#super man

The afternoon at the Daily Planet was as loud as always—clacking keyboards, ringing phones, people sprinting after stories she couldn’t care less about. She was focused on her article, leaning over her computer, when she felt a large presence behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“What do you want, Kent?” she asked without looking up.

Clark cleared his throat, awkward as ever. He held a folder against his chest like it was some kind of shield.

“Perry wants us to… go together,” he said, making one of those dramatic pauses she hated, “to the town of Willow Creek. They need a piece on their annual festival.”

She lifted her eyes, frowning.

“Us? What, was literally no one else available?”

Clark gave her one of his soft, gentle smiles.

“No, and he said he trusts our excellent teamwork.”

“Teamwork?” she repeated, packing her things. “All we do is argue, and you apologize every two minutes.”

Clark scratched the back of his neck, slightly blushing.

“Well… maybe this is our chance to fix that?”

She sighed. He was irritatingly good. And positive. Annoyingly positive.

“Fine. But don’t expect me to babysit you if that old town falls apart on us.”

Clark followed with those long strides of his.

“I didn’t expect that,” he said softly. “But I’d still do it… if you needed me to.”

She froze for half a second. Comments like that always threw her off.

“You don’t have to be a hero around me, Kent.”

Clark lowered his gaze, smiling faintly.

“I can’t help it.”

The road to Willow Creek seemed endless—tall trees, empty asphalt, and a gray sky that looked like trouble waiting to happen. She watched out the window, arms crossed, annoyed at the long drive.

Clark drove perfectly straight, calm… too calm for her taste.

“Can you drive a little faster?” she asked, giving him her first real look of the trip. “My butt is going numb.”

Clark let out a soft, embarrassed laugh.

“I-it’s safer this way. I don’t want anything to happen on the road.”

“I’m not made of glass, Kent.”

“I know,” he said, smiling small and surprisingly sincere. “You’re stronger than most people.”

She shifted, trying to cut the tension.

“Just drive, so we get there before I turn eighty.”

Clark focused back on the road, but the smile stayed on his lips.

The car slowed in front of a sign:

“Willow Creek — Where Tradition Never Dies.”

There was something unsettling about that.

As Clark parked in front of the hotel, an old man sitting on the porch stared at them a little too intently.

“I don’t like how he’s looking at us,” she muttered.

“Maybe he’s just being friendly,” Clark whispered, though he didn’t sound too sure.

Clark handled the luggage while she studied the hotel: old, foggy windows, a sign creaking in the wind.

“It has its charm,” Clark tried.

“It has horror movie vibes, Kent.”

He laughed nervously.

“Maybe it’s nicer inside.”

It wasn’t.

Behind the counter, a man in his sixties looked up.

“Good afternoon,” Clark greeted warmly. “My name is Clark Kent, and this is my partner, Y/N. We’re here for the festival.”

Y/N gave a polite smile, exhausted, distracted by the cobwebs above them.

“Could we get two rooms, please?” she asked, her body screaming for rest.

The man clicked his tongue.

“Only one left.”

She blinked. Clark stiffened.

“One? Are you sure?” Clark asked, already sweating.

“One room, one king bed,” the man confirmed. “The festival fills us up quickly. But you two look young—you’ll figure something out.” He winked at Clark.

Clark nearly died on the spot.

“I can sleep on—”

“The bed,” she cut him off. “I’m not letting you sleep on the floor like some martyr. We’re sharing. End of story.”

Clark turned red up to his ears.

“O-okay.”

She grabbed the key like it was nothing. But the moment they climbed the stairs, her heart started pounding. Embarrassing. It was just a bed.

The room smelled like old wood and lavender. The bed was big. Too big.

“We’ll each stay on our side,” she said. “Like an international border.”

Clark laughed nervously.

“I’ll respect your sovereignty.”

She had to look away to hide a smile.

After settling in, they walked through the streets to investigate the place.

lanterns, little flags, flowers—the decorations were simple but charming. The town felt frozen in time, rustic but not ugly. Some people smiled at them. Others stared a moment too long.

“Did you see that?” she whispered.

“Small towns can be like that,” Clark said, though he seemed uneasy too. “They don’t always love outsiders poking around.”

She frowned.

“Why would it bother them?”

Then they reached a small flower stand. Behind it was a girl about their age, wearing a green apron—and she lit up the second she saw Clark.

“Hi!” she said brightly, ignoring Y/N completely. “First time in Willow Creek?”

Clark pushed his glasses up, polite. “Yes, we’re from the Daily Planet. We’re covering—”

“Oh, journalists,” the girl interrupted, biting her lip as she looked at him. “Are you staying long?”

She leaned forward unnecessarily. Y/N narrowed her eyes.

Clark flushed.

“Um… just a couple of days.”

“That’s perfect,” the girl smiled. “If you need anything…” She brushed her fingers against his while handing him a flower. “I’m here all day.”

Y/N cleared her throat loudly.

The girl finally looked at her. With zero enthusiasm.

“Oh. Didn’t see you.”

“Well, now you do,” Y/N said flatly, taking the flower from Clark and handing it back to the girl. “Thanks, but he doesn’t buy flowers. We’re working.”

The girl stared, offended. Clark tried very hard not to laugh.

When they walked away, he chuckled.

“I didn’t know you could be like that.”

“Like what?” she snapped.

“Um…” Clark looked away to hide a smile. “Territorial.”

She elbowed him. “I wasn’t being territorial. I was being practical. She was distracting us.”

“Right… practical,” Clark teased.

She rolled her eyes, but he kept smiling.

They reached the oldest building in the town: The Museum of Traditions.

Inside, dusty photos and ceremonial clothes decorated the walls. But one sign stood out:

“THE CHOOSING OF THE BEARER — One must be selected every generation.”

“Bearer of what?” she whispered.

Clark studied the sign, frowning.

“This doesn’t look like tradition,” he murmured. “It looks like a ritual.”

Before she could answer, Clark’s head snapped slightly to the side—like he heard something miles away.

“Clark?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He blinked, recovering too fast. “Nothing. Thought I heard something.”

He was lying. And she knew it.

“You got tense,” she pointed out.

“No, I’m fine—just tired,” he said with a nervous smile.

But his jaw stayed tight.

He had clearly heard something.

An old man emerged from the back of the museum, stopping in front of them.

“Outsiders shouldn’t pry so much,” he said. “Willow Creek protects its own.”

Y/N crossed her arms.

“We’re journalists. Prying is our job.”

The man frowned deeper.

“Then be careful with what you find.”

He walked away. A chill ran down her spine.

Clark stepped slightly closer—not touching, just near enough to feel protective.

“We should stay together,” he said softly. “This place isn’t normal.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t move away.

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Clark smiled faintly.

“Maybe I do.”

She almost smiled back.

They returned to the hotel after dark. As they walked down the hallway, Clark stopped.

“Wait.”

On the floor, pushed under their door, was a brown envelope. Old. Unmarked.

Y/N picked it up. Inside was a single drawing.

Hand-drawn. Rushed. Creepy.

Two figures: a man and a woman. And behind them… a tall shape with horns.

Clark met her eyes. She met his.

“This is not a friendly gesture,” she said.

“No,” Clark whispered. “It looks like a warning.”

Clark studied the drawing, serious. Y/N laughed lightly as she pulled out the key.

“It’s probably just someone trying to scare us off. The old man at the museum, or some bored local kid. They don’t want reporters here, but I’m not going anywhere until we finish this story and go to their boring festival tomorrow.”

Clark exhaled slowly.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right,” he said, though his voice wasn’t convinced at all.

The Bed

Once they closed the door, the silence of the room felt heavy. The huge bed took up half the space.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “We can, um… sleep on separate sides. Like you said.”

She nodded, but her heart was beating too fast.

Clark changed his shirt with his back to her, and she looked away out of politeness… but not fast enough to miss his shoulders.

He climbed into bed carefully, staying as far away as possible.

“Why are you sleeping on the edge?” she asked.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said with a soft, shy smile. “Plus… I’m big. I take up space.”

She laughed quietly. “If you fall, I’m not picking you up.”

“I know.”

Silence settled again.

But this time, it felt different. Warm. Charged. Dangerous.

She turned toward him. He accidentally turned toward her at the same time.

Now they were close. Not touching— but close.

She could hear his breathing. He could hear hers.

“Clark…” she whispered, not knowing why.

He swallowed hard, looking at her with fear, tenderness, and something deeper—something he had been hiding since the day they met.

“I’m right here,” he said softly.

She closed her eyes. Clark did too.