manage to mince five cloves of garlic, then wait, because you like cooking with Clark, then begin chopping the chives before he appears in the kitchen.

“All better,” he says, sidling up behind you, hands reaching out to gently rest on your waist.

You put down the knife and turn in his arms, eyeing up the new improvements.

The bridge of his nose is now sporting a light pink bandaid. The bruising on his eye already looks better — which makes you think it was just the lighting of the bathroom making it look as bad as it did.

“Was it a woman?” You ask.

“Wha— what?” Clark trips over the word.

“Your mugger. Were they a woman?”

You want to know if it was the same one who tried to take your wallet. Though, she had a knife, and Clark looks like he got punched. Unlikely to be the same perpetrator.

“Uuuh,” He draws out the sound, thinking it over, even as his hands on your waist pull you in closer. His body presses against yours, warm and firm. “I don’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say… gender non-conforming?”

His earnest choice of words makes you smile. You reach up, hands carefully finding a resting place cradling his jaw. "Progressive," you say as a joke.

Clark laughs, and you feel his hands around your waist give an affectionate squeeze.

He leans in and kisses you quick, a hello — and you pat yourself on the back for only giving a little bit of a strangled inhale in response.

"Did Superman save you too?"

The second after you ask the question, you feel a bit silly. Superman has been uptown all day, flying around and doing whatever it is he does to fight against kaiju's. He probably couldn't have—

"Uh, yeah." Clark says after a moment, nodding. One of his eyebrows twitches strangely. "Yeah, he did."

He looks a tad apprehensive, mouth pursed, eyes not quite meeting yours.

You deduce that the mugging, as you're now familiar with, is probably not something he wants to talk about. Feeling a tad guilty, you change the subject.

"I'm worried people aren't reading your articles."

You say this as you release his face, and Clark's hands instinctively loosen their hold to let you turn back to the countertop.

Someone has to keep cooking, and you've already been sidetracked once tonight. There's not a schedule or a time limit, but there kind of is to you.

Besides, you know it has to be you keeping dinner on track.

You're pretty sure if it weren't for your insistence, Clark wouldn't mind spending all his evenings wrapping you up in his arms, doling out kisses galore.

The thought makes your face burn. You focus on your grip on the knife; instead of the vibration of Clark's surprised laugh you can feel against your back, resuming your chopping.

"You're…? Sweet girl, why are you worried about that?"

Hearing him call you something as nice as sweet girl makes you feel as though you've swallowed a firework.

It burns all the way down, hot and bright, and finds a home behind your ribs. It takes a long moment to compose yourself, hand-halted, and a bite to the inside of your cheek to do so. After a moment, you start chopping again, a little slower this time.

His surprise has made you second-guess the logic you've followed.

Maybe he'll think you're being daft. (He wouldn't). Maybe he'll entertain your theories just because he loves you. (He would). You um and ah over whether to tell him.

Clark hasn't put his arms back around you, which you're thankful for because it's distracting and it makes it harder to chop.

He's instead stepped to the side, leaning against the bench to stay close.

You finish with the chives, put down the knife and reach out, the counter digging into your stomach slightly as you pull the bag of groceries closer. You decide to tell him.

"Well, the kaiju today," you begin.

You pull out the cauliflower, handling it with two hands. It's hefty, nearly the size of your head — but it wasn't pay by weight, so it's a steal you're proud of. The market usually yields well.

"Good cauliflower," Clark compliments. You brighten up at the words. His gaze softens, his smile a little fonder.

"The kaiju, please continue."

"Right," you nod. "I was on 14th Street when it, like, arrived. So, pretty close. Maybe like four or five blocks? But I've noticed this — and this is why I'm worried that people might not be reading your articles — because you wrote that Superman piece, where you interviewed him and asked about civilian safety?"

The end of your sentence goes up a bit, becoming an unintended question. You glance over at your boyfriend, reassured when he nods to say you're correct.

You make the first slice into the cauliflower, splitting it right down the middle.

"And I remember it because you asked me to proofread that one, though I remember a lot of your articles too, but this one had that really helpful statistic about the likelihood of civilian injury rates increasing or decreasing based on civilian responses."

Carving out the 'steaks' takes a little more focus, so you stick out your tongue and halt talking for a moment. Clark makes himself useful, disappearing from your side to dive into his cabinets.

"Keep talking, I'm listening," he assures you.

"Well," you continue, "you remember the five categories?" You feel yourself over-explaining his own article to him and wince. "Sorry, you wrote the article, you know. Sorry."

Cumin, coriander, salt, and pepper find their way to the bench beside you, little glass jars glinting beneath the lights. "No need to apologise."

"Okay," you say. If Clark says it, it must be true — he's the most truthful person you know. Maybe besides yourself.

"The category, the reckless one? I can't remember the number it turned out to be exactly, but it was high. Do you remember?"

Clark has pulled one of the oven trays out and placed it beside you on the countertop, preparing to place your meticulously sliced 'steaks' on it.

A sunny-coloured oil has been drizzled along the bottom, greasing it up. You hear the whir of the oven somewhere to the side, behind you, beginning to preheat.

"Yeah, yeah," Clark says, back to his spot beside you, prodding his glasses up with a knuckle. You hope they don't hurt the cut on his nose.

"The likelihood of civilian injury increases to 70% if they exhibit reckless behaviour during an active emergency." He rattles off the statistic easily.

"Exactly," you say.

Where did this conversation start again? Your brain jumps around, trying to find it — cauliflower, mugging, Superman.

"Right," you pick up the thought. "But when I was out there today, a lot of people started going towards the kaiju. But I remember in that interview, Superman said he wanted people to do the opposite."

You realise you're still holding the knife, but there's nothing left to chop.

You place it down on the board, twisting and leaning your hip up against the counter.

Clark's tall — tall enough you have to lift your chin to look at him properly. You let your gaze roam over his face attentively.

He's so handsome. He's always handsome, and you love seeing him in his suit and tie, but dressed casually, like he is today, is a treat.

He's in loose jeans, wearing a quarter-zip jumper. You can see his white t-shirt beneath it.

His hair is tousled and loose, barely dried from the shower he must've taken earlier.

He's still smiling at you, now half amusement, half something else. His dimples beg to be kissed. You're barely restraining yourself.

You wonder if the look in his eyes is what novels would describe as starry-eyed. Either way, it undoes you in a quiet, gentle way.

"That's why you're worried?" He questions.

One of his hands snakes forward to find the curve of your neck again, cupping your face gently. It's as though he does it without thought, like his hands have a mind of their own and they're all about touching some part of you.

You feel your heart rate go up at the touch. Then you see Clark's smile widen a little — though the two can't be connected.

"Yes. Why would people go towards danger?"

Clark's thumb begins its familiar swatch across your cheek, one of his favourite motions. He tilts his head a little, giving your question some thought.

"I think some people want to see Superman."

"They'd get in danger for that?"

"Apparently," he shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. "It's good to hear that you wouldn't, honey. And to hear you're concerned about who's reading my articles, but trust me, if people weren't, Perry would've had my… backside some time ago."

That's true. While the logic you followed to assume people might not be reading Clark's work is somewhat sound, the truth of his boss is a far stronger point of reason.

You've met Perry just once. He's very to the point. You weren't fond of the smell of the cigar he carried around with him.

He'd taken a look at you, the one time you'd dropped off lunch to Clark after he'd forgotten it and raised his brows, turned to your boyfriend, and said, "Well done, Kent."

It had taken a minute before you realised he had been referring to you when he said that — which led to you fleeing the scene with haste.

Clark had made up for it with dozens of kisses later that evening.

As Clark begins seasoning the 'steaks', pushing his sleeves back to reveal toned forearms, you ponder over his words.

Ponder the idea that Superman was worth running towards danger for.

You think back to your interaction with the hero and puzzle over it, but it's not something you can seem to make sense of.

You can't think of anyone you'd do that for.

Turning back to face the countertop to help Clark, falling into that Sunday-evening rhythm, you sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye.

He catches you and pokes out his tongue, nudging you softly with his elbow.

You laugh, such a common sound in his kitchen, and think: yeah, maybe for him.

For Clark, it would be worth running towards the danger.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Your uneventful luck runs out.

It runs out rather quickly too. It hasn't even been a month since the mugging - or mugging attempt, you should say - when something happens on the subway.

Living in Metropolis, there's a sort of intuition one gains for otherworldly interference.

Like knowing when your subway car screeches to a halt as though someone's pulled the emergency brake, it is not for maintenance reasons.

It happens jarringly.

Which, well, there isn't exactly a non-jarring way to pull the emergency brake, but it's the word that springs to mind when it happens.

The lights overhead flicker once, twice.

Then, with a most awful screech that dives under your skin, it is as though the whole subway car slides to the left.

It doesn't.

Actually, you and every other person within the subway car are the ones who move.

The half-car full of people gets shoved suddenly to the right, the force of the abrupt braking enough to knock everyone off balance. Distressed noises go up all around.

You're sitting down, on one of the edge seats, but it doesn't stop you from getting banged around.

The unanticipated halt mobilises you, pushing you harshly into one of the handrails.

You collide forcefully, not prepared enough to stop your head from snapping against the pole.

It's your forehead, right above your left eyebrow, that takes the brunt of it.

Pain radiates. It splinters across your forehead with an agonising throb, causing you to yelp in response. You clutch the pole tightly, just in case the subway car plans to throw you around again.

The lady who's sat next to you has slid over in the commotion too, ending up pressed up against your side.

She wiggles back as soon as she gains her balance, which you're thankful for, but she's focusing on you too closely for comfort.

On your forehead, more specifically.

"Shit, kid," she says worriedly, mouth downturned. "You're bleeding."

After she says it, you can feel that she's right. There's a warmness to the pain on your head that's dipping dangerously close to light-headed.

Your fingers reach up, grazing the wound—and the pain burns hot again, fiercer this time. You wince, regretting touching it.

You bring your hand down. Scarlet paints the tips of your fingers.

The lights flicker again.

Then go out for good.

It's as though you've inhaled a mouthful of smoky panic. You're not the only one, the distressed sounds of the car climbing in volume.

"What's happening!?"

"Someone's pulled the emergency brake!"

Several torches click on, phones held up to cast the subway car into moving, white lights. Shadows jump across the walls, tall and pointed.

"What? Why!?"

"Yeah, why would someone do that?"

"How the hell are we supposed to know that, dipshit!?"

You shrink down in your seat, overwhelm crowding in on you rapidly. The subway car seems suddenly far too cramped.

Is this car smaller than usual? The loud noise is enough to make you tick — having to consider what may have caused the delay in transport begins to pick at your stitching.

You try to take a deep breath, finding it too shallow.

No, it's fine. It's fine. You're travelling home, and you'll be late, but just by a little.

It's fine. You can still be on schedule. Clark won't mind if you're late.

Clark!

You remember your plans with him tonight with a sinking feeling. You fish out your phone, already drafting the text to tell him you're going to be late, but the sight on your screen stops you.

No bars. You're in a dead zone.

Cool. That's fine. No, really, it is, you tell yourself. If it had been Darren, maybe, yeah, a little worrying would be warranted.

But Clark would understand. He's late himself from time to time.

Your fingers clench tightly around your phone as you force yourself to take another deep breath.

There's an unnerving crackle over the PA of the subway, and as your eyes adjust to the dark, you see every face in the subway car tilt upwards, listening.

"Good evening, passengers on the green line." A voice filters through, the words buzzy and distorted. "We apologise for the abrupt stop. A bank on Meridian Avenue is currently undergoing a robbery, in which explosives were used to access the vault."

It's less shouting and more murmurs that ripple through the crowd, passed from one person to another. Anxiety festers, a well opening within your chest.

You exchange a glance with the woman beside you, your eyebrows creased in concern.

You regret it when your head gives another blazing-hot throb of pain in retaliation.

The subway, which had been slowly drifting, finally reaches a standstill with one final shudder.

"As you may or may not know, the green line passes directly beneath Meridian Avenue for several blocks, including beneath the bank in question. Due to the use of explosives, it is highly unsafe for any trains to continue on their route."

Unease seems to evaporate in the subway in an instant, replaced with a grumbling annoyance — as if everyone can predict what's coming next. You cling tighter to the pole for stability.

"The fire department has been contacted for your extraction, and they are on their way. Sit tight folks; we're hoping to have you out by the end of the hour."

A loud, synchronised groan erupts from the passengers. You glance down at your phone, checking the time, and grimace. It's 5.09pm.

"We'll keep you updated if anything changes, and we apologise again for the inconvenience to your day."

Then with a fumbling click, the PA disconnects and goes silent.

The subway car, comparatively, does not. Several voices burst out at the same time.

"Oh my god, so we're stuck here?"

"I can't be here, I have an appointment!"

"Lady, we all have places to be, okay?"

"The fire brigade? Can't they call in Superman?"

"He's probably fighting the robbery, idiot."

You don't much like the continued outburst, nor the idea of being here for the better part of an hour.

The lady beside you, in scrubs, you now realise as your eyes fully adjust to the dark, seems to be in agreement. She's muttering under her breath, annoyance evident in her tone.

She catches your gaze — making you feel guilty for watching her — but, surprisingly, she seems to perk up. You realise after a moment it's because you've provided her with a task.

"Let me get something for your head," she offers, diving into her purse before you can answer. "I always keep a little first-aid kit with me."

The kit she pulls out you wouldn't describe as little.

It's the size of a lunchbox, tin and has a graphic of Superman on the outside, blue, red, and gold.

She pulls it out onto her lap, unclipping the latch and flipping back the lid. Inside boasts several bandages, wipes, and bottles with labels you can't read in the low light.

She pulls out a wipe and holds it up, facing you. You blink, then realise she wants to wipe the blood from your face.

"That alright?" She asks, gesturing with the wipe.

The task is distracting you too, you realise. Feeling a bit awkward, yet thankful she's helping, you nod tentatively.

It stings like all-fire — enough to draw a hiss up your throat. The woman makes a sympathetic tut, but she's good at her job because she doesn't let it deter her.

Sterile alcohol mixes with your blood, slowly clearing it away and bringing a blistering agony to the surface at the same time. You grimace, eyes screwing shut, which only serves to agitate it more.

She makes quick work of it. You try not to look at the concerning shade of pink the white wipe turns, sullen with your blood, and watch her dig around in her kit again.

"Shine that over here, will you?" She says to the person on the other side of her - a young-looking man with a nervous disposition - and he obliges hastily, looking rather relieved to have a task as well.

A rustle of plastic as she digs around. A bandage or two between her dexterous fingers.

"Is it a bad cut?" You ask mousily.

"It's not too bad," she tells you, glancing over with a kind smile. "Just bled a lot because it's on your head. It's a little thing."

Another blister of pain rises to the surface when she presses the first bandage to your forehead, nimble fingers warm and calloused. The bandages are small and white, which you recognise as butterfly stitches.

That makes you panic a little more, but you trust in her words. She is wearing scrubs after all.

(It occurs to you that, technically, anyone can choose to wear scrubs. A glance at her clipped Metropolis Central Medical ID makes you feel better again.)

"There." She gives it one final press, making sure everything's in place. "Just to keep it closed so it doesn't keep bleeding. You got someone to check on it later, hm? I know it can be difficult putting bandages on yourself. Probably a good idea to change them sometime tomorrow."

"Yeah," The knowledge of Clark's worrisome state when he sees the state of you is enough to make you smile, still a bit shaky. "My boyfriend can help me. Thank you."

"Don't worry about it, kid."

She sets about packing her first-aid kit back up, moving slowly and precisely. You suppose she has no real reason to hurry— not with the expected 50-minute wait time.

You lapse into silence, the pain in your forehead dulling down to a quiet throb as you fold your hands up tightly in your lap.

Silence, you notice, has become contagious within the subway car.

Voices that had shouted now became muted, murmured, low and whispery. Like you're all hidden beneath a thick blanket together. One thick, concrete blanket that separates you from the bustling world above.

One minute slips into two, then five, then twenty.

You can only wait.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There's never a day where Clark doesn't love being Superman.

He's serious. It's never a chore, never feels like a job. Some days the responsibility of doing what he can to help Metropolis, to step up and fight the battles others can't — well, it's hard not to get a little chummy over the immense honour.

Then some days it gets… a little tedious.

Not tedious in a spiteful way! More in a tiresome way.

Like, for his sake and for everyone else's, it would be nice to go more than 48 hours without criminal activity being inflicted on the city.

But there's no rest for the wicked, or so they say.

Which means, if you squint and read the fine print beneath that, no rest for Superman.

Today's villain of the week was a pack of thieves with the very original idea of robbing a bank.

There's no crime that Clark likes, but these cases he dislikes more than most.

He's been around this block enough to know the stories that will unspool in the interrogation room — raised rent, medical bills, one bad accident that dries up years' worth of savings in a single afternoon.

It's tough — one of the tougher injustices that he knows he can't fight with the cape on.

It all adds up, though. Tonight's foiled robbery marks another case in Clark's latest project at the Daily Planet, investigating the wealth disparity and the links to money-motivated crime.

As Superman, Clark's had enough run-ins with this kind of crime that he could probably estimate an accurate percentage in his sleep by now.

Unfortunately, an eyeballed number from a superhero with a secret identity doesn't fly with Perry.

So it's still a work-in-progress kind of project — and it stays shelved until people are out of danger.

For the most part, they are.

It's not imminent, but perhaps the only danger the passengers of the green line subway are potentially subject to at the moment is boredom.

Clark had tuned his ears in to a police scanner as soon as trouble started kicking up, ensuring there weren't any civilians being sent closer to the danger zone without knowing.

He'd advised the officers on the scene to send firefighters in for the people on the subway, but now, staring down at the dark, winding tunnel of the subway tracks, he knows he's beaten them here.

He sighs heartily.

It's not their fault — public funding, job cuts, the works.

Yet, at the same time, he wonders how he might explain to you why he's so late coming over tonight.

Maybe he should send you a text now — but that feels a little selfish with so many people still stuck, waiting for help.

Besides, he's since learned that flying with a phone is a recipe for disaster. His phone is tucked away in his work clothes, hidden on a rooftop somewhere — but he could reach it in a split second.

He peers down the tunnel again, X-ray vision peeling back the darkness. A scattering of human bodies present, just over 200 feet away, caged in by metal.

It's a short flight to find the first carriage.

"Man, this shit sucks," he hears a man inside say, slumped on the ground and leaning up against the seats. "Where's Superman when you need the guy, huh?"

"Did someone say Superman?"

It's as good an entrance as any — and it actually gets a few inhabitants within the subway car to perk up — but Clark can admit it's not his best.

Face forming a sheepish expression, he sucks his teeth.

"Golly, not my best. My apologies, folks." He says it all as he scans over the crowd, flicking in and out of X-ray vision, hunting for serious injury. Coming up with none, he smiles, genuinely relieved. "Now, who'd like to get out of here?"

This inspires a more merry response from the despondent crowd of people — enough that the grimy window between carriages fills up with new faces, eager to know what's causing the ruckus.

It's quick-fire from then on.

Word gets passed down, chatter and shouts of 'It's Superman!' that get the remaining passengers crowding forward into the first carriage.

Clark tries to keep it quick for everyone's sake. A brief introduction ("Hi, I don't believe we've met before; I'm Superman"), then an explanation that he can fly them ("It will be windy, and I will have to hold you - but perfectly safe"), or they can wait for the fire brigade if they would rather not fly ("You can't be on the tracks, ma'am; they're electrified").

So far, everyone's opted in for flying.

It's not slow per se, but it does take time—humans are much more fragile than Kryptonians. He can't exactly fly at his usual top speed.

But bit by bit, the crowd dwindles down until there's no one in the line to be rescued that he recognises from the initial first carriage.

He surveys the length of it, tallying up how long it might take to move them all.

The minutes stack up. The length of time between now and getting home to you is feeling immeasurably too long.

He tries not to worry about how late he is. It's futile.

He pictures his abandoned phone in the pockets of his slacks, buzzing and ringing, going unanswered. Then he pictures you on the other end, your retro landline pressed to your ear, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth in the adorable way you do.

You're good at lots of things. Unfortunately, worrying about Clark is one of them.

He sighs silently to himself. His worry doesn't speed up this darn unfortunate situation that these folks are trapped in. It does lend him some more food for the thought of telling you his big blue secret.

For now though— "Hi there, I'm Superman, in case we haven't—"

"—we have."

The familiar voice finally snaps Clark out of his distracted trance, and he turns with a haste that surely gives him away. His furrowed brows and concerned face are no help either.

Because it's you. Here. On the trapped subway, waiting in line like all these other passengers.

With a bandage on your forehead that you definitely didn't have this morning.

Several thoughts clamber over each other, each vying for Clark's attention. You're here—which means you're not waiting for him, thankfully—but you're hurt—and how do you keep getting into these situations?

He, intelligently, opts for simply staring at you and saying nothing.

"We have met." You clarify, suddenly looking a bit more awkward. "You stopped that mugger for me."

Right! Right. Because you have met Superman before, when he'd had to intervene at your work, just earlier this month.

He opens his mouth, but the strangeness of it all halts his words.

It's just… It's been months since he's seen you look at him this way.

Obviously, given he's a stranger to you as Superman — but it's a reality check like nothing else.

The way your shoulders curl in. The tightness of your mouth. You make yourself smaller, and the eye-contact you do give looks far more painful than usual.

He hadn't realised, not until right now, just how much closer you'd grown—how you usually gravitate towards him.

You glow and grin, you nudge him, touch him, you laugh like it's the easiest thing. It's apparent now, the stark difference when compared to that very first day on the train.

Except, there seems to be an extra frostiness to your character right now. Probably something to do with being stuck in a subway car for an hour or so.

Only when you shuffle on your feet, an awkward motion, does Clark realise he still hasn't said anything.

"Yes," Clark breathes, and immediately he clocks his tone as too relieved — too fond for a stranger. He clears his throat, nodding with purpose. "Yes, yes, I can recall. At the library."

You nod to confirm, expression still tight and your gaze still averted.

The question wrestles out of Clark's mouth before he can stop himself: "Is your head alright?"

There are two little bandaids on it, but there's still a bit of dried blood in your eyebrow. Concern swims up to the surface, pooling in Clark's heart, urged on by his feelings for you.

You're not accident-prone enough for this to be a common sight. The sight of your blood inspires a protectiveness he struggles to curb.

You touch your forehead gingerly, brows pinching together in pain. "Yes. That's what the bandaid is for."

Your bluntness nearly makes him laugh, like it does when you're home together.

He squashes it for a smile, for the sake of not making Superman any stranger to you. If he laughs, you'll probably think he's laughing at you.

"Alright, I'm going to have to pick you up now, if that's alright?"

You nod stiffly. Clark does a motion he's done a thousand times before— one hand around your waist, another behind your knees.

He reminds himself to treat you as a stranger, keeping his hands polite, even as they beg him to pull you in closer.

It's one of the oddest flights of Clark's life. You're stiff as a board in his grip, actively leaning away from his chest in a way that can't be comfortable.

When he reaches the platform, where people are still milling about, waiting for others from the train, he can't help checking in again.

It's with a gentleness he sets you down, the words already out of his mouth, "Are you sure you're alright?"

He expects another brush-off - that's what most civilians do, frazzled from whatever situation he's happened to save them from - but he certainly does not expect— "I have a boyfriend."

Clark blinks down at you, your standoffish posture.

He notices the step back you'd already taken and your clenched hands at your side — the same thing you do when you're working yourself up to tell a waiter your food is wrong.

And—oh.

Your standoffishness is cast into a new light suddenly, which is that you can perceive his fondness — which in itself is a feat, considering how long it took for you to get together in the beginning.

But you can tell — somehow, somewhere under the suit, beneath the hero name, some part of you intrinsically recognises him.

Knows what he sounds like trying to keep the affection from his voice, knows the ways in which Clark Kent loves.

It had been a journey to convince you of it the first time around, and now, you can't unlearn it.

You can see it, even if you don't know why.

Clark smiles, throat a little thicker with the knowledge that he's very, very well loved. "He's a very lucky man," he says, completely genuine.

You nod assertively. "He is. And me, I'm lucky too."

You seem relieved by the change in his tone, that he isn't upset with you for being unavailable. "Thank you for rescuing me. And him — you've done it a couple of times, I think. He's quite muggable, apparently."

You nod, a little jerkily, and Clark can't help but grin this time. He knows he should get back to the subway - especially with other civilians waiting on him.

He can't resist one last word, "You're welcome. Please be nice to your boyfriend if he's home late, okay? It's been a hectic day for everyone today."

You give him a strange look, eyes narrowed like you don't comprehend why he's given you advice.

Maybe you're even piecing it together, connecting the blue dots that lead to his secret. He decides that, after today, he doesn't mind the idea at all.

"Okay," you say hesitantly.

"Okay," Clark echoes, with a professional Superman nod. "I love you."

It's pure instinct that pulls from the words off his tongue - a habit that he's never broken since he first found that list, all those months ago.

Now, he'd been so caught up in his gooey thoughts of your loyalty that he didn't even consider— he hadn't thought—

Uh oh. Your face says it all. Utter surprise and that same awkwardness creeping back in, your hands clenching back up.

Damage control, quick!

"And I love you!" He says, quickly turning and pointing to another person on the subway platform. They look surprised, perking up, pointing one finger to their chest as if to say Who, me?

"And you!" Clark can't stop now; he's probably overdoing it, but your hands are still clenched up.

He gestures a bit too wildly to the rest of the crowd, who have, humiliatingly, all started paying rapt attention. "I love… all citizens of Metropolis!"

He spots the glint of a phone camera in someone's hand.

Oh, cheese and crackers, he thinks to himself in dismay — already imagining how Justice Gang will have a field day with this video.

Gosh, even his damage control needs damage control. With a stilted and awkward nod, Clark remembers he does actually have a job to finish here—taking a few steps back and taking flight back through the subway tunnel.

Wind rushing past his noticeably warmer ears, Clark doesn't doubt it'll be an interesting conversation with you tonight.

Regardless, with one final glance over his shoulder, he can't help but think of it as the final sign he needs.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It takes you until you're at least halfway home, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk, to remember that you should text Clark.

The love confession from Superman, the subway stopping—either could be responsible for providing a rampant distraction. You're really late now, without any forewarning.

You hope he's at least let himself in and made himself comfy in your space while he waits.

Though, you should text him about what happened on the subway.

It had worried him so much last time, not knowing about the mugging - not that he seemed annoyed with you, thankfully. You pull out your phone and narrowly avoid getting shoulder-checked by a stranger, stepping to the side just in time.

You're still sort of frazzled, so the stranger's rudeness manages to bounce right off you for once.

You're staring at your phone, eyes a bit glazed, when a text slides onto the screen. You blink, focus, and it takes another second to comprehend the words.

Clark (Lois' Co-worker): I got held up at work, sorry! Still coming over :) See you soon! I hope everything's okay with you.

It's a relief. You're not sure when he sent the text, it says delivered just now, but at least he was late too.

Acutely, you realise you'd actually have been quite miffed if there was no update from Clark, given how off schedule you are.

Which, well, that in itself was surprising—Darren had never cared about your lack of updates. Or rather, he seemed quite happy to never bother to give you any.

Obviously, it had taken some time to adapt to Clark's nature - where caring is as easy as breathing.

And now it's not him that surprises you; it's your own expectations.

The want to know there was someone waiting on the other side of the line, prepared to leave the light on for you.

It's… a nice feeling, knowing that you expect it now. Knowing that it's what you deserve.

You send off a text, short and to the point, and find yourself rushing a little faster back to your apartment.

Lights on, shoes off, coat off, lamps on, big-lights off. You go through the motions of getting yourself comfortable in your home, and it soothes your hackles the way only routine can.

You just get around to taking a peek into the fridge, though your appetite is missing, when there's a familiar knocking pattern on your door.

You know he has a key — you meet him at the door anyway.

"Hi honey," He's talking before he's even in the door, all rushing and flustered in a way he often isn't. "I'm real sorry I'm late—"

"Clark," you interrupt. In an uncharacteristic move, you're reaching out first, your hands resting on his arms, pulling him in so you can be nearer. "It's okay. I just got home too. We're both late today."

The door snicks shut behind him, and Clark matches your touchiness with ardour.

His hands slide along your arms to sit on your lower back. They're so warm. You tilt your chin up and think of how lucky you really are that he keeps coming around to see you.

"I'm still sorry, I—" He's talking as he slips his shoes off, til he notices the bandage on your forehead, eyebrows creasing. "What happened to your head?"

"I hit it," you explain. "On the subway. It stopped a bit fast."

Clark looks relieved at that. His shoulders fall, but his hands on your back tighten, tugging you in a little closer. You scuff your foot and step on his accidentally. He doesn't appear to mind.

"Didn't you get my text?" You ask.

He shakes his head. "My phone died, and I had to stay late at work but, all day, I had a bad feeling that you were in trouble."

He's not smiling like he usually is when he looks at you. His concern is still there, pulling down the edges of his mouth, changing his handsome face.

"I'm okay," you assure him, hands shifting up, sliding up to loop around his neck.

One of his hands shifts up, delicately drifting over the bandages, but not quite touching.

"You are?"

He's frowning at the wound as though he can heal it through sheer sympathy.

"I am," you say.

"You're sure?"

You can't help but smile, because usually you're the one double-checking everything. Your smile seems to settle something in Clark because it's what gets him to relax, a relieved but tired-sounding sigh escaping him.

His eyes soften on you, lashes kissing together at the ends, a sheepish smile pulling on his pink lips.

"I'm sorry to fuss. I get it from my Pa." He leans in and kisses just beside the split skin of your forehead, a quick peck.

You shrug in his hold, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "I like the fussing, I think. When it's you."

"Yeah?" Clark says, eyes brighter. "Good. Great. I love fussing over you. Did you eat?"

You shake your head. "No, but a lady on the subway gave me a muesli bar, so I'm not too hungry."

"I can make you something later, if you like." He says, easy as pie. "What about the subway? Want to tell me about what happened?"

You don't, you've decided. Now that he's here, in your arms, a part of you that doesn't arise all that often has awoken.

You shake your head, still smiling, and push up on your toes. "I just want you to kiss me."

This time, it's Clark who takes a little inhale before your lips reach his. His surprise gets muffled against your lips, but there's no part of you that can doubt his enthusiasm when he kisses back, arms tightening around your back, pulling you ever closer.

"Kiss you?" He murmurs against your lips, his smile melting into a grin. "Absolutely, ma'am."

It's like a floodgate opens. Clark's hands shift down, gifting a squeeze to your hips before— there's sudden motion, and you squeak against his lips as you're abruptly hoisted up into his arms without warning.

He carries you like you weigh nothing, strong hands gripping your thighs, bracketing you against him. The show of strength - the display of desire - sends something white-hot down your spine. You're on the same wavelength tonight, you can tell.

And he does it all without breaking the kiss.

Clark is devastatingly good at kissing you.

He kisses, kisses, kisses your mouth, like it's all that he wants, like he's envious of everything else your lips have touched.

It feels a bit unfair, you decide, that he just seems to know how to flip every switch to turn you on. Something warmer is definitely pumping through your blood, feeding itself on Clark's insatiable kisses.

But his adeptness, paired with how fervently he kisses you, strikes a sudden, uncomfortable thought in you.

The thought that he may have been holding back—for your sake.

You know couples tend to have sex a little earlier on. Some people even have sex with people they barely know. You're not one of those people.

Clark is also pretty good at not assuming. What you do or don't want— you like that he just asks.

But, still, there's some beaten-in worry from past experience. Where people get to know you and all your finicky ways, they start assuming what you want, without ever just asking.

It starts as care. It always ends as overshadowing.

Pulling back from the kiss, you ask outright, "Does it bother you that we haven't had sex yet?"

Because it's true. In the eyes of the law, if you had to pick a standard, you and Clark have fooled around but done nothing more.

In medieval times, you'd likely have brought shame on your family for not consummating the marriage.

(Not that you and Clark are married at all, in any way - though the thought brings a hot flush to your face. He'd be a very good husband.)

Clark comes to a stop, still holding you up effortlessly. His cheeks splotch a jammy colour, his expression coloured with surprise. "Wha— we've- I mean, we've had sex." He seems unsure, as if your question has perplexed him. "Haven't we?"

"I mean penetrative sex." You clarify.

Clark blinks, still holding you halfway through the doorway. His glasses are slipping down his nose and you slip your hand up to press them back up. You leave it there, cupped on his cheek.

"No," he says easily, his eyes searching yours. His brows pinch together. "No, it doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"

You shrug.

He asks, "Do you want to?"

You find it a peculiar question.

"Do I want it to bother me?"

"No," Clark laughs - not at you, never at you - back to that ever-endeared smile you think might be reserved only for you. "Do you want to, uh, well…"

It's somewhat amusing to see Clark fumble for the right words, the pinkness of his cheeks reaching up to his ears.

"Is that something you'd want?" He says finally, cheeks still the colour of strawberries, but something more set in his expression. "I don't mean to be forward, especially if this isn't something you're interested in, but I… I would like to."

You feel like you don't think about sex as much as the average person. Well, there's thinking about it, and then there's having it.

It had been one of the points of strife in your last relationship. You've been trying hard not to measure yourself against other standards — trying especially hard not to compare it to the one and only other person you've slept with, Darren.

Clark is different. He's proven that a thousand times. You'd quite like to know what that kind of sex is like with him.

Given everything else you've tried, each and every lusty feeling Clark's managed to draw out from you with just his fingers, you can't imagine it will be anything other than maddeningly good.

"I think so, yes." You say decisively.

After a moment, with Clark still unmoving, you realise you've forgotten your manners. "Please." You tack on.

He's still as pink as ever in the face, but your politeness seems to knock him out of his train of thought.

There's a moment where his gaze roams your face with ardent affection — then he's leaning in again, mouth finding yours, a kiss that sets your stomach stirring.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I can - we can, of course, honey. No need to say please."

His feet finally begin to wander, this time towards your bedroom.

You let yourself fall into his kisses, let him carry you to bed, let him kneel upon it and lay you back like you're a princess in a fairy-tale. You feel like one, being carried around in his burly arms.

He begins to kiss your neck. It tickles, so you giggle.

You might not quite fit as a princess in your mind, but Clark is definitely a righteous knight.

"What?" Clark asks, pulling back from your neck, eyes shining brightly.

"You're like a knight." you tell him, reaching up to bury your fingers into his hair. "I bet you'd look really good with a sword."

Clark laughs, the sound like spun-gold, and catches one of your hands trailing through his hair. He plants a kiss on the palm of your hand. "Sweetheart, you sound delirious." Another kiss, this time to your knuckles. "I love it. I love you. I'll be your knight."

You really like that idea. He's already so good at being devoted to you that you're not really sure what would change.

"I love you too. Please keep kissing me." You say, a little breathier than before.

Clark obliges, more than willingly.

Together, you fall into the familiar dance, heated and close, lips chafing as the kisses come easily.

All the while, you can feel it—the drizzle of something hotter pooling low in your gut. The buzz under your skin. The rabidness that rears up in response to being kissed so readily, so hungrily.

It's a kiss-fest.

And your neck must be a feast— is what you would be thinking if there was any comprehensible thought in your mind, with Clark's mouth on your pulse point.

He’s so good at what he does — so good at knowing just what you like.

He kisses messily, licks gently, and nibbles teasingly, and you give up a myriad of gaspy-sounding noises in response.

His hands move in small motions.

One hand stays planted on your waist, his fingers caressing in small, baby circles. Stable. Reliant.

His other hand is more exploratory. His thumb dips beneath the fabric of your shirt, drawing a slow, skirting line across the skin of your stomach. It feels like molten lava. The blood beneath his touch sings gloriously.

You shudder and clutch his back — enough to make him pause.

"Okay?" His voice is lower, his breath a bit more ragged. It never takes much for him to get like this, you've found. "Need a breather?"

You shake your head, because the last thing you want him to do is stop. There's a heat gathering between your thighs you desperately would like some relief for.

"No," you say, but it's a bit shaky.

He takes your word for it - which is still so nice. He trusts you to know yourself, even when you're unsure yourself.

But this part isn't new to either of you. Clark leaves your neck riddled with lovebites until he coaxes your shirt off you, after asking ever-so politely in a rasp that only adds to your growing lust.

He doesn't near the clip of your bra — you've told him you feel a bit sexier when it stays on — but still drags his fingers across the seam of the cups, his eyes darker, with a hum, "You're so pretty, honey."

The sheets are soft against the bare skin of your back. The sounds in the room are sweet, heavy.

Your low-light lamp paints the ceiling golden. Clark's hands are focused on the edges of your pants, fingers curling in only slightly.

It's a rhythm you know well. This lead-up, this push and pull, where you and Clark reduce each other to kiss-flustered messes in your bed.

The fact that this desire is a well-known feeling now makes you feel so damn sweet on Clark, so in love, you want to bury your face in your pillow. It's the same firework feeling as when he called you sweet girl.

You feel your hands on his back begin to tremble, so you tip your head to the side and press your face firmly into the comforter.

You don't want Clark to take it the wrong way, even if you've done this before.

You don't want this to be the time it's too much for him - not when you'd asked him. You try to swallow down the big emotion as subtly as you can.

Clark notices — because he always notices.

His mouth is pressed to the hollow of your throat, and you feel it pause, then feel him shift up, face to face with you. "Honey?"

"M'okay," you tell him honestly. You squeeze your eyes shut tight to try to control that buzzing rabidness that's running rampant beneath your skin.

You can't tell if it's making you uncomfortable, just that it's a lot - but you still know that you really don't want Clark to stop.

Especially when you move, shifting one leg up to press against his hip and feel the hard shape of him against you. A heady warmth throbs between your thighs. God, he's so hot and nice, and he's all yours.

"Just-" It comes out jittery, the word barely beating your sharp inhale.

Your eyes are still closed to keep the sensations at a minimum. Clark, lovingly, stays as still as he can for you.

"Just, it's like, being wound up. It's good. You make me feel good, just it's," A jagged exhale now. "A lot. I haven't felt it - like, it hasn't always been this way for me. I'm worried."

You finally open your eyes, and Clark's above you, his dark hair messier than usual. He's still pink in the face, dimples showing, blue eyes fixed on you.

"You're worried?" He asks sincerely.

"Yes."

A beat, his smile a little less now. "About what?"

You try to consolidate it all down into one sentence. A car whirs by outside, a kiss of wind brushing past your window.

Your hands slip forward, one holding his neck, to feel for his pulse. The drum of it grounds you.

"That it's not going to be good," you eventually say. Then, the more truthful answer. "That I'm not going to be good at it. With you."

Clark studies you for a moment, his maddening dimples disappearing as he thinks it over seriously.

There are no rushed assurances. You're thankful for that — people don't tend to mean those as much.

"Do you trust me?" He asks. "To be honest with you?"

He swallows thickly as he says it but holds his attention on you strong. You're so used to feeling unnerved by eye-contact, but Clark's gaze is like the buttery warmth of the sun. You glow beneath it.

"I do." You say. "You don't lie to me."

You watch Clark's throat as it bobs with another swallow. "Right. Well, then you know I mean it when I say there isn't anything you can do wrong."

Another car engine drones by on the street. His words take another second to sink in.

There isn't anything you can do wrong.

It's such a sentiment, such a wholly encompassing love he offers you, that you struggle to comprehend it. Surely, he can't mean…?

You're so used to it being a problem somewhere. Your different ways, your particular needs — it's always a thing.

You didn't realise you've still been waiting for it to crop up between you and Clark.

There has to be something he can't handle. Something you do wrong — because you always do something wrong.

You have to double-check. "Nothing?"

Clark shakes his head with vehemence, curls flying. He grins, dimples back on display, and gives another squeeze of your middle. "Honey, everything you do is right."

He says it like an oath. Now that's a goddamn sentiment.

One that feels less like a firework and more like a shooting star to your system. Bright, burning hot, right into your sternum. You choke on your next inhale, hoping you aren't making some ugly emotional face.

You can't really put into words what it means to hear it. You try your best.

"That's," you bite your lip, hard. "That's really nice." Despite how you try, you still sound a bit teary.

"Oh, sweet girl," Clark crowds in close, peppering kisses across your face.

He doesn't kiss you on the lips, like he can sense you need the oxygen. One dots your forehead, then your temple. His care only feeds your craving for him.

It takes a second to compose yourself enough to ask him, the words still a bit shaky when you ask, "Can we keep having sex even though I almost cried, please?"

Clark pulls back, expression earnest. "Absolutely."

He kisses you now, like he's sealing the promise.

You hum into his mouth, letting him taste the gasp in your throat when his fingers find your waistline again, deftly working open the button of your jeans.

You don't want him to stop kissing you, but it's impossible to wrangle your jeans off without it.

He works them off your ankles and then looks back up at you, warm hands resting on your calves. "Do you want to keep your socks on?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay, honey." He grins again, like every word out your mouth is endearing.

He begins working on the buttons of his work shirt, getting them off much faster than you have in the past. You get too excited to focus on such little motions.

He sheds the button-up and it makes a pale pool on your bedroom floor. He's wearing a white undershirt beneath it - that's quickly removed too.

His arms shift up, reaching behind his neck to pull it over his head. His biceps bulge. The sight of Clark's chest, tan as the rest of him, broad, and made up of pillowy muscles you know are good for sleeping on, inspires a feverish heat in you.

God, you're the luckiest girl in all of Metropolis.

You watch him, feeling like the whole world is soaked in honey, everything sweet and golden and good.

There's more kissing. Clark is so very attuned to you; it's like he can sense the tides of your desire as it washes in and out.

Too much time spent on removing clothing, however necessary, and you get finicky and worried. Kisses soothe it all away.

You're holding his shoulders, toned and strong. The cords of his muscles shift under your palms. You have the delirious urge to bite him — or give him a hickey right between the pecs, where the trail of hair begins.

He's so handsome. You love his arms, his chest, his stomach. You give thought to calling off the sex so you can spend the evening kissing every inch of him instead.

Clark discards that thought for you with a touch of his fingers.

He eases you into sex gently, deft fingers drawing a warm line up the inside of your thigh. When he reaches the apex, his fingers give a soft rub through your underwear, just the right pressure.

You burn hotly, lust brushing at the fringes of your nerves, and try not to squirm too much.

"Clark," you murmur his name — it's half a sigh of relief, half a plea for more.

"I got you, honey," he says easily, increasing the pressure, his thumb angled more precisely. His breath fans across your stomach. "M'just going slow, making sure it's gonna be good, yeah?"

The cotton between your legs grows stickier, and you can't resist shifting around. You're still not used to this - to it being this good.

He makes you feel unwound. You're not used to being so unstitched around anyone else. But it's Clark, so you trust him.

"Okay," you say breathily. "I love you."

Clark smiles— not that you can see it with your eyes closed — but you feel it against the skin of your stomach. He kisses your navel. "I love you too."

He works you open with his fingers, slow and gentle, with that coo in his voice that keeps you tethered to reality.

You can feel the sweat on your lower back, the tightness in your chest, but it's all overshadowed by the drool of pleasure that's aching through your core.

The air is heavy, swirling with the scent of lovers, imbued with the little noises that escape you.

Clark knows they'll haunt his dreams; the hiccupy gasps, the breathy groans. The sound of his name in your mouth, soaked with pleasure, makes him a little light-headed with how fast his blood rushes south.

At some point, Clark loses his pants, though if you tilt your head, you can spot them at the edge of the bed. He's wearing plaid boxers. There's a trail of hair on his stomach, leading down into them.

The quavering feeling returns, the tremble to your body that isn't so much to do with pleasure.

Clark checks in, blue eyes focused on your face, both hands stilled where they hold your hips. His fingers are still slick, and they feel cool against your blazing skin.

"You're doing good," he tells you, low and gentle. "Take your time, sweetheart."

You take a deep, staggering breath and nod to let him know you hear him. Your hair scrunches against the sheets.

It helps too. You can feel every tingle upon the surface of your skin, but you're trying to think that isn't a bad thing.

He's told you that you're doing good — he told you that everything you do is right.

The overwhelm you feel, the breathers you take — it doesn't have to be good or bad; it just is.

He loves you all the same.

It's a different sensation when he eases himself in to you, fire zinging up your spine. An ache like no other settles between your hips.

But there's something new in Clark too, a furrow in his brow, his bottom lip trapped behind his teeth. His chest heaves, and desire-drenched sounds drag from his lips, a beautiful low moan.

This is different. It's not him taking care of you. It's you together, taking care of each other.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pushed out, as he buries himself in you at a slow, sensual pace.

The shooting star feeling remains in your chest, driving your hands to wander fervently — you cup his face, stroke his neck, coax him down and finally give in to the urge to bite his shoulder.

Clark groans, a deep sultry sound that begs you to widen your legs. You whisper to eachother, admissions of love, pleases, and thank-you's too.

When it's over, the room smells like sex. It's humid in a way it wasn't before.

There's a satisfaction that's bone-deep, a happiness that wriggles through your veins and comes out in the form of a very content sigh.

Clark is much the same, his face half pressed into your pillow, back still rising and falling with his breaths. He's smiling, but he looks a bit tired.

You comb your fingers through his hair because you can't stand to not be touching him right now.

People talk of soulmates, and you think that, given the probability of that being true, combined with the statistics on finding them with all the billions of people on Earth, it's probably a bit of hogwash.

Well, you did think that. Whether or not they exist, found or made, there's some part of Clark you think might be made just right for you.

Fate, as he first proposed to you. It feels like the only explanation for this — for Clark. For the easiness in which everything comes with him.

Your nightstand clock tells you it's late, evidenced by the darkness outside too.

It's been a long day. You stroke through Clark's curls, his eyes resting closed, and the orgasm loosens your tongue. You feel compelled to tell him what happened earlier today. You don't like to keep secrets.

"Clark," you say, smiling when he makes a little mhm? in response, peeking open an eye. "Superman said 'I love you' to me today."

That gets his attention. Both eyes open, blinking at you across the bed. He pushes up, resting his head in his hand, then clears his throat.

"Oh," he says. "Well, actually, about that." He looks as though he's steeling himself, and a tinge of worry feathers through you.

But then Clark says, "The thing is… Superman didn't say I love you; I did."

You blink at him. The words don't comprehend. You know what you heard today.

"What?" You ask, genuinely confused.

He seems to realise a mistake he's made. "Crumbs. Sorry, I'm not trying to be elusive. I'm trying to tell you that I'm, uh, …I'm Superman."

You still can't understand.

You can hear the words, can understand what they mean individually, but you don't get what he's trying to tell you.

"I don't understand," you say, pressing yourself up to sitting. This feels serious.

"I'm Superman," Clark repeats gently, not rushing or annoyed. It's you instead who is getting frustrated, because saying it the same exact way isn't helping you.

"Clark," you say, voice a bit thin. "I don't understand what you're saying. Please don't just repeat yourself."

He matches your position, sitting up to face you, sheets pooling at his waist. He reaches out, a caring touch on your knee. "Superman, the superhero that flies around, saves the city, blue suit, red cape?"

You nod, following so far.

"It's me. I'm him." He says with an exhaled breath. "I'm not from Earth. I have abilities that humans don't. I spend my spare time trying to help people as best I can — which is why Superman said 'I love you' to you."

The touch on your knee rises, fingertips brushing your cheek delicately. "Because he's me. And I love you."

He chuckles a little bashfully, his eyes dancing away for a moment, his hand dropping. "And sometimes, saying it is too much of a habit to realise you still don't know this about me."

You blink, and this time, the explanation strings together in a way that makes sense.

The revelation sinks its teeth in. Clark, your beautiful, doting boyfriend, is also Superman.

Superman is Clark. Superman is your boyfriend. You're… dating Superman.

Another owlish blink. You can't help but think of all his articles.

"You interviewed him. You interviewed... yourself?"

Clark's expression turns sheepish. "Yes, I have. I- I do."

He knows to let it sit. Let you turn the new information over in your mind, shaping it into new questions and discoveries. He's Superman.

You think back to all the encounters over the last month — the almost mugging, the unexpected closeness, the way he seemed to know that you'd had a bad day. Because he did know.

"It's why you're late." You say, not a question.

For some reason, that makes Clark blush, as though he's embarrassed by his rudeness. "Most of the time, yes."

"How come you don't look like him?"

Clark reaches back to your bedside table, where he's deposited his glasses in the rush of getting undressed.

"These. They have some hypno technology, so my face looks quite different to people when I'm wearing them. Since I don't always wear them when I'm with you, you know what I actually look like but,"

He peers at you through his lashes, a kind smile on his face. "I just don't think you were looking for it."

You're not the suspicious kind, he means. You take things as they are.

Side by side, with the explanation before you, it makes sense. Superman has always looked a little like Clark. Or Clark has always looked a bit like Superman.

"You don't lie to me," you say in explanation.

Somehow, this doesn't feel like a lie either — or like you've been deceived.

You're well acquainted with putting on a new persona when you're at work, a more polished, smiley version of yourself that makes your jaw sore from holding it stiffly all day. It's a mask. This… This feels like the same thing.

Some things can't be done as Clark.

Some things have to be Superman.

And now he wants you to know — to have — both.

You twist your fingers into the sheets of your bed tightly, hoping it'll help you think.

"And I'm sorry that I had to, honey," Clark apologises sincerely, placing the glasses on the blankets between you.

He does appear to be troubled by the thought of keeping this from you. "I didn't like keeping secrets from you. You're so good at keeping out of danger, it was easy to keep this part of my life hidden from you."

You mull over his words, trying hard to analyse the emotions stirring up within your chest.

There's no rulebook or blog-post you can convene with to know how to feel about it. You're not sure you feel much of anything, other than a dim surprise. It just… makes sense.

Truthfully, if you had found out when you met Clark, it might have been too much.

Clark was already such a surprise — that he came around to see you, that he kept coming around. Someone that kind, that handsome, wanting to make the effort for you.

He'd been just Clark then.

If he'd been Superman too, beloved hero of Metropolis, coming around to deliver you freshly-baked goods and kisses, maybe you'd have been scared off. Maybe not. Somehow, you're only glad you don't have to know how to feel about that.

You just have to know what you feel now.

A different question jumps off your tongue.

"What does flying feel like?"

Clark's expression gives away his astonishment, a wide-eyed blink that melts into a genuine smile.

"It's, uh, it's very fun. It's like," His mouth twists as he considers it, before he shakes his head. "It's like nothing else. My parents had to give me strict rules about flying around the house growing up, I love it that much."

His parents. For some reason, you hadn't expected them to know.

Then you feel a bit silly — Superman has always been open about how he came to be here, on Earth. Someone had to have raised him.

You think of the photo Clark keeps on his work desk — or the one in his wallet, next to the photo of you — of Ma and Pa Kent.

The thought of baby Clark whizzing about the farmhouse he described growing up in is a delightful thought.

Untwisting your fingers from the sheets, you glance down and ask, "Why now?"

This is the first question to make him sigh.

You lift your gaze, watching as he rubs a hand across his face wearily, "Because I messed up. I didn't mean to give you such a strange encounter with Superman, but I also don't want to lie to you any more than I already have."

He shifts in the bed, shuffling closer till his knees press against yours.

He reaches for your hands, no longer toying with the sheets but still amongst the covers. He holds them tenderly, cradled in his.

"And I didn't tell you earlier for lots of reasons. It's not safe, for one." His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands, his face open, eyes a shade of blue you feel you haven't seen before. Maybe it's because you're seeing him, seeing all of him, for the first time.

"But the main reason is that I like… I love who I get to be with you.

"I'm just Clark," he says, the words softer than sweetness. "I'm just your boyfriend. I have to make a lot of hard decisions, every day, as Superman. With you, it's… it's just what makes you happy. And that's an easy decision, every time."

At some point, you've clutched his hands back. There's that same stupid sharpness back in your chest, stinging your eyes with the promise of tears.

He just wants to make you happy. Like it's a relief to come home to you, at the end of a hard day saving the world.

Like, you just might be his respite.

You try press the sharp feeling back, but you can tell he knows. He always seems to just know.

He doesn't interfere, just strokes his thumbs along the back of your hands again — and is ready for it when you burst forward into him.

His arms are around you, holding you tight, and your face tucks away into his neck.

"Okay," you say, sniffling through the word - because how else can you respond to something that magnanimous? You're the relief of a man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Okay."

"Okay?" Clark echoes, the word threaded with a slight amusement. "You'll allow it?" He jests.

But you nod in response all the same. He sits back, leaning into your mountain of pillows, and takes you with him, all bundled up in his arms.

You're leaning into his chest, skin to skin, and the contentedness within you hasn't shifted. Hasn't balked at the face of his secret.

"I love you." You whisper - and feel Clark's arms tighten in response. "Thank you for telling me."

"I love you." He mirrors, pressing a long, firm kiss into your hair. He murmurs into it, unwilling to give up any distance between you. "Do you have any questions?"

"Plenty." You say automatically, dead serious — and you jostle on his chest as Clark laughs at that, because, really, he should expect this from you. "So many. I can't believe I'm dating an alien."

"I'm not sure if I should apologise…?" He says, amused.

"No," You press a kiss to his chest, above where his heart is, mumbling against his skin. "That came out bad. I don't mean it in a bad way. Sorry."

"Don't be." He kisses your head again, and sleepiness hangs above you, drawing nearer.

He's so warm. He's like a space heater. You laugh tiredly to yourself because - yeah, he literally is.

He tells you, "I'll answer any question you have."

You're melting into him, cocooned in his arms, tucked away from the world.

Still, you can hear it — another drone of a car engine, the chatter of people on the street, the honk of a faraway driver. Close, but unable to touch this bubble you and Clark exist in.

"Anything?" You ask.

It comes out as a sleepy whisper.

You feel, more than hear, the hum Clark gives in return. He draws a long, soothing stroke over your back, his hand warm.

You think of the question you want answered most.

"Will you stay the night, please?"

You don't really need to ask—he stays most nights now—but it's a habit.

There's a concerning moment where you hear the wobbly inhale Clark takes—but then you can feel his smile pressed into your hairline. You picture his dimples.

You feel him shift, one arm leave you, and the click of your lamp.

The amber saps away, and darkness blankets the both of you, wrapping you up.

"Of course, honey," he murmurs, like there's only one answer he could give. In his arms, you realise you're the safest person on the whole planet.

Huh, you think tiredly, as sleep drapes over you, gentle and warm. Guess you aren't so different from all those other citizens of Metropolis, after all.

They follow Superman into danger.

You suppose, in some ways, so would you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

if you made it this damn far, kudos!! thank u for reading mammoth of a fic <3 i hope you enjoyed it and if you so felt inspired, i hope you wouldn't mind letting me know what you think! :)

special thanks to my beloved citrine @citrinesparkles for being an open ear, grease for writers block, many ideas contributor and cheerleader extraordinaire

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

want to read more about the lovelist!reader & clark? -> why a sequel right this way :)

Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.

Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.

The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.

Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.

Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.

“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.

You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”

Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.

“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.

“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”

A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.

You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.

He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…

Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.

First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.

He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.

He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.

You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.

And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.

Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.

That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.

He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.

That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.

And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.

It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.

A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!

Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.

Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.

Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.

Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.

Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.

No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.

Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.

You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.

1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.

These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.

Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.

As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.

Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.

You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.

Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.

That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.

Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.

“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.

The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.

You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.

The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.

The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.

You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.

Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.

If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.

Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.

Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.

An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.

You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.

Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?

Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.

Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.

“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.

She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”

“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.

The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.

Something has taken flight.

Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.

It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.

And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.

The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.

“Shit.” you say astutely.

There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.

You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.

“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.

This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.

You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.

Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.

“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.

“Move! Everybody move!”

Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.

You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.

Your gaze catches.

A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.

Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.

Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.

You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.

“Hello.” He says politely.

“Hi.” you breathe.

He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.

Superman looks down, smiling kindly, “You’re safe now.”

He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”

“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”

When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.

Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.

“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”

His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.

“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”

And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.

The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.

It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.

Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.

Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.

The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.

“Is he coming back?”

You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.

“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”

“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.

“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”

Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.

Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.

It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.

“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”

Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.

“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.

“Right here.”

You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.

“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.

He smiles. “Great.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.

“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”

Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”

So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.

“I had help today,” he says.

Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.

Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.

You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.

He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.

“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.

You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.

“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”

Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.

In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.

That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.

“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.

Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.

The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.

For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.

If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.

Admiration? Maybe.

Something else twinges in there, unbidden.

You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.

Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.

You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.

Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.

“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.

The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.

You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.

The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.

But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.

That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.

Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.

Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?

You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.

Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.

Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.

There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.

This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.

Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.

Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.

Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.

And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.

Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.

Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.

After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!

It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.

But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.

For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.

It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that

And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.

Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.

For a change, Clark isn't late today.

Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.

The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.

It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.

He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.

To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.

"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.

"Celebrate?"

Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.

"It's only second page." You downplay.

Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.

"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."

If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.

"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.

Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."

After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.

"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"

You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.

Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.

You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.

"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."

Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.

"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"

Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.

"To celebrate." He tacks on.

One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.

"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.

And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"

You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.

He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."

You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.

He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.

Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.

You're nearly undone with it.

This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.

It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.

It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.

The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.

"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."

Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.

It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.

You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.

"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.

Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.

"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”

He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!

You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"

No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.

You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.

You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.

The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.

He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.

You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.

Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.

Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.

You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.

Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.

“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”

It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.

“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”

Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”

He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.

With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.

“A long time, huh?”

Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.

“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”

You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.

But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.

Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.

Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.

He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.

“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”

You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.

“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.

His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.

“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”

Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.

“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”

That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.

He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.

“Shut up.” you say weakly.

Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”

“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”

To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.

The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.

He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.

It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.

“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"

He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.

"Improper?"

Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.

"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"

In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.

He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.

Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.

Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.

Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.

And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.

Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?

It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.

It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.

You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.

"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.

Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."

You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.

Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.

Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.

Clark Kent can fly!

Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)

Clark Kent is... not human?

Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.

"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.

"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.

Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.

The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.

Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!

"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.

That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.

"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.

You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."

Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.

Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.

Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"

You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"

Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.

"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."

His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.

His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.

"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.

Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."

The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.

Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.

"So,” You breathe. “What now?"

"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"

He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.

"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."

"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"

He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.

"No take backsies."

“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.

An unexplained question piques your mind.

“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”

Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”

He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.

“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”

Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”

If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.

“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.

Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.

“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."

"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."

Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.

"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.

In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.

When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.

Today, your mistake is your excitement.

A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.

Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.

If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.

You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.

You huff loudly, regaining your balance.

The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.

But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.

And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.

Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.

You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.

No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.

You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—

Someone sees you coming and holds the door.

There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.

This day is miserable, you decide.

The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.

You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.

The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.

You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.

"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."

The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.

"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."

He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.

The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.

Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.

The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.

One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.

Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.

The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.

Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.

The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.

If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.

Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.

It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.

"Are you alright?"

Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.

"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.

Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.

You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."

It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.

The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.

The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.

He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"

It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.

"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."

He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.

You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.

"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.

It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.

Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.

You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.

You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.

One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.

"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.

The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.

People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.

"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."

You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.

The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.

Another four stops. You have time.

"Okay, hold still."

The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.

You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.

Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.

"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.

You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.

There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.

"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."

The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.

Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.

He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.

Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.

Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.

Another shared look.

Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.

Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.

Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.

According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?

You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.

The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.

"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."

You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.

Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.

Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.

The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.

Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.

You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.

The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.

Huh.

The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.

Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.

It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.

This is why you like Friday's the least.

Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.

Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.

A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.

It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.

Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.

It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.

You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.

A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.

The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.

"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.

It's Lois Lane.

"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"

Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.

After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."

Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.

There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.

She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.

At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.

"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"

You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.

"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."

Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.

"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."

Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.

You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."

She lights up. "So you'll come?"

It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.

"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"

The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.

"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.

"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"

She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.

She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.

You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."

Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"

"My ex-boyfriend."

The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.

Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.

"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"

"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.

You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.

You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.

Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.

You've resolved to just not really think about it.

Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.

You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.

But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.

Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.

You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.

Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.

Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.

And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.

"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.

Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.

It's the handsome stranger.

What had she said his name was? Clark.

You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.

Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.

Which… feels concerning. You think?

You just hadn't expected you would see him again.

Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.

Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.

But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.

So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?

There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.

You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.

It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.

"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."

The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.

Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.

His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.

"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."

She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.

"You want anything? On me."

You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"

Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.

You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.

"Would you like to sit?"

It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.

You sit, but don't take off your coat.

"Hi." You say.

"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."

"Wait, again?"

A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.

Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"

Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."

"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.

Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.

Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.

"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."

"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.

Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."

"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.

"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.

"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.

"Thank you." You take a sip.

"Not a drinker?"

It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.

You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.

When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.

"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."

For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.

Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."

"You think so?"

"I really do."

His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.

It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.

You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.

"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.

"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"

Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.

You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.

"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."

Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."

"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.

You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.

It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.

And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.

It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.

You swallow heavily at the thought.

You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.

You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"

Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"

When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.

“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"

A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."

The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.

"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."

At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.

You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.

Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.

"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."

You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.

The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.

Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.

You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.

But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.

Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.

What you mean is, you like Clark.

He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.

The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.

It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.

You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.

Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.

Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.

The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.

Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.

Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.

"I have to go now."

The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.

"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."

Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.

It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.

Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.

You shake your head, "No. Thank you."

Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.

Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.

You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."

"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."

Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.

You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.

Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.

"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."

Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.

Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.

Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.

You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.

As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.

You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.

It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.

It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.

The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.

The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.

There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.

The west is where the produce is.

Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.

The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.

You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.

This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.

You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.

You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.

The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.

Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.

You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.

The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.

You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.

It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.

Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?

You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.

But, no. It's definitely Clark.

He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.

His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.

You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.

He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.

He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.

He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.

Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.

You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.

Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.

But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.

And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.

5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.

You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.

You walk over before you can change your mind.

"Hi."

Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"

His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.

"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.

Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.

When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."

You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.

You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"

Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."

That makes you smile.

He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.

He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."

You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.

To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.

"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.

Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.

Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.

"I like your wagon."

For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.

He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."

You frown, "Of course."

You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.

Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.

Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"

You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.

Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.

"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.

He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."

You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"

"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."

He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.

"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"

You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.

"Both. I came to get—"

There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"

What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.

A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.

You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."

He nods to the bags over your shoulder.

"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."

"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"

"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."

It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.

If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.

You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.

"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"

Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.

"I would love the company."

He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."

Together, you walk and you talk.

Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.

The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.

And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.

You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.

When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.

It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.

The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.

"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"

You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.

Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.

"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."

You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.

He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.

You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.

You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.

He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"

"A reason?"

You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.

But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.

You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.

"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."

You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.

You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"

That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."

You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.

Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.

Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.

You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.

"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."

Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.

You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.

It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,

"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"

Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.

Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."

You blink.

Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?

You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.

What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.

You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.

Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.

"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.

Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."

It is what you want—to see him again.

Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.

"I would like that."

Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.

You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.

When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.

And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.

Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.

He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.

Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.

And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.

Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.

As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.

It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.

He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.

You do that around him, but not around everyone.

He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.

You don't do that with anyone else either.

He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.

Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.

But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.

This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.

It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.

Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.

Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.

Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.

He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.

The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.

But you had turned him down.

Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.

This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.

Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.

Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.

Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.

The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.

There is where the embarrassing part comes in.

Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.

To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.

Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.

If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.

He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.

All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.

He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.

But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.

Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.

He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.

You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.

It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.

(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)

At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.

He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"

And you do, literally.

Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.

He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.

You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"

Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.

Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.

But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.

To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.

Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.

His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.

His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.

"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"

Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?

A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.

Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.

Why is he asking now? What changed?

You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.

Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.

Then you swallow the thought away.

Clark wouldn't.

You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.

"Yes. I would like that."

Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.

You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.

"Great," Clark says breathily.

He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.

"Great." You echo.

Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.

A beat passes.

The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.

"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."

Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.

He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.

"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"

"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.

"At the bar?"

Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.

He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.

"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.

He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.

You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —

—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.

It's… the tag from your shirt.

The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.

He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.

For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.

From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.

You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.

Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.

There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.

You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.

To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"

Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.

"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."

You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.

Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.

"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.

"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.

Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.

"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."

You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.

Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.

He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.

"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.

Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.

Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.

You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"

There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.

Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.

The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.

"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D

otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)