The Private One

***

He wasn’t supposed to save you.

That wasn’t the objective, the order.

But the moment he saw you, he knew he couldn’t walk away.

***

Living in Metropolis, you were used to random fuckshit happening on the daily.

Your car had just been crushed by an alien-kaiju-creature of sorts, leaving a giant footprint where your sunroof used to be.

So what if your car insurance didn't cover that?

So what if the claims agent hung up the moment you said “giant lizard foot”?

It’s alright, you didn’t mind taking the tram.

If only you knew, this would be the worst possible day to rely on public transit.

You're flipping through songs, trying to find the right one. It’s a quiet tram car, very few other commuters scattered in their seats, all wrapped in their own early-morning misery.

You’re half focused on the music, half focused on the fact that you’re definitely about to be late for work.

It's a slow crawl through your playlist, as you tap your screen—skip, skip, skip...

Unbeknownst to you, the tracks beneath the tram were beginning to tremble, a groaning sound rolling up from the ground like something waking up angry.

The few other people next to you started to take notice, but you're just skipping away, grimacing at each song that doesn’t quite hit, nothing quite matching the vibe.

A scream cuts through the music, causing your head to snap up.

By the time you lift your headphones off, the front end of the tram is lifting into the air.

The rippling shock of motion burst through the cabin, as bodies ran away from the tilting floor and shattering windows.

Screams burst like static, as you're tossed around the car, spinning with bags and seats and loose debris.

Then everything goes dark.

***

Ultraman lands, the asphalt cracking beneath the impact, shockwaves rippling through shattered glass and overturned cars. Lex sent him to get to the creature and bring back samples, nothing more, nothing less. No delays. No detours. No “distractions,” as Lex liked to call them.

Samples tucked away, he’s about to leave when he hears something.

“Please, anyone!”

He freezes.

There’s… a light.

A faint, flickering glow beaming from underneath the rubble like a beacon. It pulses weakly at first, then brighter, like it’s trying to call out.

“Hey! F-fuck—”

Your voice cracks, strained, trembling.

He can hear your heartbeat, fast and frantic, climbing like it’s about to break through your ribs. Short, desperate huffs slipping out between cries of pain.

“There's—there’s someone under here! Please…”

Against his nature, against his orders, against every drilled command that told him to stay cold and leave… he steps toward the light.

Something about your voice struck a chord in him.

A pull.

A weakness, Lex would sneer.

But he wants to help.

Venturing inside, he finds you there, glowing, your skin washed in a soft light like sunshine, half-buried under twisted steel and broken concrete. Your leg’s jammed underneath a collapsed beam, pinned so tightly you can barely move your toes.

Dust clings to your hair. Blood smudges your forehead. But your eyes, blinking up at him through the haze, are wide and terrified.

And for a moment, Ultraman forgets what he was sent here to do.

“Please help me, please, I…”

The words tumble out of your mouth like a spill you can’t stop. It was… raw, terrified, almost unbearably human.

He slowly moves closer, like he’s trying not to startle you, hands sliding under the twisted metal beam that was trapping your leg.

You let out a hiss as the pressure shifts, pain flashing across your face.

He pulls it off in one fell swoop, metal screeching as it’s tossed aside like scrap.

You let out a whimper, scrunching up your face.

It does something to him.

Seeing you in pain, the light from your body flickering as you wince. He was… concerned. That was new.

“Are you… okay?”

The words feel unnatural leaving his mouth, like they weren’t meant for him to say.

You look up at him, swallowing hard.

“I’ll survive, but I… I don’t think I can walk.”

He looks over your form, eyes narrowing as his x-ray vision sweeps through muscle and bone. He can see the fracture, and your leg swelling around it. You definitely can’t walk on your own.

Pulling you to him, he lifts you with careful strength, one arm behind your back, the other beneath your knees, keeping weight off your injured leg.

“T-thank you,” you stutter, holding onto his suit. It’s almost too much, having you this close is overwhelming his senses. It’s… confusing.

Also new.

He steps through the debris, shielding you from falling dust and loose rubble as the ground trembles beneath the distant monster’s retreat.

For the first time in a long time… he’s not following orders. He’s focused on carrying you to safety, because he wants to.

He helps you through the smoke, careful not to cause you any more pain and puts you down on the pavement.

“Thank you… again.”

You’re distracting. A big giant sign that goes against everything he’s known to be true, like looking into your eyes, grateful and kind, makes him ask what could be.

But instead of sticking around to find out, he wordlessly takes off into the sky, leaving you astonished.

But one question remained on his mind: who are you?

***

He’s never felt this way.

His entire existence is predicated on hate. Lex’s hate for Superman, for metahumans, for anything that didn’t fit neatly into his vision.

That's all Ultraman knows, all he's ever known.

But then there’s you.

For the first time, you made him feel different, something beyond all the hate and self-loathing.

He’s standing in the shadows now, hidden just beyond the glow of your office window, watching you work. Tapping away on your computer with that quiet focus he’s grown used to.

Smiling when the printer finally cooperates, or when you solve some tiny problem no one else noticed. Asking the old security guard how his weekend was, actually listening to the answer.

Zeroing in on the contented sigh you make when you get your hands on your morning coffee.

He’s never had an interest in the human experience, the smallness of it, the ordinariness of it, the softness. Though he's never really been allowed to.

He wasn’t built for it.

But watching you, how you move through the world, something shifts in him. Something unfamiliar. Something he longs to put a name to.

He doesn't stop at one time.

Next thing he knows, he's watching you walking to work, or rather limping. Your pride not allowing you to accept a ride from a friend, and your wallet not letting you get a taxi every day.

Since the tram incident, you practically swore off public transport for the time being and opted for hobbling to work, more determined than ever, like you had to prove.

Days passed, and he found himself sneaking away to watch you when Lex hadn't deployed him for missions.

Watching TV “with you” or more accurately watching from across the street as you yell at the screen, watching Jeopardy in your pyjamas, falling asleep on your couch by the third ad break.

Somehow, your existence had become a little safe haven for him. A break from all the bad that Lex makes him do. Watching you go about your day, keeping a smile on your face despite it all, trying your best to look on the bright side. It spoke to him, made him feel almost hopeful.

Though as he sees you day after day, night after night, he notices how lonely you are. It felt like the two of you were kindred spirits, like you were lonely just like him.

He's watching you one night, having a sort of routine now. He’s settled comfortably, waiting for you when you step out onto your rooftop. You look comfy like usual, though the toll of the day doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s in your eyes, the way your shoulders slouch a little, the deep breath you let out when you feel the cool air on your skin.

He wishes he knew what was in your head. He wanted nothing more than to understand you.

“Is someone there?” you call out into the air, eyes still set out on the horizon.

He freezes.

Were you talking to him?

“I’ve noticed you,” you continue, half wondering if you were actually talking to no one. “Caught glimpses of you nearby since the day you saved me.”

You dig your nails into your sleeves as your stomach flips. Whatever you’re about to say, he can hear how nervous you are, every sense giving you away.

“I’d like to talk and properly thank you for the other day. If that’s… like… cool.”

He hesitates, weighing all the possibilities, it all comes down to instinct against something new. But the hold you have on him wins out. It’s curiosity, he knows that for sure, but also something that feels dangerously close to wanting.

There’s a soft thud as he lands behind you, the air shifting with the force of it.

You spin, breath catching, as you see his tall stature.

He stands in the shadows for a beat, then steps forward, just enough for you to see him clearly.

“Who are you?” you ask, almost in disbelief that he showed up.

He looks to the left, then to the right before pointing to himself silently.

You narrow your eyes, brows pinching.

“Yes, you. There’s no one else here.”

For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, weighing his words carefully. To answer or not to answer. After a moment too long, his posture shifts, like he’s steeling his nerves.

“…Ultraman,” he finally says, voice low, rough around the edges, like it doesn’t get used for conversations very often.

“Ultraman?” you say. You toss the name around in your head like a pizza, testing it out. With a hum, you step closer, close enough to startle him.

“You've been watching me, Ultraman. Why?”

That question was a little harder to answer. Again, he debates just standing in silence, but from the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide with curiosity and determination, he doubts you’d give up easily.

“You…interest me,” he answers.

To his surprise, you crack a smile, the corner of your lip pulled upward like you were trying to stop it. He’s confused, not able to decipher what it meant.

“Well, you interest me too. You save a girl, then jet off into the sky without a word, then start stalking me. Talk about a 180.”

Ultraman hesitates, jaw tightening beneath the mask. “…I’m not stalking you,” he says finally, voice lower, almost careful. “I was… making sure you were safe.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s what all the creeps say.”

He grumbles to himself; he hadn’t talked to anyone but Lex and the scientists responsible for creating him. Basic tests, call and response to ensure he was “working correctly”. But you weren’t like that, messing around with him like he was just the guy across the street.

“I’m not a creep.”

You walk around him, slow and deliberate, studying him from a different angle. “…I know,” you say lightly, “just fucking with you a little. Not every day I get rescued by a flying man who then pretends he wasn’t checking up on me.”

He stiffens as you circle him, instincts bracing for fear, for flight.

But you don’t flinch, or back away or run away screaming.

He looks you over instead. You’re relaxed, shoulders loose, heartbeat steady. So you’re clearly not panicked, not calculating an escape. He doesn’t really know why, but that thought soothes him.

“…You’re not scared,” he says, more observation than question.

You glance back at him, eyebrow raised. “Should I be?”

For a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer that. So he opts to leave.

“I should go.”

He hears your heart drop. You’re…disappointed?

“Already?”

“I have things to do…”

He did not have things to do.

“Of course,” you say, nodding as you believe him. “I bet you’re a busy guy. Well, uh…” Your voice trails off as you turn away, crossing the rooftop to the small garden tucked along the ledge. You kneel, careful, then pluck a single flower before hobbling back to him and holding it out.

“A thank you for the other day. You’re the reason my leg isn’t more fucked right now. I know it’s not much, but…”

He hesitates, then reaches out and takes it, holding it between his fingers. So fragile and light, its pink petals warm from the sun. He knows, with unsettling clarity, that he could destroy this flower in fifty different ways without even trying.

He’s never received a gift before.

For a moment, he just stares at it, something tight and unfamiliar settling in his chest. With a stiff nod, he manages a quiet, “Thank you.”

Then, before you can say another word, he lifts off, the rush of air stealing the moment away as he disappears into the sky, still holding the flower.

***

He disappears for the next few days, and you miss his presence. You had come to like having a little shadow following you around. Looking across the street to see him not so inconspicuously hiding behind a street lamp.

You’re tending to your rooftop garden, your beams of sun shining from your hands onto the flowers. You’re halfway done when you hear feet touch down on the roof.

“Ultraman?”

You turn around and see him standing there, less imposing than you remember him, holding out flowers.

Or, well, what was supposed to be flowers.

He must've flown fast, as most of the petals are gone, handing you mostly a bouquet of stems.

“Oh, uh,” you say, blinking at the “arrangement”.

You can’t see his face from behind the mask, but you just know he’s looking at you expectantly.

Broad shoulders curled in a little, head tilted down, leaning in like he’s waiting for some kind of verdict.

“I love them! This is really sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”

He straightens instantly, like your approval flicked a switch in him.

He shifts his weight, hands twitching at his sides, unsure what to do now that the flowers have been… delivered.

The faintest hum of energy pulses around him. Maybe nervousness? Anticipation? You’re not quite sure.

“You know,” you say, turning the bouquet slowly in your hands, “after our last encounter, I was worried you weren’t coming back.”

You hope you’re not coming across as weird or desperate. Had you been on the rooftop every night since he first visited? Had you called out for him, half-convinced he was hovering somewhere just out of sight, only to hear nothing back but the indignant meow of the neighbourhood cat?

…Maybe.

“Got tied up,” he says.

“Work?”

“…Yes.”

From the sounds of it and what you could glean from his body language, work was hell.

“Well,” you shrug lightly, like it’s no big deal even though your heart says otherwise, “you can come in if you want. My apartment’s a lot warmer than this rooftop. You can take a load off, maybe rant about whatever your job is…”

You trail off, giving him an out, pretending this is casual.

He looks past you toward the open door, then back at you. The hum around him quiets, just a little. “…I don’t usually do this.”

“It’s fun to try new things, right?”

He doesn’t respond, so you take his hand. “Come on, I’ve been dying to have someone to watch TV with.”

***

You step inside, flicking on the lights, and it hits you how surreal it is to casually invite Ultraman into your one-bedroom like he’s a neighbour dropping by.

He follows after you, sudden and silent on the stairs, like a muscle-bound guard dog who doesn’t understand he’s too big for the space.

“Excuse the clutter,” you mumble, kicking aside shoes and yesterday’s mail. “I got home from work and immediately tossed my stuff everywhere.”

You clear space on your couch, sweeping a hoodie and some notebooks onto the coffee table. Glancing over your shoulder at him, you call out, “Make yourself at home!”

You’re not sure what you expect, maybe for him to awkwardly sit, or hover near the door like he’s unsure if he’s allowed.

Instead, he stands ominously in the corner like a stone statue, arms crossed, muscles tense, scanning the entire apartment like he’s analysing every corner for threats that very much don’t exist.

“You don’t want to sit?” you ask gently.

He flicks his gaze to the couch, then back to you.

"It's not a trap, plus you must be tired from standing."

"I don’t get tired," he replies almost immediately.

“Ever?” you ask, to a resounding silence. You have a feeling that’s going to be a theme between the two of you.

"Well, you must be hungry, right? I mean, you do get hungry, I assume," You continue, hoping you could convince him to eat with you at least. He breathes out, and from the little shift in his stance, you can tell he’s hesitant to answer.

"I ate… earlier,” he utters.

“Oh.”

You twiddle your fingers nervously, fighting to find some sort of common ground.

“That's cool. Well, if you get hungry, I have both leftover pizza and Thai. Aren’t you lucky?”

You turn on the TV, limping to the couch and sitting down with a satisfied sigh. Your heart skips when he eventually joins you. Sure, his perfect posture is slightly terrifying, but baby steps.

You can’t remember the last time you had someone in your space like this. You’ve been living a go-to-work, come-home, sleep, repeat kind of routine for so long that it’s started to blur together. This feels… refreshing. Comforting, even. You smile before you can overthink it, before you can start regretting your decisions.

“You can take off the mask, you know.”

He freezes, still as a predator in tall grass.

You flip through channels, oblivious to the way his jaw clenches beneath the mask, unaware of the storm brewing inside him.

His hand twitches where it rests on his knee. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of its armour. “I’m… not sure you’d like what’s underneath.”

He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, like looking at you might burn him to a crisp.

Who the fuck made him think that? You’d kill them if you ever found out.

“I’m sure I would,” you say gently. “But I won’t force you. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

He considers your words for a moment before saying, resolutely, “I’ll keep it on.”

“That’s okay,” you say, smiling at him, and he believes you. “Since you’re my guest…” You pause, landing on a channel with dramatic music and applause. “Jeopardy or Family Feud?”

He exhales, just a little, shoulders lowering as the tension bleeds out of him. “…Jeopardy,” he says, after a beat.

You grin. “I knew you were a Jeopardy guy.”

***

You’ve been sitting together for over an hour now, mostly in silence, the TV murmuring to itself in the background. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t press in on you, that doesn’t demand to be filled.

He never thought he’d be this close to you like this, in your own space. Sitting on the couch where he’s seen you so many times before from a distance, from rooftops and shadows, always watching, never touching the edges of your life.

There’s still a gap between the two of you, one that's deliberate on his part. Like he's terrified of scaring you off.

He’s barely been paying attention to the TV. All of his focus is on you, your small reactions, the way you beam when you get an answer right, the quiet little huff you make when they miss something obvious. It makes something warm unfurl in his chest.

Soft, almost. He doesn’t know if he likes it. It feels… illegal somehow, like the moment he lets himself lean into it, it’ll be taken away.

“…You know,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “you don’t have to look so tense. I’m not going to bite.”

“…I know,” he answers, a fraction too stiff.

“And I know you're not going to bite either,” you glance at him, studying his posture, then smile, “I happen to think you’re sweet.”

“…Sweet?”

Ultraman has never heard that word used for him. Not once.

“I’m…” He struggles, fingers curling against his thigh. He’s not sure what he wants to say. His instincts scream to deny it, to shut it down before it can become something dangerous. “…I don’t think that’s true.”

You just shrug and stand, padding across the room. “I still have the flowers you gave me, you know. Well—what was left of them. They’re growing back.” You lift your hands, sunlight catching between your fingers as you wiggle them. “Thanks to a little love and—” you grin, hands glowing for a moment,“—magic, so to speak.”

You nearly trip over a loose sock on the way back, catching yourself with a laugh before setting the vase in his hands.

“See?” you say softly. “Getting me flowers was a sweet thing to do.”

He looks down at the flowers, alive and growing, just like his feelings for you. The warmth in his chest spreads.

Is this a virus? Is he sick? Is he malfunctioning?

“Sweet,” he repeats back to you.

“Exactly,” you say, placing the vase back on the table and crashing down next to him. The gap between the two of you is smaller, and neither of you tries to widen it.

***

He starts dropping by your place more often, like it’s a habit. Slowly but surely, you were getting past the 10-foot-tall wall he had up.

You think you even caught him chuckling at the movie you were watching last night, though that might have been a hallucination on your part, a desperate mirage of connection.

You didn’t know what was going on in his head.

Unknown to you, you were what was going on in his head. 24/7. Living there, uninvited. Distracting him and, worse, making him question the lines Lex had drawn for him.

You were confusing him, just like the first time he met you. So soft and bright, full of energy.

Always moving, always speaking, like sunlight spilling into a room he’d thought was sealed shut forever.

But most confusing of all, you were kind to him. Never sneering, or mocking, or calling him stupid.

Offering to help, wanting him to be comfortable, almost as if he were human like you.

Just like usual, Ultraman’s in your apartment again, spending more and more time there as of late. Floating up to the corner of your room to try and catch a spider for you.

He had found you armed with a rolled-up magazine and a frying pan, trying to coax it into the pan and far away from your home.

He picks it up, careful, almost reverent as it crawls around his hand, finding its bearings. The creature is so small.

So fragile and alive, right in the palm of his hands, and yet there’s no order from Lex to destroy or pulverise or kill.

He flies over to the open window and lets it out into the night.

“You’re my saviour!” You laugh, rushing over to hug him as soon as he lands on the floor.

That gets him.

You had learnt to observe all his little tells. The way he carries himself, the faint hesitation before he relaxes, reading what his mask-covered face couldn’t tell.

Then, softly, “You’re…weird,” he says, arms hovering over your back.

A little debate starts in his head, should he hug you back or shouldn't he?

He wondered how it might feel to hold you, but something was holding him back. So his arms hang at his sides, longing to wrap themselves around your frame.

The warmth of your body, the smell of your shampoo, for once, he feels safe, as if he could just stay, just stop being on guard, just exist without waiting for the next command.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, looking straight ahead again. You lean back, looking up at him.

“Well, if I'm not too weird and you're not sick of me yet, then can I lean on you and we can watch a romcom?”

He tilts his head adorably.

“Rom…com?”

“You have so much to learn.”

***

The romcom did some damage.

Never in your life did you think you’d have a sleepover with a flying, near-indestructible man in your apartment. At the time, it had felt like a small thing, just one movie. A little romantic considering you fell asleep on his shoulder, sure, but completely harmless.

Apparently not.

You wake to the faint smell of burning, which is obviously a cause for concern.

Your sheets fall from your body as you traipse out of your bedroom and towards your kitchen. Your tired brain, questioning if Ultraman carried you to bed and if he was the one responsible for filling your home with the smell of fire. If so, you have to admit he's multifaceted.

The smell of burning is getting stronger as little puffs of smoke make themselves clear.

“Ultraman?” you mumble, peaking your head around the corner and into the kitchen.

The sight is something else entirely. Ultraman still in his suit with one of your aprons, clearly far too small for him and stretched awkwardly across his chest, saying “Kiss the Cook” on the front.

“You’re… awake,” he grumbles.

The way he says it makes you frown. There’s something like disappointment there, like he's annoyed at himself.

You shuffle out of the living room, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Whatcha up to?” you ask, voice still sleepy as you enter the kitchen.

“Pancakes,” he says.

He’s standing far too stiffly by the stove, spatula held like it might attack him at any moment. The pan is smoking. One pancake is charred beyond recognition, another is somehow still liquid, and there’s batter on the counter, the floor, and, somehow, the fridge.

His voice drops, quiet and utterly defeated.

“Breakfast in bed… like the…” he pauses, clearly, embarrassed, “romcom.”

The word sounds unfamiliar, like most do when he says them, careful and uncertain. You can almost imagine his face beneath the mask, shy and bashful.

To his surprise, you start glowing, gold emanating from your skin. Your heart was alive with something that had been lost for so long.

“Thank you. I love it. No one has ever done anything like this for me.”

In all your relationships, you were the one doing the most. Planning dates, remembering anniversaries, making compromises, giving more than you ever received.

For him to do this, to try without being asked, means everything. Someone who notices. Someone that appreciates the small things just like you do.

“But I failed.”

He gestures to the mess again, prepared for your emotions to turn on a dime, instead your light just shines brighter.

So bright, he has to squint a little as you step closer, your light reflecting off his mask.

“It’s the effort that counts.”

His borrowed heart racing in ways that he’s never known was possible.

He can feel it again, that pull, as he takes all of you in. From the remnants of your perfume from yesterday to the eyelash caught on your cheek to your heartbeat beating in time with his, just as fast.

“I… I need to go.”

He steps back and he can breathe again, steadying himself. Is he supposed to feel light and weightless when he’s around you? Is that normal?

Although you had grown used to his sudden disappearances, it didn't make you ache any less each time he left.

You reach out for his gloved hand, still warm and glowing faintly.

“Will you be back tonight?”

“Yes,” he replies in earnest.

You lean up and kiss his mask where his cheek would be, soft and unthinking, and smile.

“Thank you for the pancakes.”

He nods wordlessly and escapes as quickly as he can in Ultraman fashion.

As he glides over the city back to LexCorp, he keeps his hand pressed to the spot where you kissed him, as if grounding himself, as if afraid the feeling might fade if he lets go… not at all aware that he’s still wearing your apron, fluttering helplessly in the wind behind him.

***

Turns out Ultraman is a romantic at heart.

Sure, the pancakes were burnt as hell and the kitchen had smelled like smoke for hours, but he was good at other things.

He would bring you flowers stolen from LexCorp’s private gardens, hover just close enough to share your space without crowding you, and even gave you a quiet, earnest compliment that stayed with you for days.

“I can cook you dinner,” he offers one night.

You hesitate, but then you think back to the charred remains of pancakes you were scraping off all your surfaces.

“I can show you how.”

“I’d… like that.”

His hands settle over yours, too careful, too soft. It's enough to make your heart flutter and your body turn into a glow stick. Light emanates off your skin, the soft light like a beacon to him.

“Are you okay?” He questions, as he looks at your glowing skin.

“Yeah, sorry, you just…” You trail off, as soon as you look up at him, your words get caught in your throat. You might just have a thing for masks. “…flustered me.”

Instead of backing up or shying away like you were used to he moves forward, his chest against yours.

“Do you like it when I… fluster you?”

Since when could he do that, melt your brain with just a few words? You guys need to stop watching romcoms, he's getting far too good at this shit.

You just nod, face warm, trying to play it off. “I—uh, let’s just cook, okay?”

There’s no way you’re doing a good job of hiding just how much, considering you’re shining as bright as a lighthouse, but he pretends not to notice.

The two of you continue, moving around each other easily, a meal starting to take form until he accidentally knocks the pan too hard, sending vegetables skittering and sauce splattering across the stove.

You jump into action ready to help clean up when you notice how he curls in on himself a little, shoulders drawing inward as if waiting for you to be angry or disappointed.

“Can’t do anything right,” he mutters to himself, jaw tight with shame and frustration. First the pancakes, and now you had to watch him mess up again.

“That's not true. It hurts to hear you talk about yourself like that."

Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around him.

He freezes at first, wondering how he's supposed to react, if he's being tested or tricked. But then slowly relaxes, it's you, after all. He knows that he's safe, knows you won’t laugh or recoil or turn him into something monstrous.

As you pull back, he says, “I want you to see me.”

“You—Really?”

You had become used to the mask, but you would be lying if you said you weren't curious. Thinking about what he might look like, different faces swapping themselves in and out, in your mind.

“I trust you.”

You watch as his hands come up to his mask. No matter what he looked like, you liked the man you had come to know and nothing's going to change that.

When he finally removes it, you nearly faint.

“Holy Superman.”

Your jaw drops as you're looking at what you'd describe as Superman's twin. His hair is longer and untamed, and he's probably less likely for a candid photo of him smiling to be on the cover of a magazine, but that's definitely Superman's face.

“Lex Luthor is batshit,” you mutter, in pure shock and awe. He really did go copy-paste.

“You… you don’t like it,” he concludes.

His expression hardens the way it always does when he expects rejection but you’re quick to reassure him.

“No, that’s not— I like it. I like you. You’re pretty hard not to like.”

You start to glow, gold light blooming softly beneath your skin.

“You’re…” he starts, looking at you, mesmerised, yet again, at the way you shine.

You enter his space, and he lets you, relaxing as he feels your body close to his.

“You know it happens when I feel strong emotions.”

He holds your face carefully, like you might break, your cheeks warm in his hands.

“For… me?”

“For you and only you.”

He hesitates, and before you even realize it you’re being pulled in, lips melting together in the middle of the kitchen.

His hands hover over your waist, uncertain, before pulling you to him firmly, like he’s finally decided this is something he’s allowed to want.

“Just like in the movies, huh?”

“Just like in the movies,” he says back to you, smiling softly, wonder written all over him.

You’ve never seen him look so beautiful.

***

The next few days, you’re floating through life, as if nothing quite touches the ground anymore, shining every time you think of him, which is often.

The glow lingers longer now, like it's your default setting.

You’re sitting by the window one evening, waiting for him to show up. He’s late, which is unusual, and unease curls in your chest before you can stop it.

Then he staggers through your door, holding his stomach, holding his side as he breathes heavily.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” you ask, racing your way over to help support him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just braces a hand against the wall, shoulders heaving.

“Where does it hurt?” you prompt further, the worry building in your voice.

“I will heal,” he grits out.

He always does. It’s part of what he was made for. To go out there, to be broken, and to stitch himself back together again without complaint.

He doesn’t understand why you care so much.

He wasn’t human.

Wasn’t even an alien, technically.

Just… a clone, an experiment, a thing.

He watches you, tearing through your apartment, trying to sing something to help.

You’re fumbling with the first aid kit, hands trembling, tears stinging your eyes and making everything blur.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—” You choke on your words as you finally tear the kit open, your fingers darting over the different bandages, ointments, gauze like you don’t know where to start. Like you don’t know how to help someone who isn’t supposed to need help.

You’re shaking so hard you almost drop the box as you rush back over to where he's sitting on the couch.

“Fuck, fuck, I—” you stammer, struggling to catch your breath.

He doesn’t understand why you’re crying for him. You should never cry for him.

He lifts a hand, and swipes his thumb gently beneath your eyes, catching the tear before it can fall.

“Don’t cry…” He pleads, “Not… for me.”

He was a mistake, an abomination. That’s what Lex has always told him.

“Why shouldn't I cry for you? I care about you, okay? I…” you pause, the tightness in your throat and your face cloy with tears, making it hard to talk. “I really care about you.”

Your heart longs to say something else. You know that you feel it. You feel it so strongly, sometimes it hurts but one ‘I love you’ and you might lose him forever.

“So—so don't tell me not to cry for you. You are worth crying for.”

The words shock him, almost like he can't believe it. He wants to protest, to keep fighting you on it, to make you believe what everyone else seems to.

But, he can't.

You already seem heartbroken enough over seeing him like this.

His eyes are wrought with pain but he tries to hide it to no avail.

“Please, look at me,” you plead.

The moment you make eye contact, you glow, your heart overwhelmed with fear and relief and something dangerously close to anger on his behalf. When you look into his eyes, all you want to do is take that pain away.

“Your light…”

Your hand glows instinctively, the warmth spilling over as the glow spreads, licking along the edge of his jaw, softening the bruises almost immediately.

“Come closer.”

You sit in front of him, glowing brighter and brighter, healing him, acting as his own personal sun. His broken ribs and deep cuts are now a thing of the past as bone knits, skin seals, pain unravels, fusing together beneath your touch.

“Are you okay now?” you ask softly.

He gives you a small smile, though it’s one of the biggest ones you’ve gotten from him.

“I’ll survive.”

You chuckle, exhausted but relieved.

“I thought that was my line.”

***

It was only a matter of time.

For the two or so months he had been going to and fro from your apartment, becoming more hesitant during missions, more bogged down by his emotions.

He's surprised it took this long, but knowing Lex, he always knew.

“You’ve been going on little detours, getting distracted… haven’t you?”

Lex’s voice slices through the silence as he circles Ultraman like a shark, hands folded behind his back, pretending at patience.

Poking a hard finger into Ultraman’s chest, he sneers,“That’s not your directive. That’s not what I built you for.”

His eyes narrow, calculation turning to cruelty, as if often did.

“Do I have to recalibrate you? Or are you just completely broken already? All this because of a stupid girl—?”

Ultraman’s jaw tightens, just barely, but it’s enough for Lex to catch.

A slow smile creeps over his face.

“Oh. I see. It’s worse than I thought. You're thinking for yourself, or at least, trying to. And feeling something for someone, I'd find it funny if it wasn't so inconvenient for me.”

Ultraman doesn’t move or speak. But his anger is thrumming just beneath his skin. Insults towards you wouldn't be taken lightly. You were anything but stupid to him. Rather, you were everything.

Lex steps closer, fearlessly, and taps Ultraman’s cheek mockingly.

“If you want to keep your little friend alive,” he says with a cold hum, “then you’ll stay in line.”

He leans up, lips barely a foot from Ultraman’s ear.

“Otherwise,” Lex whispers, “no one will ever see them again, let alone you.”

The words hang heavy, poisonous.

He knew he'd never see the sun, his sun, again.

***

You’re cutting up vegetables when you hear the sound of boots landing on your balcony, and your heart skips a beat.

“He’s here,” you whisper to yourself, all giddy, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus.

The door opens slowly, and when he steps inside he takes off his mask, only to freeze when he sees you. As beautiful as ever, his safe haven.

He walks forward into the kitchen where you've clearly been cooking up a storm, sleeves rolled up and music playing softly in the background.

If only this could be his forever.

“Fuck, you’re uh early. I was just in the middle of making dinner but it’s fine. You can taste test for me, be my sous chef.”

He says your name, almost mournful, dragging out the syllables in his low tone.

“What's up?” you question. He's never said your name like that.

You walk over, smiling softly, the aroma of the kitchen wrapping around you. Reaching up, you caress his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“You look tired,” you say, voice gentle, concerned. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

He chuckles lightly but it's void of any real humour. Of course, even at a time like this you were caring for him.

“I’ve… never met anyone like you. So bright, so strong, so beautiful… like the sun.”

Your chest tightens at the words, warmth pooling in your stomach. All you can wonder is why this feels like the end of something.

“Your sunshine,” you murmur, reaching out to take his hand. Though your hand misses his, fingertips brushing as he pulls away.

“What's—Why won't you let me…?”

“I…can’t come back here…” he interrupts, low and strained, like it hurts to say.

“What—what do you mean?” you gulp, all the colour and life drained from your face.

“I'm not allowed to see you.”

“Not allowed? Lex found out?”

He hears your heart drop, making him feel that much worse. The last thing he wanted was to make you sad, to be the reason why you can't shine.

“Then don’t leave,” you blurt, stepping closer, voice trembling. “You can stay here with me. You don’t need to go back to him—”

A soft pair of lips presses briefly to your forehead, and your words stop short. The gesture is quiet and fleeting, but it speaks just as loud as his words.

He gives you a sad smile, as beautiful as it is rare.

“I need… I only need you safe,” he murmurs, voice catching. “He won't hurt you if I stay away.”

Your chest tightens. Every instinct screams at you to argue, to grab him, to tell him he doesn’t get to make that choice alone.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” you whisper, barely audible. “He doesn't own you, okay? Lex may have made you but he doesn't know you. You have so much love and—and feelings and so much to offer!”

Your voice trembles towards the end as you start to break down. You don't want to go back to life without him, he made everything fuller, so much brighter. Like your apartment finally felt like a home.

He panics as you start to cry, words tumbling out between sobs, apologies and fears you didn’t know how to name. He wipes them away, gentle and steady, thumbs warm against your cheeks.

“It’s my turn to say thank you.”

He leans down and kisses you and you kiss back with fervour. Everything you want to say poured into it.

It’s bittersweet, soft and lingering, and as your hand presses against his chest you can feel how fast his heart is racing.

Kissing you is all he wanted to do—to wake up every morning and try and make your breakfast, to walk with you to work and watch TV in your apartment until you fall asleep beside him. Maybe even go on an actual date, have dinner at a restaurant like they did in the movies he watched.

All he wants is to stay and be human with you.

Although it may be your last kiss, it doesn’t make it any less beautiful. Your lips separate and he leans his down to press his forehead against yours.

He memorises you for what must be the millionth time, the smell of your shampoo, your perfume, the flutter of your eyelashes and pounding of your heart.

He misses you even as he holds you in his arms.

“Thank you for making me feel human.”

And with that, he disappears, soaring from your apartment, not knowing if he'll ever see you again.