safety net
summary: Wayne Enterprises Metropolis' branch has some numbers that aren't adding up. Your older brother Bruce wanted to send one of his accountants to clean it up, but you insisted you could handle it. Enter Clark Kent, a reporter who is investigating the very same thing you are. word count: 26.7k+ pairing: clark kent x wayne!fem!reader notes: this has been sitting in my drafts since AUGUST. and here it finally is :) i hope y'all enjoy this long awaited fic warnings/tags: reader is bruce wayne's younger sister, implied battinson, no use of y/n, mystery, money laundering, some dc universe/comic references, soft!clark, flustered!clark, clark really is just a cutey in this, light violence, mentions of blood, bamf!reader, very very very slight sugar mama energy, fluff, slow burn - would it be me if it wasn't slow burn? that's how you'll know if i'm replaced by an alien because i LIVE AND BREATH SLOW BURN
The city looks different from Gotham. Cleaner at first glance, brighter, though you can already sense the rot humming beneath the surface. Metropolis wears its optimism like a polished glass tower, but you know enough about shadows to recognize them even when theyâre hidden in broad daylight.
Your heels click steadily against the marble floor of the Wayne Enterprises Metropolis branch office, the sound deliberate, carrying authority. Youâre not here to play the silent shadow to Bruceâs brooding. This is your assignmentâyour investigation. One of the research subsidiaries has numbers that donât add up, contracts routed through shell companies, money flowing somewhere it shouldnât. Bruce wanted to send Lucius or one of his accountants. You told him no. Youâll handle it.
The young receptionist looks up from behind a glossy desk, nerves flickering across his face when he catches the Wayne crest pin on your lapel. He stumbles over his words, offering you coffee, water, anything at all. You smileâwarm, practiced, and sharper than he realizes. A Wayne doesnât need to be cold to be intimidating. Sometimes kindness disarms people far more effectively.
By the time you leave the office with a slim folder tucked under your arm, you have what you came for: proof that something is feeding into LexCorpâs pocket. Not just a bad contract, but a deliberate arrangement. And if Lex Luthor has his hands in Wayne Enterprises, it isnât something you can ignore.
Outside, the wind whips against you, carrying the noise of Metropolisâcar horns, chatter, a faint hum of construction. Youâre adjusting the strap of your bag when a voice stops you.
âExcuse me, missâWayne, isnât it?â
You turn. A tall man with dark hair, glasses sliding down his nose, is holding up a press badge that reads Daily Planet. The way he approaches is careful, almost shy, but thereâs something steady in his eyes, a quiet gravity. âYes,â you answer smoothly, weighing him in a glance. Not the slick predator type youâre used to back home. He radiates an earnestness that feels almost⌠provincial. âAnd you are?â
âClark Kent. Reporter.â His voice is soft, polite. âI donât mean to intrude, but I couldnât help noticingâyouâve been looking into LexCorpâs connections here, havenât you?â
You arch an eyebrow. Thatâs not the kind of thing a reporter should know unless heâs already digging into the same trail. âI donât recall making a press statement.â
He shifts, flustered but holding his ground. âYou didnât. Itâs just⌠some of the pieces line up. Missing funds, off-shore accounts, shell corporations. Iâve been following the same story for the Planet.â
Interesting. You cross your arms, not defensive, but curious. âSo youâre investigating, too.â
He nods, lips pressing together as though heâs unsure how much to say. The hesitation only makes you study him closer. He doesnât read like the aggressive reporter type. Thereâs a gentleness, almost awkward, as if heâs more comfortable listening than demanding answers. Strange for a man in his profession. âWell, Mr. Kent,â you say finally, tilting your head, âI donât usually share my work with strangers. But it seems weâre walking the same road. Perhaps weâll run into each other again.â
A faint smile tugs at his mouth, subtle but genuine. âIâd like that.â
You move past him, deliberately letting your heels strike the pavement with the rhythm of someone who knows exactly where sheâs going. But you can feel his gaze lingering, not predatory, not calculatingâcurious. Watchful. Almost as though he sees something more than what youâre presenting to the world.
You tell yourself it doesnât matter. You have a job to do. You donât need a polite, soft-spoken reporter complicating it. Still, when you slide into the backseat of the waiting car and glance out the window, you catch sight of him againâClark Kent, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders set like a man carrying more than anyone realizes.
---
The next morning, youâre already halfway through a cup of burnt Metropolis coffee when the elevator doors slide open on the top floor of the Daily Planet. It hadnât been on your original schedule, but the numbers in that slim folder wouldnât leave you alone last night, so youâd decided to see who else was pulling on the same threads.
The newsroom buzzes with the chaotic symphony of phones ringing, reporters shouting across desks, and the endless clatter of keyboards. Gothamâs newsrooms always carried an edge of cynicism; this place feels almost idealistic by comparison. Almost.
âMiss Wayne.â
You turn, expecting some overeager intern. Instead, itâs Clark Kentâjacket a little too big, tie slightly crooked, but with that same unshakable steadiness in his eyes. He looks surprised to see you, though not displeased.
âMr. Kent,â you answer, tilting your head. âI thought reporters usually chased their leads, not waited for them to walk through the door.â
The corner of his mouth twitchesâsomewhere between a smile and an admission. âSometimes they do both.â
You follow him to his desk, stacked with folders, printouts, and a battered notebook filled with looping handwriting. He pushes his glasses up nervously as you glance over the mess. âYouâre investigating Wayne Enterprisesâ connection to LexCorp,â you say evenly, âyet you donât look like a man who hates dead ends.â
âI donât,â he admits softly, âbut I donât like coincidences either. Lex Luthor doesnât do anything without a reason.â
You watch him for a moment, this mild-mannered man who speaks with the certainty of someone who sees deeper than he lets on. He doesnât posture, doesnât flash credentials, doesnât try to impress youâhe simply lays out his truth like itâs as solid as bedrock. Itâs disarming. âDo you always trust strangers with your work?â you ask finally.
His gaze lifts to yours, and the weight in it makes you blink. Not heavy, not menacingâjust⌠unflinchingly honest. âNot usually. But I think youâre not here by accident either.â You laugh lightly, a spark of admiration threading through the sound. Heâs not wrong.
Before you can reply, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. âKent! I want something I can print before noon!â Then he notices you. âAnd who the hell are you?â
âWayne,â you say crisply, extending your hand. âBruce Wayneâs sister.â
The newsroom goes still for a heartbeat. Perry blinks, takes your hand, mutters something about Gothamâs shadow bleeding into Metropolis, and storms off. Clark gives a faint, apologetic shrug.
âI see your editor runs a tight ship.â
âYou could say that,â Clark murmurs, lips curving just slightly.
You leave a card on his desk. âIf you come across something you think I should see, call me. If youâre right about Lex, I donât intend to sit idle.â
He studies the card as though it holds more weight than paper should. âAnd if you find something first?â
You pause at the edge of the bullpen, letting the hum of the newsroom wash around you. âThen youâll be the second to know.â When you step into the elevator, you glance back once. Clark is still at his desk, glasses low on his nose, but his eyes are fixed on you. Not curious this timeâwatchful. Protective, even.
---
Metropolis at night doesnât breathe the same way Gotham does. Gotham thrives in its darkness; Metropolis tries to push it back with neon, glass, and relentless electricity. Still, even here, the shadows creep in around the edges, and youâve always been good at slipping into them.
The Wayne Enterprises folder is open across your hotel desk, scattered with photocopies of contracts and red-ink annotations youâve been scratching down for hours. Every line you trace circles back to the same name: LexCorp. Itâs obvious, but too clean. Almost as if someone wanted you to find it.
You sigh, shove the papers into a leather satchel, and decide a walk might clear your head. The streets hum quieter at this hour, though Metropolis never truly sleeps. Youâve made it three blocks before you hear itâfootsteps, just slightly out of rhythm with yours.
You stop at a streetlight, pretending to check your phone, and glance at the glass storefront reflection. Two men, trying too hard to look casual. Too close.
Amateurs, you think, though that doesnât make them less dangerous.
When the first one closes the gap, youâre already turning, shoulder slamming into his chest. He staggers back, surprised by the force, and you use that heartbeat to pivot, heel cracking down on the second manâs instep. He yelps. You donât hesitateâyour elbow finds his ribs.
The first man recovers faster than you like. He grabs for your arm, but you twist out, the satchel slung tight against your side, and drive your knee up toward his stomach. He curses, doubles over, and thatâs when you hear itâan unmistakable rush of air, like a gust of wind slashing the night.
In the space of a blink, both men are gone. One dangles from a lamppost, unconscious, the other groans faintly from where heâs been pinned high against a brick wall with steel piping bent around him like makeshift cuffs.
And standing between you and the wreckage is him. Superman.
Youâve seen him on television, of course. Who hasnât? The cape, the crest, the impossible presence that seems more myth than man. But seeing him in the flesh, a living wall of calm power, feels different. Thereâs a weight in the air that wasnât there before, a quiet certainty that the world is, for one rare moment, safe.
âAre you hurt?â His voice is rich, steady, and absurdly gentle for a man who just bent steel like wire.
You straighten, brushing dust from your coat, your pride intact. âNo. I was handling it.â
His mouth curves slightly, not mocking, not indulgentâjust faint amusement. âI could see that. But two against one isnât fair odds, even for a Wayne.â
Your eyes narrow. âSo you do know who I am.â
âMetropolis isnât Gotham,â he says simply, as though that explains everything. And maybe it does. Here, people notice names.
You study himâimpossibly broad shoulders, the way his cape stirs in a wind you canât feel, the almost otherworldly calm radiating off him. Everyone talks about his power, but standing here, you realize it isnât his strength thatâs disarming. Itâs the way he looks at you, like he genuinely cares what your answer will be. âThank you,â you say finally, because you were raised with enough grace not to ignore it. âBut donât expect me to call for backup every time I walk down the street.â
That faint smile again. âI wouldnât expect anything less.â
With that, heâs goneâvanished upward into the stars with another rush of air. You stand there for a long moment, heart hammering not from fear but from the sheer velocity of his presence.
When you finally make it back to the hotel, you catch yourself in the mirror, hair disheveled, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. And you think about Clark Kentâthe reporter with the too-big jacket and earnest eyes.
For just a second, the two images overlap.
You shake it off, annoyed at yourself. Clark Kent is a mild-mannered journalist. Superman is⌠Superman. Thereâs no sense in imagining a bridge between them.
And yet, you canât help itâthe idea lodges somewhere deep, stubborn as a seed.
---
You stare at the folder spread across your hotel desk, contracts lit by the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. The hum of the city outside is faint through the thick glass, but itâs there, a reminder that Metropolis never truly sleeps. Neither do you, apparently.
Your phone vibrates against the wood. The name glowing on the screen makes your shoulders sink and soften all at once. âAlfred,â you say when you answer, your voice quieter than you meant.
âYou sound tired,â he replies, that familiar dry lilt wrapping around you like a worn blanket. âI would remind you that even Wayne's must occasionally close their eyes, but I suspect youâd ignore me as you always have.â
A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. âYouâre not wrong.â
Thereâs a pause, then the subtle shuffle of papers on his end. âMaster Bruce mentioned youâd taken it upon yourself to look into matters in Metropolis.â
âOf course he did,â you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. âAnd let me guessâhe doesnât approve?â
Alfred exhales, and itâs the closest thing he ever gives to a sigh. âHe worries. About the company. About you.â
âI can handle myself,â you say firmly, perhaps too quickly. Your eyes flick to the faint scuff on your coat where one of the men grabbed you earlier. âI did handle myself.â
Alfredâs silence tells you he hears more in your words than you wanted to give away. âThen I trust you,â he says finally. âBut perhaps tell me what precisely youâve uncovered before you vanish into another mess, hmm?â
You tap your hand against your thigh, pacing the room as you explain: the paper trail, the shell companies, the money that all flows back to Lex Luthor. And then, lower, almost reluctant, âsomeone tried to stop me tonight. Two men. They werenât expecting me to fight back.â
âTwo men?â Alfred repeats, and thereâs an edge beneath his calm now.
âTheyâre handled,â you reassure. Your throat tightens, memory flickering with the sudden rush of air, the cape, the impossible strength. âSuperman intervened.â
Thereâs another pause. âAnd what did you think of him?â Alfred asks carefully.
You sink onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the question heavier than youâd like to admit. âHeâs⌠not what I expected. Everyone talks about the power, the spectacle. But heâsââ You hesitate, searching for the right word. ââgentle. Too gentle for what this city will throw at him, maybe. But steady. Itâs strange, Alfred. He felt⌠safe.â
Thereâs the faintest hum on the line, Alfredâs version of a thoughtful noise. âStrange,â he says softly, âthat youâd trust a stranger in a cape more easily than your own brother.â
âDonât start,â you warn. But thereâs no heat in it.
The line clicks faintly, and then another voice cuts inâquieter, lower, brooding even through the distortion of the speaker. âYou should come home.â
You close your eyes. âHello to you too, Bruce.â
âYouâre exposed,â he says, no preamble. âMetropolis isnât Gotham. Their games are different, but the rules are the sameâyou make enemies when you start digging. If Luthorâs involved, he wonât stop at intimidation.â
âI know,â you answer steadily. âThatâs why Iâm here. This isnât just corporate sabotageâitâs deliberate. Someone wanted me to see the trail. I need to find out why.â
âYouâll get yourself killed.â The words are sharper than he means them to be, you know that. Itâs his way of saying I canât lose you.
âIâm not reckless,â you counter. âNot like you. And Iâm not alone.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. You wonder if he hears what you mean, if he catches the flicker in your voice when you say it. Finally, he mutters, âdonât trust him too easily. Thatâs all Iâll say.â
Before you can reply, the line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, staring at the city lights through the window. Bruce will stew in his cave, Alfred will sigh in the manor, and youâwell, youâll keep walking the line youâve chosen.
Still, you canât stop your mind from replaying Supermanâs face, the steadiness in his eyes, and the way Clark Kentâs gaze in the newsroom had felt exactly the same.
You shake the thought away, burying it under contracts and red ink. Tomorrow, there will be more questions to chase. Tomorrow, youâll see Clark Kent again. And tomorrow, youâll decide if youâre ready to test just how many secrets Metropolis is keeping.
---
The Daily Planet lobby smells of ink and old coffeeâcomforting in a way, a heartbeat beneath the cityâs glittering glass. You walk in with your satchel over one shoulder, folder tucked tight against your ribs. Thereâs a steeliness in your step, sharpened by last nightâs attempted ambush and the memory of a cape cutting through the air.
When the elevator doors open onto the newsroom, the chaos greets you like an old acquaintanceâreporters shouting across desks, the hum of a dozen phone calls happening at once. And right there, in the middle of it all, Clark Kent, hunched slightly at his desk with his glasses slipping low as he types with the deliberation of a man weighing every word. âBack again?â he says when he notices you, voice warm, carrying just enough surprise to make you smirk.
âDonât sound so shocked,â you reply. âWayne Enterprisesâ money isnât going to untangle itself, and youâve got half the city wired into your phone lines. Seems efficient.â
He chuckles softly, rising with an awkward grace that still manages to take up all the space around him. âEfficient isnât usually how people describe this place.â
He offers coffeeâhe doesnât ask, just picks up a second mug from the counter and places it in front of you. The steam curls upward, rich and bitter. You lift it carefully, studying him over the rim. âCareful, Kent. People will start to think youâre charming.â
A faint flush creeps across his cheeks, though his eyes hold yours, steady. âAnd what would you think?â
You pause, savoring the taste of the coffee and the way he asked that as though he truly wanted the answer. âIâd think youâre harder to read than you look.â
The two of you sit side by side at his cluttered desk, spreading papers between youâhis notes, your contracts, diagrams of shell companies. Your handwriting scrawls sharp in red ink beside his looping cursive. Piece by piece, the picture forms: LexCorp subsidiaries tied to construction bids, energy grids, political donations. Itâs intricate, deliberate.
âSomeone wanted this to be seen,â Clark says finally, leaning forward, his voice low so it doesnât carry over the newsroom.
Your head tilts slightly. âExactly what I told Bruce.â
âYou donât strike me as someone who waits for permission,â he says.
âGood instincts,â you murmur, lips curving.
A comfortable silence stretchesâpapers between you, the hum of the newsroom around you, but his presence grounding the moment. You shouldnât feel at ease here, with someone you barely know, but you do.
The silence is broken by Perry White storming past, barking about deadlines. Clark straightens quickly, fumbling with his notes. You press a hand lightly to the paper stack, steadying it before it scatters.
He looks at you then, glasses sliding just enough for his eyes to be clear, earnest and startlingly familiar. You freeze, breath caught for a fraction of a second. Thereâs something in that gazeâsomething that tugs at the edge of memory.
You cover it with a smooth smile, withdrawing your hand. âYouâd better get back to work, Kent. Wouldnât want your editor to bite your head off.â
âWouldnât be the first time,â he admits, sheepish, though the corners of his mouth curve like heâs glad you noticed.
You gather your things, sliding the satchel back over your shoulder. âSend me anything you find. And Clarkââ you pause just long enough to make sure his attention is yoursâ âdonât keep me waiting.â
When you leave the newsroom, you donât glance back. But if you had, youâd see Clark standing at his desk, watching the elevator doors close with the same quiet intensity Superman carried when he asked if you were hurt.
And though you bury yourself in contracts and calculations for the rest of the afternoon, a truth nags at the edge of your mind. You are circling something dangerousânot just Lex Luthorâs schemes, but Clark Kent himself.
Because somehow, against every ounce of your better judgment, you are beginning to trust him.
---
Metropolis hums differently at night than it does in the day. The skyscrapers glow like beacons, the sidewalks pulse with energy, and the cafĂŠs on the corner spill golden light out onto the street. Gothamâs nightlife was smoke and shadows; here itâs neon and glass.
You push open the door of a small cafĂŠ tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, the kind of place that tries to be inconspicuous and fails because itâs too charming. Clark had suggested itâquiet, off Perry Whiteâs radar, a place where you could talk without the Planetâs chaos humming around you.
Heâs already there when you arrive, seated at a small table near the window. Jacket folded neatly over the chair, tie still slightly crooked, glasses catching the soft lamplight. When he looks up, that unshakable steadiness in his eyes makes your steps falter for just a second. âMiss Wayne,â he says warmly, standing to pull out your chair. His manners are almost old-fashioned, but not in a rehearsed wayâlike it simply never occurred to him to be anything but considerate.
âClark,â you return, settling into the chair. âIâm starting to think you have a habit of finding me before I find you.â
He chuckles, sitting across from you. âReporters tend to chase things. Sometimes people, too.â
A waitress appears, drops menus, takes your drink orders. When sheâs gone, Clark leans forward, lowering his voice. âI looked into those contracts again. Thereâs a pattern. The shell companies trace back to energy infrastructureâpower grids. If Luthorâs behind this, he isnât just funneling money. Heâs building leverage.â
You sip your coffee slowly, meeting his gaze over the rim. âYou think heâs trying to control the cityâs power?â
âI think heâs already started.â His jaw tightens for the briefest moment, and you catch itâthe flicker of something deeper, almost personal. But he covers it quickly, adjusting his glasses. âItâs not just about money with Luthor. It never is.â
You study him. He talks about Lex not like a reporter chasing a billionaire but like someone whoâs been watching him for far longer than an article would require. âTell me something, Clark,â you say, leaning back. âWhy are you chasing this story so hard? Luthorâs a titan here. He can bury journalists for breakfast. What makes you keep poking?â
His eyes meet yours, unwavering. âBecause if people like him arenât held accountable, then no one is safe. Not in Metropolis, not anywhere.â
The simplicity of the answer hits harder than any grand speech could. Youâre used to Gothamâs cynicism, where everyone has an angle. Clarkâs sincerity feels like standing in sunlight after too long underground.
You force a smirk to cover the warmth blooming in your chest. âCareful, Kent. That sounded almost heroic.â
This time his smile is small but genuine, reaching his eyes. âI wouldnât go that far.â
The waitress brings your foodâtwo sandwiches, fries to share. You dig in, letting the conversation drift. He asks about Gotham; you paint it honestlyâgritty, relentless, a city that eats its own but occasionally spits out someone strong enough to fight back. He listens, really listens, not just waiting for his turn to speak. When he talks about Smallvilleâcornfields, Friday night football, a life so simple it feels like fictionâyou find yourself laughing at the mental image of him awkwardly towering over high school classmates.
Thereâs a pause between bites, a lull in conversation. You catch him watching you again, not in the way men in boardrooms do, calculating or hungry. Clark looks at you like heâs cataloguing detailsâyour laugh, the way you tap your fingers against your cup, the slight arch of your brow when youâre skeptical. Itâs a gaze that makes you feel seen rather than inspected.
You clear your throat, breaking the moment before it settles too deep. âIf weâre working together on this, Kent, I should warn youâI donât play well with others.â
His smile deepens, soft and unshaken. âI think you do better than you think.â
For a second, you forget the contracts, forget the danger, forget the cape that swept down from the sky the night before. Thereâs just the quiet clink of dishes, the glow of lamplight, and a man who feels far steadier than anyone youâve met in either Gotham or Metropolis.
You lean back, finishing the last sip of coffee. âDonât get used to dinners like this. Iâm not here to make friends.â
He nods, though the warmth in his eyes betrays him. âUnderstood.â
But as you both step out into the city night, side by side, you catch yourself thinking that maybeâjust maybeâyou donât mind making one exception.
---
The Wayne Enterprises Metropolis tower gleams against the skyline, its steel-and-glass façade polished to an almost smug shine. To the average passerby, itâs just another symbol of wealth and stability. But to you, itâs a puzzle box. And tonight, you intend to pry it open.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. A single security guard sits behind the marble desk, his eyes glued to a muted television. You stride across the floor, ID clipped to your jacket, heels clicking just enough to sound official but not confrontational. The guard barely glances up before waving you through.
Elevators whisk you up thirty floors to the research subsidiaryâs wingâbiotech, officially. But the numbers you pulled last week didnât match. This wasnât about cell cultures or prosthetic trials. Someone had been rerouting funds, slipping them into shell corporations with clinical precision.
Your keycard slides into the lock. The office opens with a soft chime, fluorescent lights flickering awake. It smells faintly of disinfectant and stale paper. You move quickly, scanning desks, rifling through files. Paperwork tells a story far more clearly than corporate press releases.
And there it is. A folder marked innocuously as energy grant allocations. Inside: transfers to companies with forgettable namesâSilverbrook Holdings, Astra Limited, Convergent Systems. On paper, theyâre nothing. But youâve seen enough Gotham shell companies to recognize the sleight of hand.
You snap photos with your phone, flipping page after page. The numbers donât just disappear; they converge. And when they do, the name at the center gleams like a rot beneath the glass: LexCorp Energy Division.
You exhale sharply, leaning back in the chair. Itâs deliberate. Someone inside Wayne Enterprises is feeding Luthor. And worse, they want you to know it. The trail is too neat, too clean. A noise pulls you from your thoughtsâthe faintest creak in the hallway outside. You freeze. The office is supposed to be empty at this hour.
Closing the folder, you slip it back into the cabinet, phone clutched in your hand. You step quietly to the door, ears straining. Footsteps. Slow, measured, coming closer.
You move into the shadow between the filing cabinets, waiting. The door opens. A man steps insideâtall, sharp suit, eyes sweeping the room with the cool precision of someone who doesnât believe in coincidence. He doesnât see you at first. His attention is fixed on the cabinet you just closed.
You recognize him from corporate briefingsâWayne Enterprisesâ Metropolis liaison, a man meant to be overseeing this very branch. Which means either heâs oblivious to the rerouted funds, or heâs the one holding the knife.
You could confront him. Call his name, demand an explanation, make it a matter of authority. But your instincts whisper otherwise. Gotham taught you wellâsometimes itâs better to watch before you strike. You remain in the shadows, silent, as he pulls the same folder, flicks through it with a faint smirk, then tucks it under his arm. And when he leaves, you let out the breath youâd been holding.
You step back into the light, pulse hammering. If heâs taking that folder, he knows someone else has been sniffing. Which means youâve just painted a target on yourself.
Your phone buzzes. A message; unknown number.
Stop digging. Or youâll regret it.
The words glare back at you, simple and ugly. You stare at them for a long moment before tucking the phone away, jaw set. Whoever sent it underestimated the one thing Bruce never could beat out of you: stubbornness.
---
The newsroom is louder than usual when you step off the elevator the next morningâphones ringing nonstop, the click of keyboards faster, voices pitched higher. You scan the floor, folder tucked under your arm, and spot Clark at his desk. He looks up as though he felt you coming before you spoke. His glasses catch the light, but his eyes are steady, calm, maybe even relieved. âYouâre here early,â he says, standing halfway as you cross to him. His tone is mild, but thereâs something beneath itâa weight, an edge. Concern.
âSo are you,â you answer, sliding the folder onto his desk. âI thought journalists slept until noon.â
The corner of his mouth tugs. âDepends on the story.â You donât sit right away. Instead, you watch him. Heâs too composed for someone whoâs been running himself ragged on a story with this many teeth. No late-night exhaustion, no bleary haze. If anything, he looks sharper than yesterday. And yet when he asks, ârough night?â itâs soft, careful, like heâs stepping onto thin ice.
You freeze a fraction too long. âDefine rough.â
Clark leans forward, lowering his voice so it doesnât carry. âDefine however you want. Just⌠you donât look like someone who got eight hours of sleep.â
You huff a quiet laugh, dropping into the chair across from him. âI wasnât attacked, if thatâs what youâre fishing for.â Not exactly. âBut you were right about the pattern. I went back to Wayne Enterprises last night. Their Metropolis liaison, Richard Halvorsen? Heâs involved. I watched him pull the very file Iâd been digging through.â
Clarkâs brow furrows, the shift almost imperceptible but not lost on you. âDid he see you?â
âNo. But I got this before he took it.â You push the copied documents across the desk. âFunds routed through shell companies, infrastructure bids that donât exist, all ending up with LexCorpâs Energy Division. Itâs a straight line if you know how to look.â
He flips through the pages, jaw tightening. âHalvorsenâs just the beginning. Someoneâs cleaning this money before it reaches Lex. Thatâs why itâs so hard to trace.â
You study him, the way his hand lingers just a little too long on the paper, knuckles pale from pressure. âYou talk about Luthor like youâve been chasing him for years.â
Clark doesnât flinch, but he doesnât answer either. His silence speaks louder than words.
You tilt your head. âYouâve got personal skin in this, Kent. Donât bother denying it.â
His eyes meet yours, steady as stone. âDoes that bother you?â
The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. You want to say yesâthat a journalist with an angle is dangerous. But what comes out is, ânot if it means youâll fight harder to get it right.â
The space between you goes quiet, but not empty. His gaze holds yours a heartbeat too long before he finally exhales, setting the papers down with deliberate care. âThen we keep going,â he says, voice quiet but certain.
A shadow falls across the deskâPerry White, barking orders as usual. âKent! Laneâs tearing up half the mayorâs office, and I need you twoââ His eyes flick to you. âWayne? What the hell are you still doing here?â
âJust making sure your boy doesnât bury himself in a bad story,â you reply smoothly.
Perry snorts, unimpressed. âGood luck with that.â He storms off.
You and Clark exchange a look, laughter caught at the corners of your mouths. For the briefest moment, the weight of shell companies and billionaires and late-night ambushes lifts, replaced by something light, almost easy.
But when the laughter fades, the intensity in his gaze remains. You can feel itâunspoken, steady, protective.
And for the first time in a long while, you realize youâre not just chasing a trail. Youâre walking it alongside someone who might actually see you, even in the shadows.
---
By late afternoon, the sun slants through the Daily Planetâs windows, gilding the newsroom in warm light. Reporters are still shouting across desks, but the chaos feels muted when you and Clark are tucked away in a small conference room, papers spread like a map across the table. Clark pushes a sandwich across to youâquiet, unassuming. âYou havenât eaten.â
You glance at it, then at him. âWhat are you, my secretary?â
His smile is faint, almost shy, but it doesnât fade. âCall it professional courtesy.â
You roll your eyes but unwrap it anyway, taking a bite to shut him up. The truth is, heâs right. You lose track of hours when youâre chasing something like this.
Clarkâs notebook sits open between you, looping handwriting spelling out names: Richard Halvorsen at the top, then a branching web of shell companies, subsidiaries, false addresses. You add your own notes in sharp red ink, arrows and exclamation marks where the money jumps too neatly to be coincidence.
âSee this?â you say, pointing to one of the entries. âAstra Limited. It doesnât exist. At least, not in any real capacity. No staff, no offices, no payroll.â
Clark leans closer, the smell of coffee clinging faintly to him. âThen why route millions through it?â
âBecause someone needed a buffer.â You tap the paper. âHalvorsenâs the one signing off the contracts. But whoeverâs really pulling the strings doesnât want his name tied directly to LexCorp. So they use Astra.â
Clarkâs brow furrows, concentration etched across his face. You watch him workâhow his focus sharpens, how his quiet intensity cuts through the noise. He isnât just playing reporter; heâs tracking patterns with the precision of someone who understands how dangerous these games are.
For a while, youâre silent except for the scratch of pens and the shuffle of papers. It feels almost⌠companionable. You donât let people in easilyâGotham taught you betterâbut Clarkâs presence doesnât feel invasive. It feels steady, grounding.
At some point, you lean back, stretching your shoulders. Clark glances up, eyes flicking from your face to the clock on the wall.
âYou donât have to keep running yourself ragged,â he says softly. âThis isnât all on you.â
A laugh escapes you, low and humorless. âThatâs where youâre wrong. I carry the Wayne name. If my companyâs feeding Luthor, thatâs on me whether I signed the papers or not.â
His gaze doesnât waver, calm and unshaken. âItâs not on you. Itâs on the people abusing the name.â
The way he says it makes you pause. Like he knows something about carrying a legacy he didnât ask for.
You tilt your head. âYou talk like someone who knows what that feels like.â
For the first time, he looks away. âMaybe I do.â
The silence stretches, not awkward but heavy with things unsaid. You study himâthe set of his jaw, the flicker of something almost vulnerable in his eyes. And for a dangerous heartbeat, you want to press. To see what secrets heâs keeping.
Instead, you smirk, breaking the weight of it. âYouâre a mystery, Kent. Mild-mannered reporter one second, philosopher the next.â
He chuckles, soft and genuine. âIâll take that as a compliment.â
The conference room door bangs open. Jimmy Olsen pokes his head in, eyes flicking between the two of you with undisguised curiosity. âUh, Perryâs looking for you, Clark. Something about the mayorâs office meltdown.â
Clark gathers his notes quickly. You slide your papers back into your satchel, rising smoothly.
âGuess weâre not done here,â you say, slipping past Jimmy.
Clark falls into step beside you, his voice low enough only you hear. âWeâll keep pulling the threads. Whoeverâs behind thisâHalvorsen, Luthor, whoever elseâtheyâll slip up.â
You glance at him, lips curving faintly. âThen letâs be there when they do.â
For just a second, the chaos of the Planet fadesâthe phones, the shouting, Jimmy watching curiously from behind. Thereâs only Clark beside you, solid as stone, and the quiet certainty that youâve found a partner worth trusting.
---
The address on the contract looks legitimate on paper: Astra Limited, Suite 405, Weston Financial District. On a spreadsheet, itâs just another line item. In reality, itâs the kind of lead you know will either dissolve into nothing or crack everything wide open.
Clark insists on coming along. He frames it as professional interestâtwo sets of eyes are better than oneâbut the way he hovers just a step closer than necessary, the way he keeps glancing at the street around you, tells another story. Heâs not just reporting. Heâs making sure youâre safe.
âSuite 405,â you murmur as the elevator dings and you step into the stale, fluorescent-lit hallway. The carpet is worn, the directory outdated. Offices here are the kind that donât get visitors.
Clark follows you down the hall, notebook in hand, though you notice he hasnât written a word. His shoulders are taut beneath his ill-fitted jacket, posture too alert for a man out chasing a corporate paper trail.
You stop in front of the door marked 405. The brass plate is scratched, the lock scuffed from years of useâor maybe forced entries. You try the handle. It turns easily. The office beyond is bare. No desks, no chairs, no computers humming in the background. Just four walls, a thin layer of dust, and the faint smell of old paint.
âEmpty,â Clark says softly, stepping inside. His voice echoes faintly off the walls.
You pace the room slowly, fingers trailing the plaster, scanning for any sign of life. âShell company. They never meant for anyone to walk through this door.â
Clark crouches near the window, eyes scanning the sill. âExcept someoneâs been here recently.â He brushes a finger across the dustâleaving a clear streak where someone else had leaned not long ago.
You join him, gaze narrowing. âCleanup crew. They pull files, wipe hard drives, then leave the shell behind.â
âWhich means,â Clark says, standing again, âwhoever was here knew someone would come looking.â
The words hang in the air. You both glance at the lock againâno forced entry, no signs of resistance. Too easy. Deliberate. You exhale sharply. âHalvorsen wanted me to find this. Or at least, wanted someone to.â
Clarkâs eyes meet yours, steady as always. âThat doesnât scare you?â
A smirk flickers across your lips. âScares me? No. Annoys me? Absolutely. I donât like being played.â For a moment, the smirk softens into something quieter when you notice the way heâs watching youâconcern threaded through the calm. You cover it quickly, stepping back toward the door. âNothing more to see here. Letâs get out before the dust gives us tetanus.â
Clark chuckles faintly, following you out. But as the door clicks shut behind you, he glances back once more, expression shifting into something far heavier than humor.
Back on the street, you slip your sunglasses into place, tucking the satchel tighter under your arm. Clark matches your stride, his long frame keeping an easy pace beside you. âYou realize,â you murmur, âthat walking into empty offices isnât exactly Pulitzer material.â
âMaybe not,â he admits, smile small, âbut itâs part of the story. And so is whoeverâs leaving breadcrumbs for you to follow.â
You glance at him sidelong. âFor me? Not you?â
His gaze lingers on yours a second longer than necessary. âThey know your name carries weight. Mine doesnât. Not yet.â
You want to argue, but you donât. Instead, you find yourself strangely comforted by the way he said itâlike he has no doubt your path is the one that matters, and his role is to walk it beside you.
---
The hotel room feels too quiet when you close the door behind you. After the empty office on Weston and the way Clark walked you backâsteady, deliberate, as though making sure youâd reach the hotel unscathedâthe silence is almost jarring.
You drop the satchel onto the desk, shrug out of your jacket, and sink into the chair. The glow of Metropolis lights filters through the curtains, a softer brightness than Gothamâs endless neon haze. For a while, you just sit, fingers idly tracing the edge of the phone on the desk, debating.
Finally, you dial. Alfred picks up on the second ring. âYouâve called sooner than I expected,â he says dryly. âI was just preparing myself for another day of silence.â
You lean back in the chair, the corner of your mouth quirking. âYou sound disappointed.â
âMerely surprised,â Alfred replies. âI assumed you were too busy gallivanting about Metropolis to bother with old men like me.â
You laugh softly, but it fades quickly. âItâs not gallivanting. The trail is deeper than we thought. Halvorsen isnât just sloppyâheâs deliberate. Thereâs an entire web of companies feeding into LexCorp. Someone wanted me to find it.â
Alfred hums low, the kind of sound that usually means heâs filing information away for Bruce. âAnd youâre quite certain you should be following this web on your own?â
You hesitate, glancing toward the jacket youâd just draped over the chair. Thereâs a faint smell of coffee clinging to itâClarkâs choice of cafĂŠ, his quiet voice echoing in your memory. You shift in your seat. âIâm not alone,â you say carefully.
Thereâs a pause, then the faint rustle of movement on Alfredâs end. âAh,â he says finally, with all the weight of someone whoâs seen a hundred things you havenât said out loud. âAnd this not-alone⌠would his name happen to be Kent?â
You blink. âHowââ
âMaster Bruce has people who read the Daily Planet, you know. The name was mentioned. A journalist. You didnât think youâd be subtle, did you?â
Your mouth tightens. âClarkâs been useful. He knows how to dig. He knows Luthor. Heâsââ You stop yourself. Too much truth pressing at the edges of your throat. âHeâs good at this.â
Thereâs another pause, longer this time. Then a new voice cuts in, lower, gruffer, immediately recognizable. âGood, or good at distracting you?â
You close your eyes. âBruce.â
âYou knew Iâd hear,â he says. âIf Halvorsenâs compromised, you donât know how deep this goes. You canât trust anyone outside the family.â
âI can trust him,â you snap before you can stop yourself.
The silence on the line sharpens. Then Bruce says, cool and certain, âyou barely know him.â
You lean forward, fingers digging into the arm of the chair. âI know enough. He doesnât play games. He doesnât posture. Heââ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together hard.
Alfredâs voice slides gently back in, smoothing over the sharp edges. âWe only worry, miss. Especially when Luthorâs name is involved. He plays for keeps, and so do his people.â
You take a slow breath. âI know the risk. But Iâm not backing down. And Iâm not cutting Clark out, either.â
For a moment, you think Bruce will argue, but all you hear is the faint click of him leaving the call. Alfred sighs softly on the other end. âHe doesnât like it,â Alfred says quietly.
âHe never likes anything,â you mutter, though your chest tightens anyway.
Thereâs a rustle, then Alfredâs voice gentler than before. âJust⌠promise me youâll be careful. With Luthor. With Kent. With all of it.â
You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. âI promise.â
When the call ends, you sit for a long time in the dim light, staring at the city beyond the window. You should feel steadier, anchored by the familiar rhythm of Alfredâs concern and Bruceâs suspicion. Instead, you feel the oppositeâoff-balance, unsettled. Because the truth is, when you said I can trust him, you werenât just convincing them. You were trying to convince yourself.
---
The following day, the newsroom is its usual storm of ringing phones and shouted copy edits, but youâre quieter than usual when you step in. The weight of last nightâs call lingers like a stone in your chestâBruceâs suspicion, Alfredâs concern, your own too-quick defense of Clark.
Clark notices immediately. Of course he does. âMorning,â he says gently, voice low enough that it doesnât get swallowed by the newsroomâs chaos. He sets a fresh coffee on the edge of your borrowed desk before you can even sit down. âThought you might need it.â
You take the cup, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Warmth flares there, unwanted but undeniable. âThanks,â you murmur, keeping your tone even.
He studies you as you open your satchel, spreading papers across the desk with more force than necessary. âSomething wrong?â
âNo.â The word comes sharper than intended. You force a breath, softening it. âJust tired.â
Clark doesnât press. He never does. Instead, he slides into the chair across from you, notebook already open, pen resting lightly between his fingers. Heâs patient, giving you room, but his gaze is steadyâlike heâll wait all day for the truth if he has to.
You busy yourself with the files, flipping to the copies you made of Halvorsenâs contracts. âI went through the numbers again. Astra Limited isnât the only shell. Thereâs Silverbrook Holdings tooâregistered in Coast City, but it doesnât exist. Same pattern. Money routed, laundered, cleaned, then deposited into LexCorpâs Energy Division.â
Clark leans in, scanning the figures, his brow furrowing. âHalvorsenâs the start. But someone else is moving the money after him.â
You nod. âWhoever it is, theyâre good. Theyâre using people with enough influence to make it all look legitimate. I wouldnât be surprised if this stretches across multiple cities.â
His pen stills on the page, then he looks at you again. âAnd youâre carrying it like itâs your responsibility alone.â
The words make your chest tighten. You set the paper down, meeting his gaze. âIt is my responsibility. Wayne Enterprises is mine as much as Bruceâs. If someoneâs using our name to feed Luthor, itâs on me to stop it.â
Clark doesnât argue. Instead, he says quietly, âthen let me help.â
Itâs simple, unadorned. No speeches, no conditions. Just steady sincerity.
You search his face, half-expecting to find calculation, some hidden angle. But thereâs nothing except that unflinching honesty. It disarms you more than the cape ever could. âYou donât even know what youâre signing up for,â you say finally.
His mouth curves, small but certain. âI think I do.â
The silence stretches, weighted but not uncomfortable. You sip the coffee he brought you, letting the warmth settle in your hands. For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe you donât have to carry this alone.
But then your phone buzzes on the desk. A new message, unmarked number. Just like last time.
Walk away, Wayne. Last warning.
Clark notices the way your hand stills on the phone. He doesnât ask, doesnât push. But his eyes sharpen, just slightly, behind the glasses.
And you realizeâwith an odd, unexpected sense of reliefâthat whoeverâs sending threats may not understand one thing: youâre not walking away.
Not now. Not with Clark beside you.
---
Morning sunlight gleams off the hood of the car waiting at the curb outside the Daily Planet. The engine hums low, sleek lines catching the eye of every passerby. A Wayne Enterprises-issued Aston Martin, deep navy with polished chrome trim.
You lean against it casually, sunglasses perched on your nose, satchel resting by your side. If youâre going to chase leads across state lines, you might as well do it in comfort.
Clark arrives right on timeâthough from the look on his face, he hadnât expected this. He stops short on the sidewalk, blinking between you and the car like heâs stumbled into the wrong movie. âYou drive this?â he asks, voice caught somewhere between bewildered and impressed.
You smirk. âWould you rather we take the bus?â
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, fluster tugging at his features. Finally, he settles on, âI usually just⌠take the train.â
âOf course you do,â you tease, sliding into the driverâs seat. âGet in, Kent. Coast Cityâs not going to drive to us.â
Clark circles to the passenger side, moving with that careful, slightly too-large grace of his. When he sinks into the leather seat, he shifts uncomfortably, as if the car itself might protest having him in it. âThis probably costs more than my apartment,â he mutters under his breath.
You glance at him, amused. âRelax. Itâs just a car.â
He looks at you then, glasses sliding just low enough that you catch the barest glimmer of something familiar in his eyes. âItâs not just a car. At least, not to people like me.â
That makes you pause, just for a heartbeat. You grip the wheel, then gun the engine. The car leaps forward, smooth as silk onto the highway.
For the first few miles, silence fills the space between youâcomfortable, almost. Clark watches the cityscape give way to open stretches of road, the sunlight catching in his hair. You catch him sneaking glances at you, as though trying to reconcile the Gotham confidence with the woman who just asked if he wanted the bus.
Finally, he says, âyou and Bruce⌠you come from this world of wealth and power. But you donât act like it.â
âMaybe thatâs because Iâve seen what it does to people,â you answer easily. âMoneyâs a tool. Powerâs a liability. You donât survive Gotham if you believe otherwise.â
Clark considers that, quiet for a long time. âIn Smallville, if someoneâs truck broke down, the whole town would come help push it. No one thought twice about it. We didnât have much, but⌠we had each other.â
You glance at him sidelong, lips twitching. âYou really are a farm boy.â
A flush creeps across his cheeks, but he smiles anyway. âGuilty.â
The miles roll by, city fading to countryside, countryside to the glittering coast. The contrast between you is starkâleather seats, designer sunglasses, precision-engineered horsepower versus his rumpled tie, notebook balanced on his knee, quiet earnestness. And yet, it doesnât feel like distance. It feels like balance.
Somewhere near the state line, Clark breaks the silence again. âDo you ever wish youâd had that? The small-town kind of life?â
You keep your eyes on the road, lips curving into a faint smile. âSometimes. But then I rememberâI wouldnât be me if I had. And honestly? I like who I am.â
His gaze lingers on you, steady and unflinching. âI do too.â
For once, you donât have a retort. You just drive, the hum of the car filling the silence, his words hanging between you like something unspoken but undeniable.
---
The drive stretches long, but by the time the car crests the last ridge and the skyline of Coast City comes into view, the sun has already begun to dip. The city sprawls smaller than Metropolis but brighter than Gothamâits streets cleaner, its edges softer. To most people, it looks like opportunity. To you, it looks like a mask.
Silverbrook Holdings sits at the far edge of the financial district in a pale stone building that could belong to a dozen other companies. From the street, it looks respectable: glass windows, discreet signage, the kind of place no one thinks twice about.
Clark steps out of the car, squinting up at it with his hands in his pockets. âDoesnât exactly scream criminal empire.â
You shut the door with a firm click. âItâs not meant to. Thatâs the point.â
Inside, the building lobby is clinicalâwhite walls, polished floors, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. A receptionist desk sits in the middle, unmanned. The silence is sharp, too neat.
Clark glances at you, his expression shifting just enough to betray unease. âNot even a secretary?â
âNot even a potted plant,â you mutter, scanning the room.
The elevator works, but the directory by the door lists only two tenants: Silverbrook Holdings and a generic-sounding âWest Coast Trade Consultants.â You press the button for Silverbrookâs floor, the car humming softly as it rises.
When the doors slide open, you both step into another empty hallway. Offices line either side, blinds drawn tight, doors locked. At the end of the corridor, the nameplate reads Silverbrook Holdings â Suite 700.
You pull a lockpick kit from your satchelâsleek, efficient, something Bruce always pretended not to know you owned. Clark raises his brows. âWhat?â you say, kneeling at the lock. âDid you think growing up with Bruce Wayne meant I donât know how to open doors?â
His lips twitch, amusement barely contained. âIâm just⌠impressed.â
The lock clicks and you push the door open. Like Astra Limited, the office is emptyâbut not in the same way. Desks sit abandoned, chairs tucked neatly in place, filing cabinets bolted against the walls. There are papers here, scattered across one desk, though the dust is thick enough to suggest no oneâs touched them in months.
Clark moves toward the window, scanning outside. âNo lights on in the building across. No signs of recent visitors.â
You sift through the papers. Receipts, delivery slips, blank forms. All signed with the same name: Morgan Edge.
You freeze, holding one up. âEdge,â you mutter. âHalvorsen routes the money here, Edge disguises it as development bids. Then it gets passed along.â
Clark steps closer, reading over your shoulder. His voice is quiet, steady. âWhoeverâs pulling the strings, theyâre not hiding anymore. Theyâre daring us to follow.â
You set the paper down, looking at him. âYou donât sound surprised.â
He meets your gaze without flinching. âIâm not.â
Something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. He knows more than heâs sayingâyou can feel it in the steady calm of his voice, the way he keeps himself perfectly measured. You want to push. To demand answers. But instead, you tuck the papers into your satchel and straighten. âThen we keep following. Until we know where it really ends.â
Clark nods, and for a second, the weight of the world seems to settle in his shoulders. But when he looks at you again, thereâs that familiar warmth in his eyesâquiet, steady, unshaken.
And in that moment, standing in an empty office hundreds of miles from Gotham, you realize the trail isnât the only thing youâre chasing.
By the time you and Clark leave the Silverbrook office, the sun has dropped low, casting the city in golden haze and deepening shadows. The air smells of salt and exhaust, Coast Cityâs streets alive with evening crowds heading to dinner, bars, and late shifts.
Your stomach growlsâloud enough that Clark tilts his head, smiling faintly. âDonât say it,â you warn, locking the car.
âI wasnât going to,â he replies, though his tone is soft, teasing. âBut thereâs a place around the cornerâfamily-owned diner. Not much to look at, but the foodâs good.â
You arch a brow. âOf course youâd know the diner.â
He shrugs, sheepish. âReporters travel. And I like to eat.â
Against your better judgment, you follow him. The diner is exactly what you expect: cracked leather booths, buzzing neon sign, the faint smell of grease clinging to the air. But itâs warm, full of noise and chatter, and somehow comforting.
You slide into a booth. Clark sits opposite, folding his long frame into the narrow space with practiced ease. He orders black coffee and a burger; you order something small, though youâre hungrier than you admit.
For a while, you talk about the caseâEdge, Halvorsen, how cleanly the money jumped through hands. But the conversation drifts as the food comes, slipping into quieter territory. âYou know,â you say around a fry, âthis isnât what I expected Metropolisâs golden boy reporter to be doing. Chasing shell companies and dirty money trails. Donât you have city council scandals to write about?â
Clark smirks, sipping his coffee. âThose are easier. Luthorâs harder. And people need harder.â
You study him across the booth. âYou talk like someone whoâs been fighting him longer than you let on.â
He doesnât flinch, but he doesnât answer either. Instead, he sets his coffee down and says, âwhat about you? Gothamâs not exactly a city that forgives idealists. Why keep fighting?â
You lean back, shrugging lightly. âBecause if I donât, who will? Bruce carries his war one way, I carry mine another. Gotham eats people alive, Clark. The only way to survive it is to push back.â
His gaze lingers on youâquiet, steady, almost admiring. âYou sound like someone who doesnât know how to quit.â
âWouldnât be much of a Wayne if I did,â you reply, smirking.
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then he says softly, âI like that about you.â
The words settle in your chest like an unexpected warmth. You look down at your plate, smirk fading into something quieter. For a moment, the investigation, the threats, the empty officesâall of it fades under the glow of neon and the steady way Clark looks at you, like heâs cataloguing every detail without judgment.
When the bill comes, you reach for it. Clark beats you to it. âReporterâs salary, Kent,â you remind him dryly. âThis booth costs more than your paycheck.â
His smile is sheepish, but unyielding. âThen consider it a small rebellion. Let me have this one.â
You let him, watching as he tucks his wallet back into his jacket. He looks proud of himself in the simplest way, like buying dinner in a diner is some kind of victory. And to your surprise, it makes you smile. As you step out into the night, the city lights reflecting in the dark ocean nearby, you catch yourself thinkingânot for the first timeâthat maybe you trust him more than you should.
---
The highway stretches long and dark as you steer the car back toward Metropolis, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow over the leather interior. The road hums beneath the tires, steady and hypnotic. Clark sits in the passenger seat, jacket draped across his lap, tie loosened at his collar. Heâs relaxed in a way you havenât seen before, one arm resting on the window ledge, the other idly flipping a pen between his fingers. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at you, like heâs checking to see if youâre still real in this moment of quiet. âYou drive like someone who doesnât believe in speed limits,â he says finally, his voice low but laced with humor.
You smirk, eyes still on the road. âSpeed limits are suggestions. Besides, this car was built for it.â
Clark chuckles, shaking his head. âYou and your carsâŚâ
âWhat about them?â you ask, glancing at him sidelong.
âYou talk about them like theyâre extensions of you,â he says. âLike theyâre armor.â
The words catch you off guard more than you want to admit. He isnât wrong. Cars have always been both luxury and shieldâa way to control your environment, to feel untouchable even when everything else felt like a fight. You cover the pause with a dry, âbetter than talking about them like theyâre trophies.â
Clark smiles faintly. âI wasnât criticizing. Just⌠noticing.â You grip the wheel a little tighter. He notices too much, sees too much. And yet you donât feel defensive the way you usually do. Not with him. A few miles pass in silence, the hum of the road the only sound. Then, softly, Clark says, âyou donât have to carry all of this by yourself.â
You glance at him again. Heâs not looking at you, but out the windshield, eyes fixed on the horizon. His voice is steady, but thereâs a gentleness in it that disarms you. âIâve been getting threats,â you admit before you can stop yourself.
That makes him look at you, sharply. âThreats?â
âText messages. Anonymous.â You force your voice steady. âThey want me to walk away.â
âAnd you wonât.â It isnât a question.
You shake your head. âNo.â
His jaw tightens, but he doesnât argue. He just says quietly, âthen Iâll be there.â
The words hang between you, simple but absolute. You grip the wheel harder, pulse quickening in ways that have nothing to do with the carâs speed. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The city lights finally appear on the horizon, a glowing crown against the dark. And though you know what waitsâHalvorsen, Edge, Luthor, threats in the shadowsâyou let yourself sink into the quiet certainty of Clarkâs words. Then Iâll be there.
---
The Daily Planet hums louder than usual when you and Clark return, the newsroom alive with reporters buzzing over fresh leads. You drop your satchel onto the desk, sliding the Silverbrook papers across the surface, while Clark flips through his notes. âMorgan Edge,â you say flatly. The name tastes sour. âHalvorsen routes the funds, Edge launders them. Heâs the bridge to Lex.â
Clark nods, adjusting his glasses. âAnd he doesnât hide well. Edge likes attention. He likes being seen.â
Before you can answer, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. âKent! Whereâs that city hall piece? Laneâs running circles around youâagain!â He slaps a stack of papers onto a nearby desk, muttering something about journalists who move at the speed of glaciers.
As he storms off, Lois sweeps in from the other side of the bullpen, heels sharp against the floor. She doesnât slow as she calls out, âEdge is hosting a gala tomorrow night at the Metropolitan Grand. Whole city eliteâll be there. Half the council, Luthor, probably even the mayor. Iâll be covering it.â She disappears into Perryâs office before you can get a word in, leaving the words hanging in the air.
You turn to Clark. âA gala?â
He sighs, shoulders sinking just slightly. âThatâs Edge. When he wants to remind people heâs untouchable, he throws a party. Charities, business expansions, new investmentsâalways a cover for something else.â
You smirk faintly. âThen itâs our invitation to get closer.â
Clark shifts, uncomfortable. âYou make it sound simple.â
âNot simple,â you correct, gathering the Silverbrook papers into your satchel. âNecessary. People talk at galas. Especially people who think no oneâs listening.â
His eyes meet yoursâsteady, reluctant, but with that familiar undercurrent of heâll follow you anywhere, no matter the risk. âYou do realize Edge will recognize you,â Clark says carefully.
You tilt your head. âGood. Let him. He already knows Iâm digging. Might as well look him in the eye while I do it.â
For a long moment, Clark studies you across the desk. Finally, his mouth curves, faint and rueful. âYou donât play small, do you?â
âNever,â you say, slipping on your jacket.
And as you walk past him, you hear the quietest chuckle, warm and steady, like heâs resigned to whatever storm youâre dragging him into next.
---
The idea comes up the next morning in the Planet conference room, papers and coffee cups scattered between you. Youâre running through the guest list for Edgeâs gala when the thought strikes you like lightning. âWait,â you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at Clark across the table. âDo you even own a nice suit?â
He blinks at you. âOf course I do.â
You arch a brow. âDefine nice.â
Thereâs the faintest flush creeping up his neck. â...Itâs clean.â
Your laugh bursts out before you can stop it. âOh my god. Clark Kent, the man planning to sneak into one of the most exclusive galas in Metropolis, thinks âcleanâ is the requirement for a tux.â
His ears turn pink. âItâs not a tuxâI mean, I have a suit. Itâs⌠fine.â
You lean across the table, smirk tugging at your lips. âFine doesnât cut it. Youâre walking into a ballroom full of sharks, billionaires, and politicians. Youâll stick out like an intern at a shareholdersâ meeting.â
âI donât need to impress anyone,â he mutters.
âWrong,â you counter smoothly. âYou need to blend in. Thereâs a difference.â
Clark fumbles for a rebuttal, but youâre already sliding the last of the papers into your satchel. âCome on, farm boy. Weâre going shopping.â
The tailorâs boutique smells faintly of cedar and pressed wool, a world of dark-paneled walls and gleaming mirrors. You move through the racks with ease, pulling suits in navy, charcoal, and black with practiced fingers. Clark follows like a man led to the gallows. âThis really isnât necessary,â he tries again as you shove a hanger into his hands.
âTry it,â you say firmly, pushing him toward the fitting room.
The curtain swishes shut, and for a moment, silence. âThis is⌠tight.â
âTailored,â you correct through the curtain, grinning. âItâs supposed to fit you.â
A pause. Then, more flustered, âI think this costs more than my car.â
You lean against the wall, arms crossed. âConsider it equal.â
The curtain rustles. âEqual?â
âYou bought dinner in Coast City,â you remind him lightly.
âThat was twenty bucks,â he says, voice strangled.
âAnd this is balance,â you insist. âStop arguing.â
Thereâs a sigh. Then the curtain pulls backâand for a heartbeat, you forget to breathe. The suit frames him perfectly: charcoal wool, sharp lines, shoulders squared. The tie is crookedâof courseâbut the effect is devastating nonetheless. Clark shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, tugging at the cuffs. âWell?â he asks, eyes flicking nervously to yours.
You swallow, recovering quickly. âYou clean up⌠better than fine.â
His flush deepens, but the corner of his mouth curves. âI still donât think itâs equal.â
You step closer, fingers brushing against his collar as you fix the knot of his tie. âIt is if I say it is.â
The air shiftsâsuddenly charged, closer than it should be. His eyes hold yours, steady but uncertain, like heâs caught between stepping back and leaning forward. For a dangerous moment, the investigation, the gala, the entire city disappears. Thereâs just the quiet sound of your breath and the heat of his presence. You clear your throat, stepping back. âGood. Youâll pass.â
Clark exhales, almost like heâd forgotten how. He glances at the mirror, then back at you, and that small, quiet smile lingers. And for the first time, you realize that while the gala may be full of sharks, the real danger might be standing right in front of you.
---
The Metropolitan Grand Hotel gleams like a jewel against the city skyline, its chandeliers blazing through wide glass windows, music drifting out onto the steps. Cars line the curbâsleek, expensive, the kind that only make sense to people who measure wealth in billions. You step out of yours first, heels clicking on polished stone. The dress youâd chosen hugs your frame with understated eleganceâcharcoal silk with clean lines, its sheen catching the light. It matches Clarkâs suit exactly, the two of you paired so seamlessly it looks intentional. Which, of course, it is.
When Clark rounds the car, smoothing his jacket self-consciously, his eyes flick to youâand for once, words fail him. His usual steady calm wavers, his mouth opening and closing like heâs trying to remember how to speak. âYouâŚâ he clears his throat, tugging at his tie. âYou lookâŚâ
You smile faintly, saving him from himself. âSo do you. It almost looks like we planned this.â
The flush creeping up his neck gives him away, but he offers his arm anyway, old-fashioned, earnest. You slip your hand against it, and together you ascend the steps into the lionâs den. Inside, the ballroom is a storm of glittering gowns, sharp tuxedos, and too-bright smiles. Champagne flutes clink, laughter echoes beneath the string quartetâs music, and deals are being made with every handshake.
âMorgan Edge loves these events,â Clark murmurs beside you, scanning the crowd. âHe feeds off the attention.â
âGood,â you reply smoothly, eyes sweeping over the guests. âMakes him easier to find.â
It doesnât take long. Edge stands near the center of the room, broad-shouldered in a dark suit, his grin wide and wolfish as he charms a knot of councilmen. His hand gestures are broad, his voice carrying just enough to remind everyone heâs the loudest in the room. You and Clark linger at the edge of the crowd, sipping champagne you donât intend to finish. Your eyes narrow as you watch Edge lean in, laughing too loudly at some councilmanâs joke. âHe knows weâre here,â you murmur.
Clark glances down at you, brow furrowing. âYouâre sure?â
âLook at his shoulders,â you whisper. âHeâs performing. Too much. Heâs showing off because he wants us to see him do it.â
Clark studies Edge a moment longer, then nods slightly. âYouâre right.â
Your lips twitch. âOf course I am.â You mingle, keeping your distance, trading polite smiles with Metropolis elite. Clark moves with you, just slightly behind, quiet but steady. He doesnât need to speakâhis presence is enough to make you feel anchored even as you tread among sharks.
At one point, Perry White brushes past, eyebrows climbing as he takes in Clark at your side. âKent,â he mutters, voice like gravel. âDidnât know you owned a tie that straight.â
Clark stammers something half-coherent, cheeks pink, and Perry just shakes his head, moving on. You bite back a laugh, murmuring, âyou really donât blend in as badly as you think.â
His eyes flick to you, soft and steady. âThatâs because of you.â
For a second, you forget to breathe. You cover it by sipping champagne, pretending not to notice the warmth in your chest. Edge finally moves toward the balcony, peeling away from his councilmen. You and Clark exchange a glance. Without words, you follow. The night air outside is cooler, the hum of the city a low thrum beneath the galaâs music. Edge stands at the railing, staring out as though heâs been waiting. âWell,â he says, voice smooth as silk, âif it isnât Gothamâs other Wayne. And a reporter.â He turns, grin sharp. âQuite the pair.â
You donât flinch. âSilverbrook Holdings,â you say evenly. âIt all runs through you.â
Edgeâs grin widens, as though youâve just told him a joke. âCareful, Miss Wayne. Accusations like that donât play well at parties.â
Clark steps closer, quiet but firm. âYouâve made it obvious. Too obvious.â
Edgeâs eyes flick between you, sharp and calculating. Then he chuckles. âMaybe I wanted to. Maybe I wanted you to follow the trail. Funny thing about curiosityâŚâ His smile turns wolfish. âIt tends to get people killed.â The threat hangs in the cool night air, sharp and deliberate.
Clarkâs jaw tightens, but he doesnât speak. You hold Edgeâs gaze, your expression cool, controlled. You donât give him the satisfaction of flinching. And when Edge finally brushes past you back into the ballroom, his laughter low and mocking, you and Clark are left standing on the balcony, the tension between you sharp as glass. âHeâs daring us,â you murmur.
Clarkâs voice is steady, low. âThen weâll call his bluff.â
Your eyes meet his in the moonlight. And for the first time tonight, the danger feels less heavy, less suffocatingâbecause Clark is there, steady and unflinching. The gala winds down, champagne flutes emptied, laughter thinning as the night stretches long. You and Clark keep your eyes open, drifting through the crowd like smoke.
Then you spot himâone of Edgeâs men, not Edge himself but someone who lingered too close to him on the balcony. Short conversation, hushed but sharp, then a quick exit through the side doors. You glance at Clark. âFollow him.â He nods once, steady. The streets outside are quieter, the city humming under a velvet sky. You trail the man through backstreets, keeping just far enough behind that he doesnât turn. Clark walks at your shoulder, his frame blending into shadows more easily than you expect.
The man slips into an alley between two shuttered shops. You followâand thatâs when you hear it. The shuffle of feet, the scrape of metal, too many breaths for one man. You stop short. âWeâre not alone.â Shapes emerge from the darkâfour men, broad and heavy, eyes glittering under the streetlamps. They fan out slowly, cutting off the exit. Clark stiffens at your side, but before he can move, you put a hand against his chest. âGet behind me.â
âWhat?â He sounds almost scandalized.
âDo it,â you snap, slipping a heel off your foot. The other follows, and with a quick twist, the steel spike embedded in the sole slides free. A flick of your wrist sends it spinning through the airâembedding itself in the shoulder of the closest thug. He howls, stumbling back.
Clark blinks, wide-eyed. âYour shoesâ?â
âGotham fashion,â you mutter, already pulling another gadget from your satchelâa compact baton that telescopes with a flick. You drop into a fighting stance. âStill standing there, Kent?â
The goons charge. You meet them head-on, baton cracking across one jaw, then slamming into anotherâs ribs. A booted foot swings at your midsectionâyou pivot, slashing with the knife-heel youâd kept in your hand. It bites fabric, then skin.
Behind you, Clark finally moves. One thug lunges with a pipeâClark catches his arm mid-swing. For a moment, it looks almost comical: Clark, wide-eyed, holding the man frozen like he doesnât know his own strength. Thenâwhamâhe drives a single punch into the thugâs chest. The man flies backward, crumpling into a heap against the wall. Clark winces. âSorry!â
The absurdity almost makes you laughâbut youâre busy jamming your baton into the last thugâs gut, twisting it sharply. He groans, drops, and you stand barefoot amid the wreckage, chest heaving, baton dripping with sweat and blood. Clark looks around at the groaning men, his tie crooked, his knuckles reddened from one punch. âYou⌠youâre barefoot.â
You glance down at the ruined heels embedded in the thugs, then back at him. âOccupational hazard.â For a long moment, you just stand there together in the alley, the night humming around you. Four men groaning on the ground. Your chest rising and falling. Clark watching you like he doesnât quite know whether to be impressed or terrified. Finally, you smirk, tucking the baton back into your satchel. âGuess you can throw a punch after all, Kent.â
His lips twitch into the faintest smile. âGuess so.â And though your feet are bare against the cold pavement, with Clark steady beside you, youâve never felt more firmly planted.
The valet stand glows beneath golden lights when you and Clark emerge from the alley, both of you rumpled but steady. Youâre barefoot, clutching your satchel like a lifeline, soot streaked along your arm where one of the thugs grabbed you. Clark, impossibly, still looks almost put togetherâexcept for the tie hanging askew.
The valet spots you from across the driveway and rushes to open your car door. He flashes a polished smileâright until the ignition turns over and the world erupts. The explosion tears through the night, a roar of fire and twisted steel. Heat blasts across your face, glass shatters like gunfire, and the once-pristine Aston Martin blossoms into a fireball, pieces of metal raining down onto the pavement. Guests at the gala scream, scattering back inside, alarms shrieking in the distance.
Clarkâs arm is instantly across your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, shielding you from the spray of debris. For a heartbeat, youâre frozen thereâyour ear pressed against the steady hammer of his heart, your breath caught against the wall of his chest. When the flames settle into a crackling wreck, you push back, jaw clenched. âOf course,â you mutter, brushing ash off your dress. âOf course theyâd torch my car.â
Clark doesnât move his arm right away, still standing close, his eyes fixed on the wreck. âWe should get you out of here,â he says quietly, voice edged with something tighter than usual.
You shake him off gently, though part of you doesnât want to. âNo car. Taxis wonât stop near an active fireball. Your place?â
He hesitates, then nods once. âItâs close enough to walk.â
You both set off down the block, the noise of sirens swelling behind you. The night air is cool against your bare feet, every step jarring against rough pavement. You keep your chin high, refusing to let discomfort slow you, but Clark notices anyway. After a few minutes, he stops. âWhat are youââ
Before you can finish, he bends, unlaces his shoes, and slips them off. Heâs still in his socks when he sets them down in front of you. âHere.â
You stare at him. âClarkâŚâ
âTheyâll fit badly,â he admits, ears going pink. âBut pavementâs worse.â
You glance at the shoes, polished leather, easily at least two sizes too big. âYouâre serious?â
He shrugs, faintly sheepish but unyielding. âYouâll walk easier. Please.â
You sigh, slipping your feet into them. They flop comically with every step, making you look more like a child playing dress-up than the sister of Gothamâs most infamous billionaire. But the relief from broken glass and asphalt is undeniable. Clark falls into step beside you, long strides careful to match yours. âDonât get used to this,â you say dryly, glancing down at the clownish effect.
His mouth curves faintly. âI wonât.â A pause. âBut Iâd do it again.â
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and you cover it with a smirk. âYouâre absurd, Kent. But you know what actually sounds good right now?â
âWhat?â
âA Big Belly Burger.â
Clark blinks at you, as if he didnât expect that. Then he laughsâfull, warm, unguarded. âIn those shoes? In that dress?â
You gesture at his socks. âIn those?â The two of you veer off the main street, following the neon glow of the fast-food chain. The line inside stops dead when you walk inâtwo soot-streaked figures, you barefoot-in-shoes four sizes too big, Clark in his tuxedo shirt and rumpled tie. You ignore the stares, stepping up to the counter with all the authority of a Wayne and ordering two burgers, fries, and a shake.
When you slide into the booth across from Clark, the vinyl squeaking under your gown, heâs already laughing softly again. âThis⌠this isnât exactly how I thought the night would end.â
You take a long sip of the milkshake, deliberately ignoring the way people are still gawking. âWelcome to my world.â
Clark takes a sip of his chocolate shake, still grinning faintly at the absurdity of the two of you sitting there in gala clothes streaked with soot. âYou really donât care what people think, do you?â
You shrug, dipping a fry into your vanilla shake. âWhy should I? Let them stare. Half of them have probably never seen a Wayne eat fast food before.â
He chuckles, shaking his head. âNever thought Iâd see it either.â
The corner of your mouth curves. âDonât get used to it.â
For a moment, you eat in companionable silence. Then, almost absently, you say, âI once brought a stray cat into the manor. Alfred nearly had a heart attack.â
Clark looks up, eyes warm with curiosity. âA cat?â
âScrawny little thing,â you say, smiling faintly at the memory. âGray fur, torn ear, the meanest hiss youâve ever heard. I was maybe ten? I snuck him in through the kitchen and tried to hide him in my room. Alfred caught me when the cat clawed its way into the study and knocked over one of Bruceâs model airplanes.â
Clark laughs quietly, picturing it. âWhat happened?â
âI got scolded, obviously. But then Alfred sat down with this ridiculous look on his face because the cat wouldnât stop staring at him. Next thing I know, heâs feeding it scraps of roast chicken under the table.â You lean back, grinning. âWe found out later the little monster had a sweet tooth. Wouldnât touch regular milk, but strawberry milkshakes? Heâd lap them up until his whiskers were pink.â
Clark laughs outright now, low and warm. âYouâre kidding.â
âI am absolutely not. Bruce hated itâclaimed the cat would âcompromise security.â But Alfred kept sneaking it strawberry shakes until it wandered off one day and never came back.â
Clark shakes his head, still smiling. âI think I like the idea of Alfred, legendary butler, smuggling milkshakes to a stray cat.â
âYou would like him,â you say softly.
His smile gentles, fading into something quieter. He stirs his shake idly with the straw. âI had a dog. Shelby. Big, golden, sweet as anything. I used to sit out on the porch with her after chores and tell her everything I couldnât tell my parents. Sheâd just sit there, tail thumping, like she understood every word.â
You watch him, the way his eyes soften at the memory, the way his voice drops just slightly, rich with fondness. âWhat happened to her?â you ask.
âShe lived a long time,â he says quietly. âSaw me through high school. One winter, she just⌠slowed down. Fell asleep by the fire and didnât wake up.â
Thereâs a lump in your throat you didnât expect. âIâm sorry.â
He shakes his head. âShe was happy. Thatâs all I could ask for.â
The two of you sit there in the glow of neon, soot still streaking your clothes, shoes mismatched under the table, sharing stories about long-gone pets like itâs the most natural thing in the world. For a brief, fragile moment, the weight of Wayne Enterprises, Lex Luthor, and Morgan Edge feels distantâsomething for tomorrow.
Tonight, thereâs just Clark, the warmth in his eyes, and the lingering sweetness of milkshakes on your tongue. By the time you reach Clarkâs building, the city has gone quiet, the chaos of the gala and the explosion reduced to sirens fading into the distance. His apartment sits on the top floor of an older buildingâno grand lobby, no valet, just a narrow staircase and the hum of a neighborâs television spilling through thin walls. He unlocks the door with a sheepish look, holding it open for you. âItâs not⌠much.â
You step inside, and itâs exactly what you expected. Small, tidy, lived-in. A bookshelf lined with dog-eared paperbacks. A couch thatâs seen better days. A desk stacked with notes and clippings. The faint smell of coffee and laundry soap lingers in the air. âItâs very⌠you,â you say softly, turning in the space.
Clark smiles faintly, setting his jacket over the back of a chair. âThatâs one way to put it.â
When you glance at your reflection in the window, soot smudges stare back at you, streaking your gown and arms. âI need a shower before I set this place on fire,â you mutter.
Clark clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. âThereâs only one. Butâyou can go first. Iâll find you something to wear.â
You arch a brow. âSomething of yours?â
His ears pinken, but he nods. âShirt. Sweatpants. Theyâll be⌠big.â
âBetter than walking around in an ash pile,â you concede.
He disappears into his bedroom, returning with folded clothesâgray sweatpants, a soft plaid shirt, and a T-shirt that looks like itâs been washed a hundred times. He holds them out with both hands, like an offering. âThanks,â you say, brushing his fingers as you take them.
The bathroom is small, steam curling quickly once you turn on the water. You peel off the ruined gown, streaked with smoke and dust, and step under the spray. The heat burns away the grit, loosening muscles you didnât realize were tight. For the first time since the explosion, you breathe. When you emerge, hair damp, wrapped in Clarkâs shirt and sweats, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror: bare feet lost in fabric, the plaid hanging loose across your shoulders. Somehow, it feels more like armor than the dress ever did.
Clark glances up from the couch when you step out. His mouth opensâthen closes. His eyes flick away quickly, but not before you catch the flush blooming across his cheeks. âShowerâs free,â you say lightly, settling onto the edge of his couch. He nods, almost too quickly, and disappears down the hall.
You sit back, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, listening to the water run. The apartment feels quiet, warm, safe. And for the first time in a long time, you wonder what it would be like if this were normalâif nights ended not with fire and threats, but with milkshakes and borrowed clothes in a space that feels like home.
The sound of running water drifts faintly from the bathroom down the short hallway. You curl deeper into Clarkâs couch, damp hair clinging to your shoulders, his shirt soft against your skin. For the first time all day, your body feels clean, though exhaustion still hums beneath your skin.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Alfred. You hesitate, then swipe to answer. âYouâve been busy,â he says before you can speak, his tone clipped, but edged with that familiar warmth. âCare to explain why one of the Aston Martins just disappeared from my tracking feed? Its transponder went dark an hour ago.â
You close your eyes briefly. âAbout that.â
âOh, donât tell me.â His sigh is heavy enough to carry across the line. âThe car, Miss, please donât say the car.â
âIt exploded,â you admit flatly.
A pause. Then, dry as bone, âof course it did. I suppose I should be grateful you werenât still inside it.â
âI wasnât. Relax.â
âYou know very well that relaxation is beyond my skill set where youâre concerned.â His voice softens, the bite easing. âAnd what happens when Master Bruce discovers this in the morning?â
Your head tips back against the couch cushion. âHeâll brood. Heâll growl. Heâll say I shouldâve walked away. Same old song, Alfred.â
âThis time the song has teeth,â Alfred replies sharply. âYour brotherâs already out there tonight. When he comes home and learns his sisterâs car has been reduced to ash in Metropolis of all places, I daresay the manorâs walls will quake from his temper.â
A faint smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. âHeâs not my keeper.â
âNo, but he is your brother. And he does care, even when he refuses to admit it.â Alfred pauses. âYouâd best prepare yourself for the storm thatâs coming.â
Your gaze drifts toward the bathroom door, where water still runs steady. Clarkâs voice hums faintly in the background, low and indistinct, as if heâs humming to himself. Something about itâgentle, groundedâsettles your nerves. âIâll handle Bruce,â you say finally. âLike I always do.â
Alfred exhales slowly, as if resigning himself. âVery well. But promise me this: donât mistake allies for shields. Especially ones youâve only just begun to know.â
You bite your tongue, unwilling to give him the reassurance he wants. âGoodnight, Alfred.â
âGoodnight, Miss. Try not to reduce any more property to rubble before sunrise.â The line clicks dead. You set the phone down, running a hand over your face. The apartment smells faintly of steam and soap, a world away from Gothamâs endless tension. You tell yourself Alfredâs right, that Bruceâs fury will be swift and inevitable. But right now, you donât want to think about Gotham. Right now, all you can think about is Clark Kent, and how close his voice is behind that bathroom door.
The bathroom door clicks open, and a wave of steam rolls into the apartment. Clark steps out barefoot, hair damp, dressed down in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants. The sight of him like thisâno tie, no blazer, no armor of mild-mannered reporterâhits harder than you expect. He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. âSorry it took so long. Hot waterâs⌠temperamental.â
You smirk faintly from the couch. âAfter tonight, youâve earned it.â
His gaze flicks over you brieflyâthe sight of you in his shirt, sleeves hanging loose past your wrists, your bare feet tucked under you on the couch. His throat works as he swallows, and he looks away quickly, moving to sit in the chair opposite. For a while, silence settles between you, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside. Clark runs a hand through his damp hair, the movement so unselfconscious it feels like something you werenât meant to see. âYou okay?â he asks finally, voice low.
You shrug, though the weight of Alfredâs words still presses at the back of your mind. âBetter than the car.â
That earns a soft chuckle from him, though his eyes stay serious. âItâs not nothing. Someone wanted you gone tonight.â
âTheyâre going to have to try harder,â you reply evenly.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile but close. âThatâs what Iâm afraid of.â
You study him for a long moment, the way the lamplight warms his features, the steady calm that never seems to waver. You wonderânot for the first timeâwhat it would take to break through that composure, what secrets lie under the surface. Instead, you lean back, tugging at the hem of his shirt. âYou know, your wardrobe isnât half bad. Comfy.â
He raises a brow, faintly amused. âNot quite gala attire, though.â
âPlease,â you scoff. âIf anyone saw us at Big Belly Burger, they know weâre trendsetters.â That draws a real laugh from himâquiet, warm, the kind that lingers in your chest long after it fades. The apartment goes still again, but this time itâs not uncomfortable. The storm outsideâLex, Edge, the explosionâfeels distant here, held at bay by four thin walls and the steady presence of Clark. You donât say it, but part of you already knows: Alfred was right. Bruce will rage when he finds out. But sitting here, wrapped in borrowed clothes and the quiet strength of the man across from you, you donât care. For tonight, this is enough.
---
Morning sunlight seeps weakly through Clarkâs curtains, catching on the cluttered desk and the dog-eared books. The apartment smells faintly of coffeeâbrewed hours earlier, if the potâs warmth is anything to go by.
Youâre half-asleep, face buried in Clarkâs pillow. Last night youâd muttered something about ânot sleeping on the couchâ and somehow ended up here, stretched diagonally across the bed. Clark had taken the edge, back stiff and deliberate, as though he was afraid to move a muscle. The sharp buzz of your phone breaks the silence. You groan into the pillow, flopping an arm blindly toward the nightstand. Clark beats you to it, scooping up the phone with sleep-heavy fingers. âHello?â His voice is low, rough with morning.
A pause. Then a voice sharp enough to slice through glass, âwho is this?â
Clark blinks, suddenly more awake. âUh⌠Clark Kent.â
The pause lengthens. âClark Kent,â the voice repeats, heavy with suspicion. âAnd where is my sister?â
You groan again, rolling onto your back and prying one eye open. âGive me that,â you mutter, snatching the phone from Clarkâs hand. âGood morning, Bruce,â you rasp, still thick with sleep.
âDonât âgood morningâ me,â he snaps. âAlfred informed me your car was destroyed last night, that you ignored direct threats, and nowânow some strange man answers your phone in the morning?â
Clark sits frozen at the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, hands folded like a schoolboy caught in church. You rub your temple. âFirst of all, heâs not strange. Second of all, Iâm fine. Third of all, stop spying through Alfred.â
âI donât need to spy,â Bruce growls. âYouâre in over your head.â
âBruceââ
âYouâre stubborn. You think you can handle this alone. But if someone put a bomb in your car, it means theyâve marked you. And whoever this Clark Kent is, he wonât keep you safe.â
Your eyes flick toward Clark. He looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight, glasses askew from where he mustâve grabbed them half-asleep. The irony almost makes you laugh. âBruce, I can handle myself. And I donât need you swooping in to drag me back to Gotham like a disobedient child.â
âYou need backup,â he says flatly.
âI have backup,â you shoot back, glancing pointedly at Clark.
Thereâs silence on the other end, weighted and disbelieving. Then Bruce exhales sharply. âWeâll talk later.â
The line clicks dead before you can reply. You drop the phone onto the blanket, dragging your hands over your face as you fall backwards back onto the pillow. âHeâs going to kill me.â
Clark clears his throat gently. âSo that was⌠your brother.â
âMm,â you grumble into the pillow. âIn all his brooding glory.â
Clark hesitates, then says softly, âHe doesnât like me.â
That earns a laugh from you, muffled but real. âHe doesnât like anyone. Donât take it personally.â
Clark smiles faintly, though you catch the flicker of something deeper behind it. Then, quietly, he says, âstill. Iâll prove him wrong.â
You pause, lifting your head to look at him. His hairâs still damp from last night, sticking up in uneven tufts, and yet his eyes are steady, unshaken.
The apartment is hushed after Bruceâs call, sunlight spilling through the blinds in uneven stripes. For a while, neither of you speaks. You lie back against Clarkâs pillow, eyes half-closed, listening to the shuffle of him moving around the kitchen. The smell of coffee soon fills the air, rich and grounding. When you drag yourself out of bed, Clarkâs already at the small counter, pouring two mugs. He looks up when you pad in barefoot, sleeves of his plaid shirt still hanging long over your hands. âYou donât have toââ you start.
He smiles faintly. âItâs coffee. I can handle it.â
You slide onto the stool at his counter, wrapping your hands around the warm mug he sets in front of you. The place is cramped, but thereâs something about the way sunlight cuts across the small table, the way Clark moves quietly in his own space, that makes it feel⌠steady. âYouâre domestic,â you say finally, sipping.
He raises a brow. âThat a compliment?â
You smirk over the rim of the mug. âDepends who you ask.â
His mouth curves into that shy half-smile again, but his eyes donât leave yours. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, sipping coffee in silence. The world outside feels far away, muted. No Luthor, no Edge, no Gotham waiting to demand explanations. Just two people in a sunlit kitchen, pretending for a heartbeat that this is normal. Then Clark says softly, âyour brotherâs worried. That much was obvious.â
You grimace. âHeâs always worried. He turns it into anger so he doesnât have to admit it out loud.â
Clark nods slowly, his fingers tapping the side of his mug. âMaybe. But heâs not wrong about one thing.â
You tilt your head, wary. âWhich is?â
âYou are in danger.â His tone is gentle, but it lands heavy. âLast night proved that. Whoeverâs behind thisâtheyâre not bluffing.â
You set the mug down a little too hard. âSo what? I should run back to Gotham with my tail between my legs? Let Bruce lock me in the manor and scowl at me across the dining room table?â
Clarkâs brow furrows. âThatâs not what Iâm saying.â
âThen what are you saying?â
He hesitates, eyes steady on yours. âThat you donât have to face it alone.â
The words hang between you, heavier than anything Bruce said last night. You want to argue, to push back the way you always do when someone tries to share your burdens. But the way Clark looks at youâearnest, unflinchingâmakes it harder. You break eye contact first, muttering, âyouâre infuriating, Kent.â
His smile is small, but it lingers. âSo Iâve heard.â The moment passes, but not completely. You finish your coffee in silence, rinsing your mug in his sink, deliberately ignoring the way he watches you like heâs memorizing every detail. By the time you grab your satchel, Gotham feels closer again, shadows pressing at the edges. The investigation waitsâHalvorsen, Edge, Mercy, Luthor. Bruceâs storm looms on the horizon. But for now, as Clark locks the apartment door and falls into step beside you, you let yourself breathe in the quiet certainty of his presence.
By the time the two of you step out of Clarkâs apartment, the city is already humming with morning traffic. People hurry to work, taxis weave between lanes, vendors open their carts. You tug Clarkâs shirt a little closer around yourself, the hem nearly brushing your thighs. The sweatpants drag along the pavement with every barefooted step into his oversized sneakers. Clark glances at you, lips twitching like heâs holding back a laugh.
âDonât,â you warn, narrowing your eyes.
âI wasnât going to say anything,â he says, though his voice is warm with amusement.
You smirk. âYou were thinking it, though. Just remember, KentâI can weaponize heels. Imagine what I could do with your sneakers.â That earns you a quiet laugh, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the morning bustle.
The hotel lobby feels like stepping back into another world. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, staff in pristine uniforms glancing curiously at the sight of you and Clark walking in together. Your satchel bounces against your hip as you stride toward the elevator, ignoring the stares.
In the mirrored walls of the lift, you finally get a good look at yourself: damp hair, Clarkâs plaid shirt hanging loose, his shoes at least two sizes too large. He looks at you in the reflection too, but quickly drops his gaze to the floor, cheeks faintly pink. âYou donât blend in,â he murmurs.
âNeither do you,â you shoot back, watching his tie-less, clean-shirted figure stand out against the sea of businessmen.
The corner of his mouth curves. âFair point.â
Your suite is exactly as you left it: neat, impersonal, expensive in the way only hotels can be. You toss your satchel onto the desk and dig through the closet for fresh clothes. Clark lingers by the door, his frame too large for the space, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. âIâll wait outsideââ
You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. âYouâre fine. Unless youâre scandalized by the idea of a woman changing clothes.â
His ears turn red immediately. âIâllâuhâIâll just⌠look away.â
You laugh under your breath, pulling a dress from the closet and ducking into the bathroom anyway. A few minutes later, you emerge in clean clothesâyour own this timeâheels clicking against the floor. The transformation is stark: no soot, no borrowed flannel, just sharp lines and effortless poise. Clark looks up, startled. His eyes linger just a second too long before he clears his throat. âBetter,â he says softly.
You smirk. âDonât get too comfortable. I can ruin a dress just as easily as your shoes.â
He chuckles, shaking his head. But as you slip past him to grab your satchel again, you catch the faintest shift in his gazeâlike he hasnât quite decided if seeing you in his clothes or your own unsettles him more. And you donât let yourself admit which of those two options you prefer.
By mid-afternoon, the Daily Planetâs conference room looks like a war room. Papers are spread across the long tableâcontracts, receipts, copies of copiesâscrawled through with Clarkâs careful notes and your sharper red ink. Lois pokes her head in once, curious, but Perry bellows something about deadlines and she disappears again, leaving you and Clark to your own quiet storm. Clark flips through a ledger, brow furrowed, glasses slipping low on his nose. âHereâlook. After Edge, the money shifts again. To Hobbs Imports. Registered under an address in the Narrows.â
You take the page from him, scanning the columns. Hobbs Imports. A shipping company thatâs supposed to deal in construction materials. Except the numbers are bloated, padded with transactions that donât line up. âThe Narrows?â you echo.
Clark nods. âBad neighborhood. Drugs, gangs, extortion rackets. The cops barely touch it. If Hobbs is operating there, itâs a front.â
You lean back in your chair, fingers drumming against the edge of the paper. âSo thatâs where the trail goes next.â
Clark glances up, meeting your eyes. âYouâre not suggestingââ
âIâll check it out tonight,â you cut in smoothly, sliding the papers into your satchel.
His head snaps up. âAlone?â
You arch a brow. âYes.â
For once, Clark actually stammers. âThatâsâno, thatâsâabsolutely not safe. You canât justââ He stops himself, words tangled, frustration clear in the flush rising up his neck.
âClark,â you say evenly, âitâs safer if you stay out of this one. Youâre a reporter. Not a fighter.â
His jaw works, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. âThat didnât stop me last night.â
âYou threw one punch,â you remind him, smirking faintly. âAnd apologized to the man after.â
His ears go pink, but he doesnât back down. âI still helped.â
âYou did,â you admit. âBut Hobbs isnât a gala. Itâs not champagne and marble floors. Itâs alleys and knives. I donât need to worry about you on top of everyone else trying to kill me.â
The words hang heavy in the air. Clarkâs fingers curl against the papers in front of him, knuckles whitening as though heâs holding something back. For a second, you wonder if heâll push harder, if heâll demand to come anyway. But finally, he exhales, steady but reluctant. âFine. But if youâre not back by morningââ
You tilt your head. âYouâll what? Call Bruce?â
His mouth curves, small and humorless. âIâll find you myself.â
The certainty in his voice makes you pause, even as you sling your satchel over your shoulder. His eyes meet yours, unflinching, and for a heartbeat the room feels smaller, closer, charged with something unsaid. You break it with a smirk. âTry not to lose sleep, Kent.â And with that, you leave him at the table, his notebook still open, his jaw tight, his gaze following you until the door swings shut.
---
Night drapes the Narrows in a blanket of shadow and neon rot. Hobbs Imports squats at the edge of a crumbling dockyard, its sign half-lit, its windows black. Shipping crates stack like monoliths around the building, graffiti scrawled across their sides, the smell of salt and rust hanging in the damp air.
You move like smoke, hood up, shadows swallowing you whole. The fabric of your jacket conceals slim compartmentsâgrapnel line coiled at your hip, collapsible baton tucked against your thigh, a small EMP charge nestled in a pocket. Not Bruceâs level of arsenal, but Alfred had made sure you werenât walking into fights with nothing but sharp words and sharper heels. The chain-link fence around Hobbs Imports is rusted, padlock brittle. A thin device from your pocket hums once, and the lock pops open. You slip inside, every footstep deliberate, quiet, measured.
Inside the warehouse, the air is colder. Empty crates line the walls, but the center floor isnât empty. Stacks of ledgers sit atop a folding table, papers scattered, the faint smell of ink sharp even in the dark. You tug your hood lower and cross to the desk. The papers tell the story clearlyâfunds rerouted from Silverbrook through Hobbs, then washed again through âWest Point Traders.â Another shell. Another mask. Another layer feeding upward into LexCorpâs Energy Division.
You snap quick photos with the slim camera hidden in your cuff, tucking the device away before slipping the top ledger into your satchel. A sound pricks your earsâfootsteps. Not heavy enough for a patrol. Not hurried enough to be panicked. Steady, careful. You freeze in the shadow of a crate, baton sliding soundlessly into your hand. The footsteps pause, then shift, moving closer. And then a whisper. âYou really werenât going to let me stay behind, were you?â Your jaw tightens. Clark. He emerges from the dark, tie long gone, jacket discarded, the outline of his glasses faint in the warehouse gloom. He looks⌠out of place here, but not uncertain. His eyes find yours under the hood, steady even as his voice drops to a murmur. âThis isnât safe.â
You step out of the shadows, scowl sharp. âI told youâthis isnât your fight.â
âI know,â he says, quietly but firmly. âBut youâre here anyway. And if something happensâŚâ He hesitates, words catching before he steadies them. âIf something happens, I need to be here.â
For a heartbeat, you canât look at him. Anger flaresâat his stubbornness, at his recklessnessâbut underneath it, something you donât want to name hums in your chest. âYouâre impossible,â you mutter.
A faint smile curves his mouth. âSo you've said.â
Before you can retort, the sound of heavy boots echoes from the far end of the warehouse. Flashlights slice through the dark, voices barking orders. The ledgers on the desk werenât abandonedâthey were bait. You slip back against the crates, Clark close beside you. Four men stalk into the warehouse, weapons glinting faintly under the beams of light. They fan out, boots clanging against the metal floor. Clark leans down, whispering, âwhatâs the plan?â
You draw your baton with a soft click, hood still shadowing your face. âYou stay behind me.â
He opens his mouthâthen shuts it, sighing through his nose. âFine. But Iâm not apologizing if I hit someone this time.â Despite yourself, a smirk tugs at your lips.
The first thugâs flashlight cuts across your hood, and the shout comes instantly, âthere! By the crates!â
You move before the beam steadies. The collapsible baton snaps out with a metallic crack as you swing low, knocking the manâs legs from under him. He crashes into a stack of pallets, light skittering across the floor. Another one charges, pipe raised. You flick your wrist, and a small diskâan EMP charge the size of a coinâsnaps from your palm and clings to the metal. It sparks once, discharging, and the pipe sears hot. The thug yelps, dropping it with a curse.
Clark, beside you, stiffens when the man lunges barehanded. With a soft, almost apologetic grunt, Clark steps in and delivers a single, straight punch. Wham. The guy goes airborne, crashing into a crate hard enough to rattle its bolts. Clark blinks at his own hand, then mutters under his breath, â...golly.â
âGolly?â you hiss, ducking under a swing from the third man.
âIt slipped out!â he says defensively, catching another thugâs arm and tossing himâjust a little too farâinto the side wall. The impact echoes like a thunderclap.
You slam your baton into your attackerâs ribs, then sweep his legs. He groans, sprawling across the cold concrete. Two men still stand. They hesitate now, watching Clark adjust his glasses calmly, as though he hasnât just sent two of their friends flying. You flick another gadget from your beltâa smoke capsule. It bursts at your feet, curling white haze through the warehouse. Shadows leap and twist. The two thugs panic, swinging blindly. You move through the fog like a blade, baton snapping against jaw and shoulder until they crumble.
When the haze clears, six men are groaning on the floor. The warehouse is littered with broken flashlights and dented crates. You stand barefoot on the concrete, chest heaving, baton dripping sweat. Clark straightens his glasses, cheeks pink. âI, uh⌠mightâve hit them harder than I meant to.â
You plant your hands on your hips, smirking despite the adrenaline still humming in your veins. âI noticed.â
He glances at the wreckage, then back at you, voice low. âYou okay?â
You nod, tugging your hood back. âBetter than they are.â
Clark exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. âWell⌠that wasnât subtle.â
âNo,â you admit, sliding the baton back into your belt. âBut it was effective.â
His mouth twitches into the faintest smile, though his eyes stay serious. âYou know this means theyâll escalate.â
âThey already blew up my car,â you remind him dryly. âNot sure thereâs much left to escalate to.â
Clarkâs jaw tightens, but he doesnât argue. Instead, he steps closer, lowering his voice until itâs only for you. âThen we make sure you stay ahead of them.â
You wipe the sweat from your brow, the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and stride back to the desk where the ledgers sit. Clark follows, silent, though his presence looms steady and close at your back. You flip through the pages with brisk, practiced hands. The trail runs clearâHalvorsen to Edge, Edge to Hobbs, Hobbs Imports into yet another pipeline. But this time, the signature at the bottom of half the transactions stops you cold. âBruno Mannheim,â you murmur.
Clark leans closer, brow furrowing behind his glasses. âIntergang.â
You glance up sharply. âYou know them.â
âEveryone in Metropolis knows them,â he replies, voice low but even. âMannheimâs been a ghost for years, but his people⌠they run the Narrows. Weapons, drugs, extortion. They have their hands in every dark corner of the city.â
You tap the page, lips pressed tight. âWhich means the men we fought tonight werenât just hired thugs. They were Mannheimâs.â
Clark exhales slowly, the weight of it heavy in the dim air. âThat puts this on a whole different level.â
The name feels heavy in your chest, a chain tightening. Edge is dangerous. Luthor is worse. But Mannheim is chaos in human formâunpredictable, vicious, with an army behind him. âHalvorsen to Edge. Edge to Hobbs. Hobbs to Mannheim,â you mutter, stringing it together. âAnd from there, straight to LexCorpâs Energy Division. Every step dirtier than the last.â
Clark studies you, steady, thoughtful. âYouâre not walking away from this, are you?â
You meet his eyes. âWould you?â
His jaw tightens, but he doesnât answer. Instead, his gaze drops back to the ledger, tracing the name with quiet intensity. âMannheim doesnât show up unless he wants to be seen,â Clark says softly. âIf his name is here, itâs because he doesnât care who finds it. That means heâs planning something bigger.â
You close the ledger with a sharp snap, tucking it into your satchel. âThen we find out what. Before he makes his move.â
Clarkâs eyes linger on you for a long moment, something unspoken flickering behind them. Then he nods, quiet and firm. âTogether.â The word lands heavier than you expect. You let it settle in the silence of the warehouse, the thugs groaning faintly on the floor. And though you wonât say it out loud, the thought curls tight in your chest: Bruno Mannheim may have an army, but youâve got something heâll never see coming. Clark Kent.
---
The Daily Planet newsroom is alive when you arrive: the phones are already ringing, Lois is barking at someone over a deadline, and Perry White is storming across the bullpen with a cup of coffee like it personally wronged him. You weave through the chaos, satchel heavy on your shoulder, and slide into the small conference room where Clark is waiting. Heâs already there, of courseâtie straight, glasses perched carefully, notebook open with neat lines of writing. He looks up when you enter, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. âMorning,â he says gently.
âBarely,â you mutter, tossing the ledger you pulled from Hobbs onto the table. âI hope you had more coffee than I did.â
His lips twitch, amused, but he gestures at the steaming paper cup waiting at your seat. âFigured you might need it.â
You raise a brow, but take it anyway, sipping gratefully before flipping open the ledger. âSo. Mannheim.â
Clark leans forward, elbows resting on the table. âHalf the cityâs been whispering about him for months. Drugs, weapons, racketsâyou name it. But if heâs tied to Edge and funneling to Lex, then this isnât just crime. Itâs infrastructure. Mannheimâs making himself the pipeline.â
You tap your pen against the page, mind sharp. âWhich means if we cut him off, the whole system stumbles.â
Clark nods slowly, his brow furrowed. âBut Mannheim wonât go quietly. Heâll fight to keep his grip. And if last night was any indication, he already sees you as a threat.â
You smirk faintly. âGood. That means Iâm doing something right.â
His gaze lingers on you, steady and unblinking, and for a moment the weight in his eyes makes your chest tighten. âOr it means you need to be careful.â
âCareful doesnât get results,â you say evenly.
He exhales, quiet but firm. âNeither does reckless.â
The tension hums between you, sharp but not hostile. You break it by flipping another page, tracing the columns of signatures. âHeâs sloppy here,â you murmur. âToo many names, too many shells. If I follow thisââ
âWe,â Clark corrects softly. You glance up. âWe follow it,â he says again, voice steady. Something in his toneâquiet, unyieldingâmakes you pause. For once, you donât argue.
The door swings open suddenly. Lois pokes her head in, sharp-eyed and curious. âYou two playing detectives again? Perryâs gonna blow a vein if you keep hogging the conference room.â
âWeâre working,â Clark says smoothly, his mild tone hiding the iron in his spine.
Loisâs gaze flicks between you, narrowing slightly. âUh-huh. Just donât forget who the real investigative team around here is.â She points to herself, then disappears back into the noise.
Clark chuckles softly under his breath. You shake your head, hiding a smile behind your coffee. By the time the morning rush slows, youâve sketched out the next link in the chain: Mannheimâs logistics. A shell trucking company tied to Hobbs, operating out of the docks. Itâs dirty, dangerous, and screaming for a closer look. Clark looks at the map youâve drawn, then back at you. âYouâre already planning to go there tonight, arenât you?â
You shrug, nonchalant. âMaybe.â
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. âOf course you are.â And though he doesnât say it outright, you know: heâll be there too.
---
The air at the docks is thick with salt, oil, and rust. The water slaps against pylons in uneven rhythms, chains creak in the wind, and shadows spill long across the cracked pavement. Hobbs Importsâ trucks are lined up in rows, their engines cold, but faint lights flicker inside the warehouse. You adjust your hood, scanning the perimeter. âToo quiet.â
Clark stands beside you, his tie long gone again, glasses fogged slightly from the damp. âThatâs supposed to be good, isnât it?â
You smirk faintly. âNot when youâre walking into Mannheimâs backyard.â
You slip inside first, Clark close on your heels. The warehouse is cavernous, rows of shipping containers stacked to the rafters. At first glance, it looks like any other smuggling operationâbut then you spot them. Weapons. Not rifles, not pistols. Sleek, angular guns with glowing coils, crates stamped with foreign markings. Energy weapons. âLasers,â Clark murmurs, eyes wide.
âNot the kind you buy off the street,â you reply tightly, crouching to pry open a crate. Inside, rows of compact handheld blasters gleam under the faint light. Military-grade. Black-market tech. Far beyond what local gangs should be carrying.
Clark swallows, adjusting his glasses. âIntergangâs upgrading.â
Before you can answer, the warehouse lights blaze on all at once. A dozen thugs step out from between the crates, weapons raised. Their leader smirks from the catwalk above. âCute of you to show up. Mannheim said youâd sniff your way here sooner or later.â
You grit your teeth, baton snapping out in your hand. âFigures.â
The first volley of energy blasts shrieks through the air, slamming into steel. Sparks rain down, the walls rattling with heat. You dive behind a crate, Clark stumbling after you, the air crackling with sizzling beams. âWeâre pinned,â he hisses.
âNo kidding,â you snap, tossing a smoke capsule. The fog billows, masking the next wave of fireâbut before you can move, the floor beneath you shifts. A hiss, a groan of metalâand then the section of warehouse youâre on shudders downward. Panels snap shut above, walls rising around you, forming a box. âTrap,â you breathe, springing up just as the last panel seals overhead. The thugsâ laughter echoes faintly from outside the steel walls.
The room is small, barely larger than an elevator. The air feels wrong already, heavy and thin, and vents rattle faintly overhead. You press a hand against the wallâitâs reinforced. Clark runs a hand over the seams, eyes narrowing. âTheyâre drawing the air out.â
Your chest tightens at the realization. Not spikes, not fire. Suffocation. You whip out a device from your belt, a compact charge, and slap it against the wall. It sparks once, fizzles out, and dies. Reinforced, too thick. âThey planned this,â you mutter, pacing the perimeter. âNo weapons, no gadgets. Just⌠wait for us to choke.â Clarkâs face is grim, his breath steady despite the thinning air. He looks at you, and for a heartbeat his expression softensâlike heâs on the edge of a choice he doesnât want to make. You glare, refusing the creeping panic. âDonât look at me like that. Weâre not done yet.â But even as you say it, the vents hiss louder, the air sharper in your lungs, and the walls feel like theyâre closing in.
The hiss of air being siphoned out of the trap grows sharper, each breath thinner than the last. You press your palm against the wall, trying to find a seam, some weakness you could exploit. Your mind racesâgrapnel too short, charges too weak, EMP fried on contact. Youâre a Wayne. Thereâs always a solution. But for the first time, the calculations spiral into dead ends. âThink,â you mutter under your breath, pacing the small enclosure. âThere has to beââ
âStop.â Clarkâs voice cuts through the panic. Heâs calmâtoo calm. His eyes fix on you with something heavier than resolve. âThere isnât another way.â
You whip around, glare sharp even through the haze. âDonât you dareââ
But he doesnât let you finish. His arms are around you in a sudden, startling sweep, and before you can protest, the ground disappears. The air rushes in your ears, steel walls giving way to open sky. The trap shrinks behind you, swallowed by the warehouse roof as you soar upwardâweightless, breathless, the city sprawling in lights beneath your feet. You clutch instinctively at his shoulders, the wind whipping your hood back.
And thenâjust as suddenlyâhe descends. His boots hit pavement outside the warehouse with barely a sound, the impact absorbed like itâs nothing. He lowers you carefully, steadying you until your feet touch solid ground again. Your pulse thrums in your throat, lungs dragging in sweet, clean air. You stumble back a step, staring at him.
But itâs not Clark standing there. Itâs Superman. The glasses are gone. The tie, the shirtâgone. In their place: a suit of deep blue, the red crest blazing against his chest, cape catching the wind like fire. The same man, but impossibly more. You blink at him, breathless. âHowâhow the hell did youââ You gesture wildly at the air, the cape, all of him. âYou picked me up, you flew us out, and you changed clothes in the middle of it? How is that evenââ
He winces, sheepish, the corners of his mouth tugging in a nervous half-smile. âItâs⌠complicated.â
You stare at him, heart hammering, every line of his frame radiating something you canât quite put into words. You want to demand answers, to yell, to shake him. Instead, you hear yourself whisper, almost dazed, âClark?â
And the way he looks at youâgentle, unshaken, utterly himself beneath all that impossible powerâtells you everything before he even nods. The realization still hangs heavy in your chestâClark Kent, the quiet, steady reporter at your side, is Superman. But thereâs no time to untangle it. Because when your eyes snap back to the warehouse, you see the shadows moving. The trap was only the opening act.
Figures pour out from between the stacked containersâMannheimâs men, a dozen or more, and every one of them armed. Not handguns, not knives, but sleek rifles glowing at the seams with humming energy coils. Upgraded tech, smuggled in through Hobbs. They spread across the dock, forming a semicircle around you and Clark. The leader steps forwardâtall, scarred, a grin like a predator. âWell, well,â he drawls. âThe Wayne brat. And a⌠friend. Mannheim figured you wouldnât take the hint. Guess weâll send the message louder.â He raises his hand. The rifles charge, light building in their cores.
Clarkâs body tenses beside you. For the first time since the reveal, you see him as both parts at onceâthe farmboy with too-big shoes and the impossible figure standing in the cape. He shifts forward, just slightly, instinctively putting himself between you and the weapons. Your own hand darts into your belt pouch. Smoke pellets. Flashbangs. Grapnel line. Alfred would kill you for blowing through so many in a week, but Bruce would approve. âDonât just stand there,â you mutter, flicking a pellet to the ground. Smoke blooms across the dock, curling thick in the damp air.
The thugs fire anywayâbeams shrieking through the fog, scorching holes through metal. You dive low, baton snapping out, and strike the closest man across the wrist. His weapon clatters away. Another swings his rifle like a clubâyou duck under it and drive your knee into his gut, sending him sprawling. Behind you, a whump echoesâClark catching a blast square in the chest and barely flinching. The thug gawks, frozen, right before Clark gently, almost too gently, taps him across the jaw and drops him cold. âGolly,â he mutters again, shaking his head.
âStop saying that!â you hiss, slamming your baton into another manâs knee.
The dock becomes chaosâenergy beams slicing through the smoke, crates exploding into splinters, men shouting in panic as their weapons misfire. You move with precision, every strike calculated, every gadget deployed at just the right moment. And Clarkâno, Supermanâmoves differently. Not flashy, not reckless, but efficient. A blur of motion here, a blurred fist there, weapons twisted in half, men disarmed with the ease of swatting flies. He doesnât look like heâs fighting so much as containing the fight, careful not to break the men in half when he could.
By the time the smoke clears, the dock is a ruin. Thugs groan on the concrete, weapons sparking uselessly. The leader is pinned to a container wall by Clarkâs hand, feet kicking a few inches off the ground. Clarkâs voice is calm, even. âTell Mannheim this doesnât scare her off.â He pauses, eyes narrowing. âAnd tell him Iâm watching.â The man sputters, terror washing over his earlier bravado. Clark lowers him gentlyâdeliberatelyâand he collapses, scrambling away before limping into the shadows.
The dock is silent again. You stand there, chest heaving, baton still in hand. Smoke drifts in thin curls around you. Clark turns to you, cape brushing against the wind, eyes steady andâGod help youâstill gentle. You lower your baton slowly. âI donât know what to say.â
He hesitates, looking almost⌠nervous. âThen donât. Not yet.â
For a long moment, you just stare at each other, the wreckage of Mannheimâs men around you. Your world has shifted on its axis, and yet somehow, Clark still feels like the anchor at the center of it. And youâre not sure if that steadies youâor terrifies you more. You sling your baton back onto your belt and exhale hard, pulling the last ledger from your satchel. The adrenaline in your veins hasnât burned off yet, but your mind pushes forwardâthereâs still a trail to follow.
Clark kneels by one of the smashed crates, lifting the charred remains of a weapon. âThese arenât homemade. Mannheim didnât build this kind of tech.â
You flip through the ledger pages, scanning the faded ink under the glow of Clarkâs eyesâhe seems to emit a kind of light just by being near. The transactions string out like barbed wire, looping through shell after shell, until finally one name stands out: Graves Incorporated. âMercy Graves,â you say aloud, tapping the signature at the bottom of a shipping manifest. âLex Luthorâs right hand.â
Clark looks up sharply. âYouâre sure?â
âPositive. This isnât Mannheimâs endgame. Heâs the middleman, just like Edge. The money and weapons flow through him, but theyâre funneled upward.â You close the ledger with a snap. âAnd that funnel leads straight to LexCorp.â
Clarkâs jaw tightens. âLuthor likes to keep his hands clean. If Mercyâs name is here, heâs making sure the paper trail points everywhere but him.â
âWhich means weâre close,â you say, eyes narrowing. âToo close.â
Clark rises, cape brushing the ground, the weight of him filling the space in a way Clark Kent never could. Yet his voice is the sameâgentle, steady. âClose enough that Luthor will notice. And he wonât take it lightly.â
You shove the ledger into your satchel, the wordless understanding sinking between you. Mannheimâs men had weapons far beyond street-grade. Someone supplied them. Someone paid for them. And only one man in Metropolis has the ego, the money, and the reach to orchestrate something this vast: Lex Luthor. Clark steps closer, his shadow folding over yours. âWe should leave before Mannheim sends reinforcements.â
You meet his gaze, forcing steel into your voice. âWeâll follow the trail in the morning. Graves first. Then Lex.â He hesitates, eyes softening like he wants to argue. But instead, he just nods. And as you both walk away from the smoking ruin of the docks, satchel heavy on your shoulder, one truth settles deep in your bones: youâve just crossed the line between investigating Luthor and declaring war.
The walk from the docks is quiet, both of you wrapped in the aftermath of what just happened. The night air smells of smoke and brine, heavy with the hum of the city. You keep glancing sideways at himâat Superman, cape trailing behind him, shoulders broad against the skyline. And yet, every time you catch his profile, you see Clark. The glasses may be gone, the tie and shirt traded for something impossible, but the man is the same.
Finally, you stop walking. He slows, turning back to you, the cape brushing lightly in the wind. Thereâs tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesnât quite know what to do with them. âAre you mad?â he asks softly.
The words hang there, simple but heavy. You almost laughâafter everything tonight, thatâs what heâs worried about? You take a step closer, tugging your hood down so he can see your face. âI should be. God, I should be furious. I should be cursing you out, calling you an idiot for keeping this from me.â His throat works as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. âButâŚâ you continue, voice softening. âThat would make me a hypocrite. Wouldnât it? Youâve been hiding who you are. Iâve been doing the same. Youâre not the only one with masks.â
For a heartbeat, neither of you speak. The city hums around you, a thousand lives unfolding in windows and streets, but the world feels narrowed down to just the two of you. Clark exhales slowly, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. âI didnât want you to think I was⌠lying. Not really. I just⌠I wanted you to know me as me. Not as him.â He gestures vaguely to the crest on his chest, almost sheepish. âI wanted to earn that on my own.â
You study him, searching his face, and find nothing but raw sincerity there. No games, no angles. Just Clark, the man who buys you coffee and apologizes when he throws a punch too hard. âYou did,â you say finally. âYou already did.â His eyes flicker, like he hadnât expected that answer. Then he smilesâsmall, warm, almost shy, the way he always does. Itâs Clarkâs smile, not Supermanâs. And standing there in the glow of the city lights, you realize the lines between the two arenât as sharp as you thought. He isnât two people. Heâs one. And you trust him.
---
The two of you end up back in the Planetâs conference room, the table once again covered in papers, ledgers, and your sharp red notes. Morning bleeds into afternoon as you and Clark map the threads one more time, following each dollar, each signature, until the picture is undeniable. Halvorsen. Edge. Mannheim. Mercy. And finally, Lex. You lean back in your chair, stretching your sore shoulders. âIt all starts with Halvorsen. Heâs the keystone. Fire him, and the bridge collapses.â
Clark nods, jotting it down in his neat, looping hand. âWayne Enterprises cuts him loose. That sends the message that the money trail isnât buried anymore.â He taps his pen against the page. âIâll write the article. Public, clear, every name along the chain spelled out. Edge, Mannheim, Halvorsen. People need to see the scope.â
You smirk faintly. âYouâre going to expose Lex Luthor in print? Brave.â
His eyes meet yours, steady. âTruth has teeth. Thatâs the only weapon Iâve got.â
âAnd itâs a good one,â you admit, pulling your phone out. âIâll call the board, get Halvorsenâs dismissal pushed through. By the time your article runs, heâll already be out on his ass.â
Thereâs a long pause as you both stare at the mess of papersâthe wreckage of a conspiracy stretching from Gotham to Metropolis. Then Clark says softly, âand Mercy?â
You exhale, grim. âThatâs trickier. Sheâs Luthorâs blade. She doesnât flinch. If Mannheimâs thugs had energy rifles, she put them in their hands.â
Clark frowns. âWe canât handle her the way we handled Mannheimâs men.â
âNo,â you agree, lips tightening. âBut the authorities can. Once your article lands, the feds will have no choice but to open an investigation. And when they doâŚâ You let the words trail off, imagining the image: Mercy Graves standing in a pristine corporate lobby, FBI swarming around her, cool gaze finally cracking.
Clark leans back in his chair, arms crossed. âYouâll be there.â
âOf course,â you say evenly. âWayne money funded those subsidiaries. If the feds are raiding her, Iâll be standing right there when they put the cuffs on.â
He studies you for a long moment, something unspoken passing through his eyes. Finally, his mouth curves into the faintest smile. âThen Iâll be standing there too.â For a while, the room is quiet. You sip cold coffee, he scratches another note into his notebook. The plan is sharp in its simplicity: sever Halvorsen, expose the network, let the government drag Mercy into the light. But beneath it all hums a darker truthâthat Luthor himself will still be sitting behind his desk, untouchable, watching.
---
The Wayne Enterprises tower in Metropolis gleams under the midday sun, its glass walls polished, its lobby bustling with employees who glance nervously toward the boardroom on the mezzanine floor. You stand at the window above it all, phone pressed to your ear, watching as Richard Halvorsenâsweating, red-facedâargues with security. His tie is loosened, his hands flailing in protest, but the two guards are unmoved. They flank him like statues as they march him toward the revolving doors. âTell me Iâm not mistaken,â Alfredâs dry voice murmurs in your ear, a grounding constant against the noise of the lobby.
âYouâre not,â you reply smoothly, eyes tracking Halvorsen as he stumbles over his own briefcase. âOur esteemed liaison is being escorted out as we speak.â
Below, Halvorsen twists mid-stride, pointing upward as though he knows youâre watching. His voice doesnât carry through the glass, but the venom in his expression is clear. You donât flinch. Alfred exhales softly on the other end. âYour father always saidâmoney leaves a trail, but arrogance leaves footprints. I suppose Halvorsen couldnât resist stomping around in both.â
You smirk faintly, lips curling at the edges. âArrogance got him caught. Arrogance just cost him his career.â
Outside, Halvorsen is shoved through the glass doors into the street. A few onlookers gather, whispering, but he only straightens his suit jacket and storms off into the crowd like a man unwilling to admit his fall. âMaster Bruce is still pacing,â Alfred continues, voice softer now. âHeâs half-convinced youâll be next in the papers if you keep dancing with men like Mannheim.â
âBruce always thinks Iâll fall,â you murmur, gaze lingering on the revolving doors as they settle back into place. âBut I donât. Not yet.â
âNot ever, if I can help it,â Alfred replies. âJust promise me one thing, Miss. If you insist on shouldering this crusadeâdonât carry it alone.â
Your mind flickersâClark in the cape, the ledger in his hands, his steady voice promising, together. You clear your throat softly. âIâll try, Alfred,â you say.
âYouâll do more than try,â he corrects, but his tone is gentler. âNow, go on. Let the papers have their story.â The line clicks dead. You tuck the phone into your satchel, exhaling slowly as the last trace of Halvorsen vanishes into the city. The keystone is gone. The bridge is collapsing. And Lex Luthorâwherever he isâknows it. And for the first time, you feel the weight of the storm shifting in your direction.
---
The Daily Planet is quieter in the evening. The newsroom hum is reduced to a handful of clacking keyboards and the occasional ring of a phone. The harsh fluorescent lights seem softer, shadows long across desks littered with papers and empty coffee cups. Clark is still at his, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened at his throat, glasses slipping low on his nose as he types steadily. His expression is focused, brow furrowed in concentration, but thereâs something unassuming about itâlike he doesnât realize how he looks framed in the warm lamplight of his desk.
You lean against the edge of the doorway for a moment, watching him, before stepping forward. âYou ever stop working, Kent?â
His head jerks up, startled, eyes widening slightly when he sees you. Then his mouth curves into that soft, shy smile that always sneaks past your defenses. âGuess not,â he says lightly. âAt least not until Perry kicks me out.â
You drop into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, eyes on him. âGood thing Iâm here to do it first.â
He blinks. âYou are?â
You smirk. âTomorrow night, Iâm taking you out. A real dinner this time. Not greasy burgers at midnight.â
Color creeps up his neck almost instantly, the pen in his hand stuttering against the notebook. âOh. Uhâdinner. With you.â He clears his throat. âThat⌠sounds nice.â
âRelax,â you tease, leaning forward. âYou donât have to sound so shocked. I do eat food other than fries, you know.â
His laugh is soft, awkward, but genuine. âNo, Iâitâs not that. I just⌠wasnât expectingâŚâ He trails off, words tangling hopelessly.
You reach across the desk, fingers brushing against his loosened tie. His breath hitches as you straighten it with deliberate precision, tugging the knot snug against his collar. Your voice drops, low and even. âItâll be somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting a tie on properly.â
He swallows hard, eyes fixed on you like heâs afraid to blink. âRight. A tie. Got it.â
You let the fabric slip from your fingers, satisfied, then lean back in your chair. âIâll pick you up here after work tomorrow. Donât make me drag you out of the building.â
His smile turns sheepish, almost boyish. âI wouldnât dare.â
For a moment, the silence stretches between you, charged but not uncomfortable. The newsroom feels smaller, the world outside distant. Just him, you, and the faint hum of a lamp over his desk. Then you push to your feet, grabbing your satchel. âDonât stay up too late, Kent. Youâll want to look sharp.â
His gaze follows you to the doorway, lingering, warm. âIâll try.â
You flash him a faint smile over your shoulder. âGood.â And when you leave the Planet that night, youâre already looking forward to tomorrow.
---
The newsroom is its usual madhouseâphones ringing, Perry White bellowing at some poor intern, Lois tossing papers onto desks with the precision of a grenade. In the middle of it all sits Clark, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen of his monitor as if it might offer him answers. He tugs at his tie, loosens it, retightens it, loosens it again. Then he frowns, adjusts his glasses, and sighs audibly.
Jimmy, sliding into the seat across from him with a camera bag slung over his shoulder, notices immediately. âOkay, whatâs up with you, big guy? You look like youâre about to testify in front of Congress.â
Clark shakes his head quickly, lowering his voice. âItâs nothing. Just⌠dinner.â
Jimmy perks up, grin spreading wide. âDinner? Like, dinner-dinner? With a girl?â
Clark gives him a look over his glasses. âYes, Jimmy. With a woman.â
âWhoa.â Jimmy leans back, hands raised. âDidnât know Boy Scout Kent was capable of asking someone out.â
âI didnât,â Clark mutters, flustered. âShe asked me.â
Jimmyâs grin nearly splits his face. âEven better. Okay, you came to the right guy. Jimmy Olsen knows dates. Trust me.â
Clark looks instantly doubtful. âDo I?â
Jimmy waves him off. âFirst ruleâyou gotta show confidence. Women can smell nerves like sharks smell blood.â
Clark frowns. âIâm not⌠nervous.â Jimmy just stares at him until Clark sighs and admits, âokay. Maybe a little.â
âRight. So,â Jimmy says, ticking points off on his fingers, âlose the glasses.â
Clark stiffens. âWhat? No, I canâtââ
âTrust me. Women love eye contact. Full, unfiltered, soul-to-soul.â Jimmy leans across the desk and dramatically removes Clarkâs glasses, holding them aloft like heâs discovered buried treasure. âBoom. Instant smolder.â
Clark takes his glasses back immediately. âThatâs terrible advice, Jimmy.â
âFine, fine,â Jimmy says, undeterred. âNext ruleâdonât talk about work. Journalists are boring. You start rambling about ledgers or corruption scandals, her eyes glaze over. You gotta go personal. Deep personal. Like childhood trauma. Or embarrassing nicknames.â
Clark stares at him, horrified. âThatâs⌠thatâs not first-date conversation.â
Jimmy shrugs. âWorked for me last week.â
âYou donât even have a girlfriend.â
Jimmy grins sheepishly. âNot currently, but thatâs just because Iâm keeping my options open.â
Clark sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face. âJimmy, I donât think any of this is helping.â
Jimmy smirks. âHey, at least wear cologne. Like⌠a lot of cologne. Enough that she knows you walked in the room before you even sit down.â
Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. âYouâre going to get me killed.â
Jimmy leans back, utterly unbothered. âOr youâre going to get kissed. Either way, youâre welcome.â
From her desk, Lois glances over, one eyebrow raised. âFor the love of God, Kansas, donât listen to him.â
Clark exhales, relieved. âThank you.â
Lois points her pen like a dagger. âJust be yourself. Thatâs the only advice that isnât complete garbage.â
Jimmy looks wounded. âMy advice is great.â
âYour advice is why youâve been ghosted three times this month,â Lois snaps. Clark canât help itâhe laughs, the sound easing some of the nerves twisting in his chest. He adjusts his tie one more time, ignoring Jimmyâs theatrical sigh. Tonight, heâll find out whether âbeing himselfâ is enough.
The sun has barely dipped behind the skyline when you pull up outside the Daily Planet in a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte. The car hums low and sharp, polished to a mirror shine, its presence turning heads even before you step out. A far cry from the Aston Martin that burned to ash, but still distinctly Wayne. Inside the lobby, the security guard nearly trips over his words greeting you, but you donât break stride. Heels click against the marble floor, your dress a clean silhouette of confidence, satchel slung effortlessly over one shoulder.
The newsroom upstairs is still buzzingâphones ringing, Lois arguing with Perry, Jimmy tryingâand failingâto juggle two cameras at once. But all the noise dulls when you spot Clark. Heâs standing by his desk, tie neat, suit pressed, hair combed carefully into place. He looks almost painfully self-conscious, adjusting his cuffs as though he doesnât quite know what to do with himself. When he sees you, his breath catchesâjust slightlyâand he pushes his glasses up his nose with a nervous hand. âYou clean up well, Kent,â you say, leaning casually against his desk.
He flushes immediately, tugging at his tie. âYou⌠look⌠uhââ He clears his throat. âIncredible.â
You smirk, stepping closer. âThatâs more like it.â
Jimmy pops up from behind his chair, grinning wide. âHot date, Kent?â
Clark fumbles, âItâs notâwell, I meanâitâs justââ
You cut him off smoothly, looping a finger under Clarkâs perfectly straightened tie and tugging it just enough to make him stumble closer. âDinner. Somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting this to good use.â
Clarkâs ears burn red. âRight. Dinner.â
Lois glances up from her desk, eyes sharp, amused. âTry not to faint, Kansas.â
Clark shoots her a mortified glance, but you just grin, tugging him toward the elevator. âIgnore her. Come on. Weâve got reservations.â
As the two of you walk through the lobby and out onto the street, Clark slows when he sees the Maserati waiting at the curb. His jaw slackens just slightly. âThis is yours?â
You nod. âFor now. The Astonâs gone, remember?â
He runs a hand along the glossy paint, looking both impressed and bewildered. âI⌠usually just take the bus.â
You arch a brow, sliding into the driverâs seat. âI know. But tonight, youâre riding with me. Get in, Kent.â Clark hesitates only a second before obeying, moving awkwardly in the tailored suit, ducking into the car with all the grace of someone who doesnât think they belong in leather seats that expensive. You watch him settle in, flustered, hands folded neatly in his lap like heâs afraid to touch anything. It makes you smirk, heat curling low in your chest. âRelax,â you murmur, starting the engine. âItâs just dinner.â But both of you know itâs more than that.
The Maserati slips into Metropolis traffic with a low growl, the city lights glittering across the windshield. You ease the car into the avenueâs flow with the kind of confidence that comes from practice, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easily on the gearshift. Beside you, Clark sits rigid in his seat, shoulders squared, hands clasped in his lap. His tie is perfect, his suit immaculateâbut the expression on his face is priceless. Wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and sheer discomfort. You glance over, smirking. âRelax, Clark. Youâve been in one of my cars before.â
His head tilts, eyes still on the blur of neon streaking past the windows. âThat was different.â
âDifferent how?â
Clark hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. âThe Aston felt like⌠well, like it was yours. You were comfortable in it. Like it fit you.â He gestures vaguely at the Maseratiâs gleaming console. âThis one feels⌠newer. Like it doesnât quite belong to you yet.â
You raise a brow, amused. âYouâre saying my car has to match my personality?â
He gives you a sheepish half-smile. âSomething like that.â
âInteresting,â you muse, downshifting smoothly at a light. âWhat does that make you, then? Bus passes and worn-out shoes?â
Clark laughs under his breath, warm and quiet. âSomething like that, yeah.â
You let the silence linger for a moment, the car humming beneath you, before you say, âfor the record, you handled the Aston better than most.â
That makes him glance at you sharply. âI didnât even drive it.â
âYou didnât need to,â you say with a shrug. âSome people panic just being a passenger. You didnât. You belonged in it.â His ears flush pink, and he turns to look out the window, clearly unsure what to do with that. The faintest smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. The city rolls pastâneon signs, sharp glass towers, the occasional honk of impatient trafficâbut the cabin of the car feels like its own pocket of stillness. You catch Clark stealing another glance at you, his eyes lingering a little longer this time before he quickly looks away. âYouâre nervous,â you tease softly.
âIâm not nervous,â he insists, though the way he tugs at his cuff immediately betrays him.
Your smirk widens. âGood. Because where weâre going? Youâll want to look like you belong.â
That earns you a puzzled look. âAnd whereâs that?â You donât answer, just let the car glide into the cityâs wealthier district, where the restaurants glitter like jewels above the streets. Clark shifts again in his seat, tugging his tie like itâs suddenly too tight. You smile to yourself, eyes fixed on the road. If he thought the Aston was intimidating, he has no idea whatâs waiting for him tonight.
The Maserati purrs to a stop in front of La Terrasse, one of Metropolisâs most exclusive restaurants. Its glass façade gleams in the evening light, chandeliers glittering inside, the sort of place where the air itself seems to whisper wealth and power. Valets in sharp uniforms step forward instantly, one opening your door with a polite bow while another moves to Clarkâs side.
You step out with effortless grace, heels striking marble, the kind of entrance youâve perfected since childhood. Clark, however, unfolds himself from the car with far less elegance, tugging self-consciously at his jacket while trying not to look like a farm boy dropped in the middle of high society. âGood evening, Ms. Wayne,â the maĂŽtre dâ says at once, recognizing you. âYour table is ready.â
Clarkâs head jerks slightly toward you. âThey⌠they just know you?â he whispers, startled.
You smirk faintly, sliding your arm through his. âPerks of the family name.â
Inside, the restaurant glows with golden light. Waiters glide between tables carrying silver-domed trays, champagne flutes sparkle on white linen, and the low murmur of conversation hums like an orchestra. Itâs a world Clark clearly doesnât set foot in often. His shoulders tighten as a server whisks his coat away, leaving him standing in his perfectly pressed suit. You catch the stiffness in his posture, the way his eyes flick across the room like heâs searching for an escape. âBreathe, Clark,â you murmur, steering him toward your table. âYou look like youâre about to get grilled by Perry.â
âThatâs not far off,â he mutters, tugging at his cufflink.
You lean in slightly as you sit, voice pitched low just for him. âRelax. You belong here. Trust me.â
His eyes meet yours across the table, uncertain but softening. âI donât know if Iâll ever get used to this.â
âGood,â you reply, taking your menu. âMeans I wonât have to worry about your ego.â That earns you a quiet laugh, genuine and warm. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.
When the waiter arrives, you order without hesitationâsomething rich, something indulgent, paired with wine that makes the waiterâs eyes widen in appreciation. Clark stammers slightly over his choice, nearly ordering meatloaf before you nudge him toward the steak. âYouâre trying to bankrupt me,â he jokes weakly once the waiter leaves.
âPlease,â you scoff. âThis is pocket change.â
He shakes his head, chuckling. âYou and I live on different planets.â
âMaybe,â you say, sipping your water. âBut tonight weâre at the same table.â The words hang between you, heavier than they should. Clark looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze shiftingâlike heâs seeing past the name, past the armor, down to the person sitting across from him. And for the first time, you let him. The first course arrivesâperfectly plated, an art piece more than a meal. The waiter sets it down with quiet precision, and you thank him smoothly before turning your attention back to Clark. He sits straight in his chair, fork in hand, staring at his plate like heâs not entirely sure he belongs in front of it. âRelax,â you murmur with a smirk, lifting your glass. âItâs just food. You wonât break it.â
His cheeks flush pink as he cuts into the dish with careful precision. âIâm used to diners and home cooking. This is⌠something else.â
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
He looks up at you, his expression softening. âItâs not. Just different. I grew up on meatloaf and mashed potatoes. My ma used to can vegetables every summerâshelves of them, stacked floor to ceiling in the cellar. My pa would roast corn in the back field and swear it tasted better than anything from the store.â Thereâs a warmth in his voice when he talks about it, like each memory is a thread pulling him back to Kansas, to a place that shaped him.
You sip your wine, studying him over the rim of the glass. âSounds⌠comforting.â
He smiles faintly, shy. âIt was. Not glamorous, but real.â
You set your glass down. âNot everything has to be glamorous.â His gaze lingers on you a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it before he looks away, adjusting his glasses like heâs embarrassed for being caught.
By the time the main course arrives, the air between you feels easier, less like a tightrope and more like a current pulling you both forward. Clark asks about Gothamâabout the differences between the two citiesâand you answer honestly, though you skip the darker details. You counter by asking about the Planet, about what drew him into journalism in the first place.
âI wanted to give people a voice,â he admits, twirling his fork absentmindedly. âWhen I was a kid, I couldnât always stop bad things from happening. But if you tell the truthâif you shine a light on itâsometimes thatâs enough to change things.â Thereâs no bravado in his tone, just quiet conviction. It hits you harder than you expect, how much of himself heâs willing to lay bare without realizing it.
You lean in slightly, chin resting on your hand. âThatâs very noble of you. But also dangerous.â
He shrugs, smiling faintly. âI donât mind dangerous.â
That makes you laugh softly, the sound surprising even yourself. âCareful. I might hold you to that.â His smile widens just a fraction, boyish and earnest. Dessert comes and goesâsomething decadent you ordered without asking him, and something he sheepishly admits is the best thing heâs ever tasted. When the plates are finally cleared and the check discreetly handled before Clark can even think to protest, you rise from your chair, smoothing your dress. âCome on, Clark. Iâll drive you home before you combust from too much sugar.â
He stands quickly, ever the gentleman, pulling your chair in before following you out. And as you walk through the golden glow of the restaurantâs chandeliers toward the waiting Maserati outside, you realize that for all the chaos surrounding Mannheim and Luthor, tonight has been something rare. Normal. Almost like the world could pause, just for the two of you.
The Maserati rolls to a stop in front of Clarkâs apartment building, the engine purring low before you cut it off. The city is alive around youâneon signs blinking, sirens in the distance, the low thrum of Metropolis never really sleeping. Clark shifts in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly, nervous energy clinging to him even now. Before you can reach for the handle, heâs already out of the car, circling quickly to your side. He pulls your door open with a tentative smile, offering his hand. âGentlemanly,â you tease, sliding out.
âJust manners,â he says softly, ears a little pink. Youâre about to reply when the sound of shouting cuts down the block. A car alarm blares, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass. You both turnâthree men sprinting out of a corner store, bags slung over their shoulders, weapons flashing in the streetlights. Clark exhales quietly, shoulders straightening. He shrugs off his suit jacket, stepping close enough to drape it around your shoulders. His voice is gentle, firm. âWait here.â
Before you can answer, heâs goneâa blur that the human eye shouldnât be able to track. The jacket still carries his warmth, heavy and grounding against you as you lean against the car and watch. It doesnât take long. A gust of air, a flicker of blue and red across the street, and in moments the men are disarmed and pinned against a squad car that wasnât even there a heartbeat ago. By the time the bewildered police arrive, Superman is already striding back toward you, cape catching in the breeze. He lands lightly on the pavement, face unreadable for a moment as he stops a few steps away.
You tilt your head, smirking faintly despite your racing pulse. âPut the glasses back on.â
He blinks, thrown. âWhat?â
âThe glasses,â you repeat, tugging the jacket closer around you. âPut them back on.â
Confusion flickers in his eyes, but he reaches into his pocket and slides them into place. âWhy?â
You step forward, closing the distance until youâre right in front of him, your voice low. âBecause I want to kiss Clark Kent. Not Superman.â
His hands hover at his sides, trembling slightly like heâs fighting the urge to touch you. You donât give him the chance to decideâyou lean in first, closing the gap, lips brushing his in a kiss thatâs softer and deeper than you imagined. He stills for only a heartbeat before his hands finally moveâhovering near your waist, then slowly rising to cup your face with reverence, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though youâre something fragile, priceless. His kiss deepens cautiously, warm and steady, grounding you even as the world tilts.
When you part, the city noise floods back in. His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath shaky behind the glasses you insisted he wear. âGolly,â he whispers.
You laugh against his mouth, shaking your head. âYouâre impossible, Clark.â
âGuess I am,â he murmurs, but his smile is brighter than the neon glow above you both. Finally, you step back just enough to breathe. His hands hover awkwardly at your sides, like he doesnât want to let go but isnât sure heâs allowed.
You smooth the lapel of his suit jacket where it rests on your shoulders and murmur, âaccording to my sources, Mercy Graves is going to be arrested tomorrow. Early morning raid.â
Clark blinks, surprise flickering behind his lenses. âThat soon?â
âMm.â You tilt your head, watching him. âYouâll want to be there. After all, itâs your article that kicked the door open.â
Something flickers across his face thenâsomething between humility and pride. âI just⌠wrote the truth.â
You smile faintly. âSometimes thatâs enough to start a war.â
For a moment, the weight of whatâs coming presses between youâthe inevitable clash with Luthor, the storm that Mercyâs arrest will unleash. But instead of flinching, Clark steadies, eyes softening as they meet yours. âIâll be there,â he says simply.
You believe him without question. You step closer again, your hand brushing against his tie. âGood. Because Iâd hate to have to stand next to the feds alone. Terrible photo opportunity.â That earns you a laughâquiet, genuine, the kind that tugs at something warm in your chest.
Before he can say more, you lean in again, kissing him once moreânot hurried, not desperate, but deliberate. His breath catches against yours, and though his hands hover uncertainly at first, they eventually find your waist, light and careful, like heâs still afraid of holding too tightly. When you part, his forehead rests against yours, glasses cool against your skin. âGoodnight,â he whispers.
âGoodnight,â you murmur, tugging his tie lightly before slipping back toward the driverâs side of the Maserati. You watch him linger at the curb as you pull away, suit jacket still around your shoulders, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror but never once stepping back inside until your taillights disappear into the Metropolis night.
---
Morning in Metropolis comes too fast. The Maserati idles at the curb near LexCorpâs Energy Division headquarters, its polished façade now swarming with federal vehicles. Black SUVs block the entrances, agents in jackets spill into the glass lobby, and the usual parade of perfectly coiffed executives scatter like startled pigeons.
You step out, heels striking against the pavement, Clarkâs suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The tailored lines donât quite match your dress, but they add a kind of edge, a piece of him carried with you into the storm. Cameras flash immediately, reporters jostling for position, their voices rising above the chaos.
Clark is already there, notebook in hand, glasses catching the morning light. He looks different than he did last nightâmore composed, every inch the journalist, pen moving quickly as he notes every detail. Yet his eyes soften when they find you, his smile brief but steady.
âWayne,â one of the agents calls as you approach. âAppreciate your cooperation. Your testimonyâs on file, and the boardâs documents helped fast-track this warrant.â
You nod coolly. âHalvorsen handed us the thread. All we had to do was pull.â
Inside, the lobby is a battlefield of a different kindâsleek glass and chrome disrupted by agents rifling through files, seizing hard drives, barking orders. And in the middle of it all, standing like a blade unsheathed, is Mercy Graves. Her suit is flawless, hair sharp, expression unreadable as two agents flank her. She doesnât resist, doesnât even blink, as they produce cuffs. Her gaze flicks upward, scanning the crowd until it lands on you. And for a brief, breathless moment, you feel the weight of her stareâcalm, calculating, promising this isnât over.
Clark steps closer, voice low at your side. âSheâs not afraid.â
âShe doesnât have to be,â you murmur. âShe thinks Luthor will dig her out.â Mercy tilts her chin, lips curving into the faintest smirk, even as the cuffs click into place. Then the agents lead her away, cameras flashing in a frenzy, the hum of shouted questions filling the air.
You stand shoulder to shoulder with Clark as it unfolds, his pen moving quickly, his presence solid beside you. When the lobby finally clears, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the faint scent of ozone from the electronics being carted off, you glance at him. âYou did this,â you say quietly.
He blinks, startled. âWe did.â
You shake your head. âIt was your article that turned whispers into evidence. Your words lit the match.â
Clark looks down at his notebook, flustered. âI just told the truth.â
âAnd that,â you reply, tugging his jacket tighter around your shoulders, âis more dangerous than any weapon Mannheim could get his hands on.â The silence that follows hums with something unspoken. He shifts slightly closer, the warmth of him brushing against you even in the chaos. And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, pressing a brief, certain kiss against his lips. Cameras flash in the distance, but you donât care. When you pull back, his eyes are wide behind the glasses, his hand hovering uncertainly before rising to cup your cheek. You smirk. âTold you I wanted Clark Kent. Not Superman.â
His smile is small but steady, his voice almost a whisper. âThen thatâs who youâll always have.â
---
Late morning sunlight filters through the tall windows of your hotel suite, casting gold over the marble floor and the faint mess of files spread across the desk. Youâve kicked off your heels, Clarkâs suit jacket still draped over your shoulders as you sit with your laptop open, replaying Mercyâs arrest through endless angles from the morning news cycle. Your phone buzzes sharply across the table. Alfred. You answer, leaning back in your chair. âAlfred. Youâre calling early.â
His voice comes steady, polite as ever, though you know the weight behind it. âI thought perhaps Iâd catch you before you entangled yourself in another⌠eventful morning.â A pause, then, âimagine my surprise when the news was filled with Miss Graves being escorted in handcuffs, with you standing beside Mr. Kent like a pair of proud prosecutors.â
You exhale, rubbing your temple. âIt was bound to happen sooner or later. Better we controlled the narrative.â
âYou do realize your brother is pacing the manor like an agitated tiger?â Alfred says, calm but clipped. âIâm told heâs read Mr. Kentâs article three times, and each time muttered your name as though invoking it might summon you for an explanation.â
You smirk faintly. âThen it worked. The article landed exactly where it needed to.â
âIndeed,â Alfred murmurs. âThough Master Bruce has expressed⌠curiosity.â His tone sharpens just slightly. âAbout Mr. Kent.â
Your lips curve. âOf course he has.â
âYou mentioned him before, in passing. A reporter. A colleague. Your⌠ally.â Alfredâs hesitation is almost imperceptible, but you catch it. âAnd now his name is attached to federal raids and headlines of corporate scandal. You must realize what conclusion Bruce will draw.â
You lean forward, voice low. âThat I finally found someone whoâs not afraid to put his neck on the line.â
Alfred is silent for a beat, then sighs. âI suspect Bruce will want to verify that for himself.â
âLet him,â you say, smirking. âClark can handle it.â
âMm. That may be so. But allow me to offer you one small warning.â Alfredâs voice softens again, threaded with something fatherly. âSecrets have a way of bleeding into the open. Be certain youâre prepared when they do.â
You glance toward the jacket draped over your shouldersâClarkâs jacket, still faintly smelling of him, steady and warm.
Your lips curve faintly. âIâll be ready.â
âOf that,â Alfred says, and you can hear his smile, âI have no doubt.â
The call ends, leaving you alone with the morning sun and the faint echo of Alfredâs warning. And you realizeâwhen Bruce finally comes storming into Metropolis, Clark Kent will be at the center of it.
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