The Calls You Missed (Clark Kent x Reader)
Summary: When Clark misses your desperate calls after you’re injured, he realizes too late where his priorities should have been. Guilt consumes him, but in the aftermath, he proves that even Superman can stumble, yet he’ll never stop choosing you.
Clark had known guilt before, when he failed to save a stranger, when the city turned on him, when the weight of being both Clark Kent and Superman pulled him in two opposite directions. But he had never known guilt like this. Not until tonight.
It was supposed to be his day off. Supposed to be one of the those evenings where he could ditch the cape and simply exist as Clark Kent. No crises, no deadlines, no Lois insisting he chase down one more lead. But Lois had called, and Clark had answered. He always did. She needed him, or maybe he just told himself that. Either way, he followed her without hesitation, phone left on silent in the pocket of his jacket, forgotten as if it didn’t carry your name, your voice, your lifeline.
When he finally checked, hours later, the screen lit up with a sting .
Nine missed calls.
Nine messages.
All from you.
6:41pm: Hey, are you home?
7:05pm: Clark, I fell on some exposed metal at the construction site near our apartment.
7:12pm: Please, I think I hurt my leg worse than I thought. It’s bleeding a lot.
7:20pm: Clark, please answer. I can’t stand up.
7:34pm: It’s getting worse. I’m scared.
7:40pm: Please don’t ignore me.
8:02pm: Where are you?
8:19pm: I need you.
8:41pm: Forget it. I’ll figure it out.
Clark’s breath caught, his hands tightening around the phone. The world blurred, every sound of Metropolis collapsing into static until the only thing he could hear was your voice in his head, the quiet desperation threaded through your messages.
Lois was saying something beside him. He didn’t hear. He was already moving, already breaking through the sky with a boom. His chest ached in a way no battle had ever left him, and he kept replaying every word you’d written, each one carving another scar across his conscience.
By the time he landed outside your apartment, his throat was dry and his hands shook. The door wasn’t locked, as if you hadn’t even had the strength to close it behind you.
“Y/N?” His voice cracked on your name.
The apartment was dim. Too quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of your old fan and the irregular hitch of your breathing. Clark’s heart lurched violently in his chest when he saw you, half-slumped against the couch, skin pale, leg bandaged with a blood-soaked towel you must have grabbed in desperation. Your phone lay abandoned beside you.
For one breathless moment, Clark couldn’t move. He just stood there, guilt rooting him to the ground. He should’ve been here. He should’ve been the one pressing that towel against your wound, whispering reassurances into your ear. Not you. Not anyone else. Clark.
“Clark…” Your voice was fragile, cracked from crying. “You didn’t pick up. I thought-”
“I’m here,” he choked out, already kneeling in front of you, already brushing damp hair from your forehead. His hands trembled as he checked your injury, eyes stinging. “God, my love, I’m so sorry. I should’ve.. I should’ve never left you like this.”
You flinched when he pressed against the wound, and it was like a knife twisting in his chest. He hated himself for every tear staining your cheeks. “You don't need to talk,” he whispered, though it was more a plea to himself than to you. “Save your strength. I’ve got you now.”
Carefully, he lifted you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as though you were something breakable, something irreplaceable. Your head fell against his shoulder, and he could feel the tremor of your body against his.
“I thought you forgot me,” you murmured, voice slurred with exhaustion. The words gutted him.
Clark stopped dead in the middle of your living room, clutch tightening. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Never. Do you hear me? Never. You are my home. My everything.”
His lips found your temple, desperate, lingering there as though he could press every apology he’d never said into your skin.
When he finally flew you to the hospital, he refused to let you out of his sight, pacing beside the stretcher, his hand never leaving yours. Hours later, when the bleeding was stopped and the doctor reassured him that you’d heal, Clark broke down in the sterile quiet of your room. He sank to his knees at your bedside, burying his face into your hand.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I swear, on everything I am, that I will spend the rest of my life proving you’ll never be alone again. Not while I’m still breathing.”
You stirred weakly, eyes fluttering open, and despite everything, a small, fragile smile curved your lips. “Then stop crying and hold me.”
Clark climbed into the narrow hospital bed without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you, tucking you against his chest like a shield. His heartbeat thundered against your ear, steady now, and his grip was unyielding.
And though the guilt still burned in his veins, Clark Kent finally let out a shuddering breath, holding you as though he’d never let go again.
