madds 🌀

Starcourt Mall still feels like the most magical place on Earth to you.

The lights are way too bright, music is blasting from some store nearby, and the air smells like cheap perfume mixed with popcorn and sugar. You walk happily through the crowd, swinging a small pink shopping bag in one hand… and holding Mike Wheeler’s hand with the other.

Mike, meanwhile, looks like he’s being personally victimized by capitalism.

“How many more stores are left?” he complains for the fourth time in less than ten minutes, dragging his feet dramatically. “I swear we’ve already been here.”

“Michael,” you say in a sing-song voice, turning to stand right in front of him. “We’re literally just getting started.”

His shoulders slump like he’s lost a war.

“We’ve been here for hours…”

“Only because you’re being dramatic,” you reply sweetly, flashing him that smile — the one with the big lashes Steve always says are “straight-up dangerous.”

Your brother taught you a lot of things growing up.

One of them: when you smile like that, no one ever tells you no.

Mike swallows.

“So… what store is this now?” he asks carefully.

“Makeup,” you answer, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Mike drops his head back.

“I knew something bad was gonna happen today.”

You laugh, gently tugging his hand to pull him inside with you. The place is a pink paradise — lipsticks, glosses, eyeshadows, tiny bottles, mirrors everywhere.

Your eyes light up instantly.

“Look at that color,” you say, pointing at a lipstick. “It’s like… cherry, but flirtier.”

Mike nods, absolutely lost.

“Yeah. Totally. For sure.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s bored. Whiny. So incredibly dramatic.

That’s when an idea hits you.

You step closer, lowering your voice like you’re about to share a top-secret secret.

“Hey, Mickey…”

“Yeah?”

“If you behave,” you say, tilting your head just a little, “I’ll let you help me test everything later.”

He frowns.

“Test…?”

“My makeup,” you clarify with a smile. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

Mike turns red all the way to the tips of his ears.

“O-okay,” he says quickly — even though he has absolutely no idea what you mean.

A few hours later, you’re sitting in the Wheeler basement.

It’s cozy, messy, and smells like home. Mike is leaning back on the couch, and you’re sitting right on his lap like it’s the most normal thing ever. Your legs rest on either side of him, and Mike is so stiff he looks afraid to breathe wrong.

“Are you comfy?” you ask, shifting just a tiny bit.

“Y-yeah,” he answers, voice slightly higher than usual. “Very comfy.”

In front of you sits a small mountain of lipsticks, glosses, and balms you bought. You look at them proudly.

“Okay,” you say. “We begin.”

Mike’s eyes go wide.

“Begin what?”

You grab the first lipstick, twisting it open slowly.

“The tests,” you say, like it should’ve been obvious. “You promised to behave.”

Before he can respond, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

You leave behind a pink mark that smells sweet.

Mike completely blanks.

“Oh.”

“That one’s strawberry,” you explain. “Do you like it?”

He nods way too fast.

“Y-yeah. I like it. A lot.”

You grab another.

This time, the kiss lands closer to the corner of his lips. The color is deeper, the scent stronger.

“Dark cherry,” you say. “This one’s bold.”

Mike has no idea where to put his hands anymore. He keeps them stiff at his sides, like touching you might be illegal.

“E-everything looks good on you,” he murmurs.

You keep going. One. Then another.

Small kisses, soft kisses, kisses that leave different colors all over his skin. Vanilla. Peach. Mint. Each one smells different, each one makes Mike melt a little more.

“You smell like… a rainbow,” he says dumbly, half smiling.

You giggle.

“Is that good?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Really good.”

You rest your forehead against his for a moment, admiring your work. Mike’s face is covered in colorful kisses, and he’s smiling so hard it almost hurts to look at.

“You’re an excellent test subject,” you announce proudly.

Mike looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“I’ll do this whenever you want.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You snuggle a little closer, completely content, not noticing how utterly gone he is — not noticing how Mike stays perfectly still, breathing slowly, just trying to process how much he likes you.

For you, it was just a fun afternoon.

For Mike Wheeler, it was the best day of his life.

It happens again.

The coffee you were counting on to save your morning before work at the Daily Planet? Yeah, it’s now all over your favorite white blouse. And it’s not like someone bumped into you, or the lid wasn’t on right. Nope. It’s just you. Your natural-born clumsiness, tagging along like an annoying little sibling.

“Great,” you mutter, holding the cup that’s now half-empty, half-soaked into your shirt, sticky warmth sliding down your stomach.

In the building’s glass doors, your reflection looks less like a professional reporter and more like someone who survived a caffeine war.

And then, because the universe apparently has jokes, you hear that voice behind you.

“You okay there?”

You turn slowly, and yep—there he is. Clark Kent. Beige jacket, tie slightly crooked, that boy-next-door smile that could melt the entire state of Kansas.

Your first instinct? Shrink into yourself like maybe he won’t notice you.

“I’m fine. Totally fine.” You take one step back—aaaand of course, you trip over the curb.

He doesn’t even give gravity the chance to embarrass you. His big hand catches your elbow, steadying you like it’s second nature.

“Coffee might disagree with you,” he teases, nodding at the stain spreading across your blouse.

Your face heats up hotter than the actual coffee.

“I’m a complete mess,” you mutter under your breath.

Clark just shakes his head, still smiling, still infuriatingly calm.

“Or just human. One of the most charming humans I know.”

Your heartbeat kicks up like you sprinted up three flights of stairs, and it’s barely 9 a.m.

The Planet is buzzing like always—phones ringing, people typing, printers screeching. You try to stay focused at your desk, but your clumsiness already left its mark: spilled coffee on your blouse, toppled a stack of papers that went flying like snow in July, and now… the plate.

The plate from the break room that was only supposed to hold your sandwich.

You picked it up carefully, swore you had a good grip. But of course, your fingers betrayed you, and the sharp crash of ceramic shattering against the tile floor made the entire newsroom go dead silent for a second.

Your hands start to shake. Anxiety hits you fast, like a wave. Your chest tightens, breathing quickens. Everyone’s staring. Again. You’re the clumsy one. The girl who breaks stuff.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, crouching down to pick up the shards with trembling hands, eyes burning. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Before your shaky breaths spiral into full-on tears, a larger pair of hands intercept yours.

“Careful, you’ll cut yourself,” Clark says, voice low and steady, like he’s talking straight to your nerves.

He kneels beside you, calmly collecting the broken pieces and placing them neatly on a tray. Like it’s no big deal. Like you’re no big deal disaster.

“It’s fine,” he adds, those ridiculously blue eyes softening when they meet yours. “It’s just a plate.”

But your chest still feels tight, panic still pressing down.

“But it’s always me, Clark. Every time. I break things, I spill stuff, I trip… It’s like I can’t do anything right.”

He pauses, really looks at you, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to read the parts of you you don’t say out loud. Then he smiles. That warm, devastatingly gentle smile that feels like a hug.

“Wanna know what I see?” he asks.

You don’t answer—you can’t, not past the lump in your throat.

“I see someone who shows up every day and tries, no matter what. Even when things don’t go perfectly, you keep going. And honestly? That’s worth more than being ‘perfect.’”

A tear slips before you can stop it, but Clark’s thumb brushes it away before it can slide down your cheek.

“Clark…” you whisper.

“Shhh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, the noise of the newsroom fades out. It’s just his eyes, steady and safe, and your breathing slowly syncing to the calm rhythm of his presence.

Later, after work, Clark insists on walking you to your favorite coffee shop. You argue half-heartedly, but deep down you’re grateful.

Of course, you spill coffee again. This time on the table.

Clark chuckles softly, grabbing a napkin and helping you mop it up.

“You know what I think?” he says, leaning an elbow on the table, watching you with that maddening calm.

“That I should be banned from being within ten feet of anything breakable or liquid?”

He laughs, the sound so warm it makes you forget the mess.

“No. I think your clumsiness is kinda… your trademark. Like a reminder that perfection doesn’t exist. And honestly, that’s what makes you real.”

You stare at him, torn between laughing and crying.

“Clark Kent… are you seriously telling me I’m an adorable mess?”

His smile widens, head tipping slightly, voice low and honest.

“Exactly that.”

Your cheeks flush hot. And yeah, your cup threatens to slip again, but for once, it doesn’t matter. Because when Clark looks at you like that, you know—even if you broke a thousand plates, he’d always be there to help you pick up the pieces.

The night ends with the two of you walking through Metropolis, city lights glowing, a cool breeze brushing against you. You trip over a crack in the sidewalk—classic—but Clark’s hand is already in yours before you can stumble.

“Guess I’ll have to stick close to make sure you don’t hurt yourself,” he teases, smile tugging at his lips.

“Is that a promise, Kent?” you ask, half-embarrassed, half-hopeful.

He squeezes your hand gently, like sealing it with more than words.

“Yeah. It’s a promise.”

And in that moment—between laughter, clumsy chaos, and long glances—you realize that even the messiest hearts can feel safe… when Clark Kent is the one holding them.

The noise of Metropolis never really stopped. Car horns, footsteps, a dozen conversations blending together on the sidewalk, the faint hum of the city’s heartbeat. You’d gotten used to it, but whenever Clark was around, it all felt… quieter. Like his presence alone could hush the chaos and make the world breathe easier for a second.

He was your boyfriend. Even after a few weeks, it still felt strange to think about. Not because you didn’t want it—God, you did—but because relationships always had an expiration date in your life. Three months, tops. That was your average. You gave everything, poured yourself into it, only to be left with nothing at the end. And now? Now you were just waiting for history to repeat itself.

Clark didn’t seem like the others. But that tiny voice in your head whispered that it didn’t matter. It always ended the same.

“Thinking too much again?” His deep voice pulled you out of your spiral. You were sitting in the break room at the Daily Planet, a half-empty mug of coffee in front of you. Clark leaned against the table, tie loosened, glasses sliding just enough down his nose so he could look you in the eye.

You forced your signature smile—the one everyone knew you for, sunshine bright. “Me? No way.”

That smile worked on everyone else. Not him.

He gave you that knowing grin, the one that said “you can’t fool me.”

Before you could blink, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Simple, casual, but it sent your heartbeat racing. You hated how easy it was for him to get under your skin. Feelings this strong, this fast… that was dangerous territory.

“You’ve been staring at your coffee for three minutes straight,” he teased, voice soft but steady.

“Maybe I was waiting for it to cool down,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“Or maybe you were doubting me again.” His words weren’t sharp, just… true.

And there it was again. That ability of his to see straight through you, right past the sunshine façade you wore for the world. No one else had ever cared to look. Instead of calming you down, it scared you.

You sighed and looked down at the mug. “It’s just… you don’t get it.”

“Then help me get it,” he said gently, his hand brushing against yours on the table. He didn’t force, didn’t push—just offered.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t easy to say it out loud, but something about him made you want to try. “Every relationship I’ve had… it ends the same way. I give everything—my time, my energy, my heart—and they barely give the bare minimum. And when I finally realize it, I’m already left behind. Alone again. I don’t want…” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard before finishing, “I don’t want that with you.”

Clark’s hand closed around yours, warm and steady. His eyes never left yours. “I’m not them.”

God, you wanted to believe him. You really did. But that wall you’d built was tall, reinforced, and unshakable. Believing him meant risking being hurt all over again.

He leaned in just a little closer, calm as ever, like patience itself was stitched into his bones. “Look at me.”

You did, even though your eyes were glassy.

“I love you.”

The words landed in your chest like a punch and a hug all at once.

Your first reaction wasn’t joy. It was fear.

You blinked fast, then let out a shaky laugh, like he’d just told a joke. “No… you can’t love me. We’ve only been together a couple of months, Clark. This doesn’t… it doesn’t last. Not for me. It never lasts.”

He shook his head slowly, still holding your gaze like it was the most important thing in the world. “It lasts when both people want it to. And I do. I want this. I want you. I want to give you everything you deserve—even if you don’t think you deserve it yet.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t just fear. It was that tiny spark of hope trying to push through the cracks.

“I don’t know if I can believe that yet,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

Clark’s thumb brushed your cheek so gently it nearly broke you. “Then don’t believe it yet. Just… let me show you. One day at a time.”

You sat there, trapped between the storm and the sunshine. Between the part of you that swore you were destined to repeat the same heartbreak, and the softer, quieter part that wanted to believe this man really could be different.

That day, you didn’t say “I love you too.” You couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull away either. When he wrapped you in his arms and you pressed your forehead against his chest, you realized something: the wound was still there, but maybe—just maybe—you were ready to start healing.

One day at a time.

Chaos hit Metropolis without warning. An explosion in the middle of downtown, a black column of smoke tearing through the sky. People were running, cars crashed into each other in panic, and the street filled with screaming.

You had no idea how you ended up in the middle of it. You’d just left the office, a few blocks away from the Daily Planet, when the blast shook the ground. You turned just in time to see a mother stumble with her little boy in her arms, dust raining down around her. Your instincts took over.

—“Let me help you!” —you shouted, reaching for the kid—. “It’s okay, it’s okay, we’re gonna get out—”

But you never made it that far. A rough arm yanked you back and a cold gun barrel pressed hard against your temple.

—“Move,” —a raspy voice ordered, dragging you into the half-collapsed building.

The world shrank into shaky breaths, the metallic taste of dust in your mouth, and fear thundering through your chest. The guy—some ex-soldier turned mercenary—was shouting demands at the cops outside. He wanted money, a helicopter, a way out. And you? You were his leverage.

And then he showed up.

That flash of blue and red, descending through the smoke like a force of nature. His cape whipped behind him, every step heavy, unshakable. But it wasn’t the strength that hit you like a punch to the chest. It was his eyes.

Blue, crystal clear—and right now, full of a fury that could barely cover the fear underneath.

—“Let her go.” —Superman’s voice rumbled like thunder, steady and commanding. But you knew what was beneath it. Clark’s voice. And it was breaking.

The man laughed nervously, pressing the gun harder against your head. —“One more step and she’s dead. You really wanna risk letting Metropolis watch you screw up, Superman?”

Clark froze. And right there, in the smoke and rubble, his whole world split.

He was Superman. He had to save everyone—the cops outside, the civilians still trapped, the whole damn city that believed in him. But you were the one in the crosshairs. You, the person he loved, the one who knew him beyond the cape.

A hero isn’t supposed to hesitate. But Clark Kent did.

You could see the tension in his shoulders, every muscle screaming at him to move, to take you out of danger. He could, in less than a second. But that twitchy finger on the trigger? One wrong move and you’d be gone.

—“Listen to me,” —he said, his voice half-command, half-plea—. “She’s not part of this. Let her go and no one else has to get hurt.”

For a moment, the man faltered. And in that moment, everything went to hell.

A shout, a tug, and then the gun went off.

The sound exploded in your ears, and fire tore through your side as you hit the ground. The air ripped out of your lungs, your vision flickering white.

—“NO!” —Clark’s roar rattled the walls.

The next heartbeat was a blur: the guy slammed into the wall, unconscious, his gun skidding away. Then Clark was on his knees beside you, his hands shaking as they pressed down on the wound in your abdomen.

—“No, no, no, baby, stay with me. Look at me, breathe. You’re gonna be fine.” —His words tumbled out fast, desperate, so unlike the untouchable hero the world knew.

The pain was blinding, but you reached weakly for his wrist, trying to tell him not to blame himself. Only a whisper made it past your lips.

—“Not… your fault…”

Clark shook his head hard, eyes already glassy with tears streaking down his face.

—“Yes, it is. It always is. I knew this could happen. Loving you puts a damn target on your back, and I was selfish anyway. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

The floor beneath you felt cold, distant. Keeping your eyes open was impossible, but the last thing you wanted was to stop seeing him.

—“Please… just stay.” —Clark leaned his forehead to yours, his voice breaking apart completely—. “Don’t leave me. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Your eyes slipped shut, and the last sound you heard was his choked sob, raw and guttural. Then he was lifting you, cradling you against his chest like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

He launched into the sky, cape wrapping around you, his heartbeat pounding louder than the wind rushing past. Every second, every mile to the hospital, he was caught in the same tearing truth:

He’d stopped the bad guy. He’d saved the city.

But he hadn’t saved you.

And what good was Superman if he couldn’t protect the only person who truly mattered?

When he landed at the hospital, nurses and doctors rushed toward you, barking orders. For the first time, Clark didn’t want to let go. You were pale in his arms, limp, and he felt heavier than the entire planet he carried every day.

—“She’ll die if I don’t take her in now,” —he said, voice cracking, stripped of Superman’s authority. Just Clark. Just a man begging.

They pried you from his arms. And in that sterile hallway, Clark Kent—Earth’s mightiest hero—collapsed to his knees, his hands stained with your blood, drowning in the one choice he could never make:

Save the world… or save you.

Spring in Metropolis has zero chill. One day the sidewalks are covered in gray slush, everyone’s buried under puffy coats, and the next day? Boom. Flowers everywhere, kids sprinting around with ice cream dripping down their arms, and the Daily Planet newsroom sounding like a pollen-allergy support group.

And there you are, right in the middle of it all, spinning a pen in your hand, a folder full of articles in front of you… and a secret sitting in your chest so loud you’re shocked nobody else hears it.

You’re pregnant again.

A rainbow baby.

The phrase had found you during long, sleepless nights—the kind where grief sits heavy and the internet becomes both a comfort and a curse. Blog posts, late-night forums, stories from women who’d been there too. A rainbow baby: the little one who comes after the storm. Who doesn’t erase the pain, but brings new hope. Like sunlight breaking through rain.

And now here you are, at your swivel chair in the bullpen, chewing on your lip, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to tell Clark.

Clark.

That man has many talents—super-strength, x-ray vision, lifting cars like they’re grocery bags—but the one that gets you every single time? The way he loves you. Without hesitation. Without blame. He never made you feel broken. When you couldn’t even hold a glass of water without shaking, he was your steady hands. When you cried halfway through a dumb rom-com, he was your shoulder. When the world got cruel, he was your shield.

And yet… you’re still scared. Because what if this time, with another little heartbeat inside you, he breaks again? What if it’s too much?

“Spacing out again?”

Lois’s voice snaps you back to Earth. She drops a mountain of papers on your desk so hard you nearly spill your coffee.

“Jesus, Lois! You trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Please. You scare easier than anyone I know. Remember that time you screamed because you saw your own reflection in the window?”

“It was dark! And it looked like someone else!” you shoot back, knowing there’s no winning here.

Lois smirks, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Anyway, stop daydreaming and get to work. Perry wants that draft by five. Oh, and…” She leans down, lowering her voice. “You’ve got that glow again.”

You freeze.

“What glow?”

“That glow.” She points her pen at your face. “The same one you had when you first started sneaking around with Smallville.”

“It’s not a glow!” you blurt out way too fast.

“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.” Lois smirks. “Look, you don’t have to tell me. But if it’s what I think it is? You better tell Clark soon. You know him—he’ll figure it out before you can blink.”

The irony almost makes you laugh. Not smell it. But hear it. And that thought sends a rush of nervous warmth straight to your stomach.

Clark comes home late that night. There’d been some train accident outside the city, and he still has soot on his face, his tie is crooked, and his shirt collar looks like it gave up on life.

“How was your day?” he asks, setting his briefcase down before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Oh, you know. Lois yelling, Perry stressing, Jimmy spilling coffee all over his camera. Controlled chaos.”

Clark chuckles, that low, warm laugh that never fails to settle your nerves. He drops onto the couch beside you, arm slipping around your shoulders.

For a second, you almost tell him. You almost let it spill right there, raw and shaky, just to get it out before your chest explodes. But the words choke in your throat.

Instead, you curl into him. Hide in his warmth.

He rests his chin on your hair, like he always does. And then it happens.

His body goes still. Just for a beat. But enough. His breathing changes—slower, focused.

No.

Yes.

He pulls back, eyes wide, filled with something so pure it makes him look like a kid on Christmas morning.

“…Is it real?” he whispers, afraid to break it if he says it too loud.

Your eyes sting instantly.

“I— I wanted to wait. I wasn’t ready. I was scared of how you’d—”

Clark doesn’t let you finish. He wraps you up, crushing you against his chest like you’re the most precious thing in the universe.

“Babe, how could you think I wouldn’t be happy?” he murmurs into your hair. “This baby… it’s a miracle. You’re a miracle.”

The dam breaks. “But what if… what if it happens again?”

He cups your cheeks, steady and warm.

“Then we go through it together. Like we always do. But this time? I believe. I believe in hope.” His smile is soft, almost trembling. “And I think you do too.”

Your sobs mix with nervous giggles, a mess of tears and laughter.

Clark wipes his face with his sleeve in dramatic fashion.

“Great, look at me. You’re ruining my shirt.”

“You already ruined it.” You point at the soot stain on his collar.

He laughs, and it fills the whole room like sunlight.

The months that follow are pure chaos—and pure comedy. Clark becomes the World’s Greatest Babysitter. For you.

One step on a staircase? He’s behind you like a hawk.

“Babe, it’s one step.”

“It’s a hazard.”

Grocery bags? You don’t even get a chance to pick them up before he’s carrying all of them like they’re weightless. Bend down to grab a paper off the floor? He swoops in at super-speed like it’s a rescue mission. He even gives a TED Talk about how heels are a “structural risk.”

It’s adorable. And maddening.

One morning, you’re trying to put on socks when he shows up with that overprotective-dad face.

“Let me do it.”

“Clark, I can put on my own socks!”

“But your balance—”

“They’re socks, not a rollercoaster!”

He throws up his hands in surrender, then bursts out laughing when you shove your foot triumphantly into the sock like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

Lois shows up one summer afternoon with an entire bag of baby clothes.

“Before you say anything, yes, I went nuts. But seriously, look at this tiny jacket!” She pulls out the world’s smallest yellow cardigan.

Clark takes it with trembling hands, staring at it like it’s holy.

“It’s so… little.”

“Yes, Smallville. Because it’s for a baby.” Lois rolls her eyes, but her voice softens.

You snicker. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you intimidated by something so tiny.”

“This isn’t intimidation,” Clark mutters, clearing his throat. “It’s… respect.”

Lois scoffs. “Oh, please. You’re gonna be an amazing dad. Just don’t wrap the kid in bubble wrap, okay?”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but you’re already laughing so hard he just caves.

Later, as you’re folding the clothes into drawers, Clark slides behind you, hands gently resting on your growing belly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For giving me hope again. For being so damn brave.”

You turn, pressing your forehead to his.

“Clark… I didn’t do this alone. You’re my bravery.”

His eyes close, his smile small but radiant. Like those words are the greatest gift he’s ever been given.

And in that moment, you know: the fear’s still there. But so is love. And hope. And most importantly—so is your future.

A future where your rainbow baby will be born into a world of laughter, arms that never let go, and a family strong enough to survive any storm.

The bathroom is way too quiet for your liking. Or maybe it’s just too damn loud inside your head: the imaginary ticking of a clock, the sound of the faucet you left running to cover your shaky breathing, and that stupid little piece of plastic trembling between your fingers because you’re holding it way too tight.

Two lines.

Not one. Two.

“No, no, no, no…” you mumble under your breath, even though your heart is pounding so loud you’re pretty sure the neighbors could hear it.

You knew there was a chance, but seeing it confirmed right there, in bright pink ink, is a whole different story. Your first thought isn’t about cribs, diapers, or a tiny baby with dark curls and ridiculous blue eyes. Your first thought is Clark.

What if he’s not ready? What if he doesn’t want this? What if he looks at you with that “I love you but not like this” face and just…?

The knot in your throat gets too big to swallow, and you end up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, clutching the test like it’s a death sentence.

That’s exactly what Clark walks in on when he comes home from work.

“Honey?” his voice calls out as soon as the door shuts. He always does that—announces himself like he’s worried you’ll think he’s an intruder. You hold your breath for a second, praying he’ll stay in the kitchen, but of course not. Supersonic hearing ruins everything.

Your muffled sobs give you away first.

And Clark? Clark Kent goes into full-blown panic mode.

“Babe?!” The thud of his boots against the hallway floor is so quick you’d swear he flew half the way. The bathroom door flies open and there he is: wide eyes, tie already half-yanked off like he expected to bandage you up from some bullet wound or worse.

The second he sees you on the floor, tears streaming down your face, he drops down on his knees in front of you, hands all over like he’s trying to check for injuries.

“What happened? Where does it hurt? Who did this?”

The desperation in his voice just makes your chest ache more, so you lift the test up with shaky hands.

“Please don’t hate me…” you whisper, barely audible.

Clark blinks. Once. Twice. Then his gaze drops.

Dead silence.

Until his brows pinch together, and he leans a little closer.

“Wait… two lines means positive, right?”

You nod, panic still heavy in your chest.

Clark stares at the stick like it’s some alien artifact from the Phantom Zone. Then he looks back at you, and—against all odds—he grins. Big. Bright. Stupid.

“Oh my God… you’re amazing!” he blurts, and before you can even process, he’s scooping you up off the floor like you weigh nothing. “We’re having a baby!”

“You’re not mad?” you ask, your voice barely steady, face still buried in his shirt.

Clark lets out a laugh, that deep one that rumbles right from his chest.

“Mad? Babe, this is literally the best plot twist of my life.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, still holding you like you might disappear if he lets go.

“Do you know what this means? I get to teach somebody else how to make apple pie that doesn’t end in tragedy. I get to buy tiny socks and pretend they’re for me. And—oh, God—can you imagine a baby with your dimples? I’m done. I’m toast. Game over.”

You stare at him like he’s lost it—which, yeah, maybe he has—but the nervous laugh that slips out of you breaks through the choking panic in your chest.

“I thought you’d run.”

Clark gives you the most dramatic offended face.

“Run? Babe, I’m literally the fastest man alive and I’ve never once run away from you.”

That ridiculous line earns him a weak punch to the chest through your tears, which only makes him laugh harder.

Then he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, dropping his voice softer.

“I mean it. This makes me happy. It’s scary, sure. But all that matters to me is that we’re doing this together. You and me. Always.”

And for the first time in the last hour, the knot in your throat finally loosens.

The smell of garlic and butter fills the apartment, blending with the warm glow of the kitchen light. Clark moves carefully between pots and pans, thinking about you, about how you’ve seemed a little… off lately. He’s noticed you’ve been low on energy, quieter than usual, and something in his chest tells him that a homemade meal—your favorite one—might lift your spirits, even just a little.

He minces garlic, sautés vegetables, checks the oven. Every detail is for you: your favorite dish, exactly how you like it, with the precise seasonings and textures. He knows a nice dinner won’t magically fix everything, but maybe it’ll remind you that someone’s looking out for you, that you’re not alone on your rough days.

When he finally plates everything, he sets the table with care. A candle flickers, napkins neatly folded, all simple but thoughtful. “Hope this makes you smile…” he murmurs to himself, grinning softly as he remembers your laugh on the weekends when you cook together.

When he calls you to dinner, you look surprised by the smell. “Clark… wow… this smells amazing.” Your eyes light up a little, and he feels a small wave of relief. For a moment, everything seems normal, like one of those happy, ordinary days you both treasure.

You pick up your knife and fork, start cutting your food, and he notices something: you only take a couple bites before putting the fork down. Your plate is still mostly full.

“Uh… already full?” he asks gently, trying not to sound too concerned.

“Yeah… I’m good,” you reply, a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I ate at work… don’t worry about it.”

Clark studies your plate, your face, your posture… and he knows that’s not true. He works with you at the Daily Planet; he sees you all day. He hasn’t seen you eat anything. But he doesn’t push it, just keeps observing quietly, worried.

Still, he tries to keep things light. “Okay… we can save the rest for later, if you want, or just put some aside,” he says, trying to make the dinner feel normal. But deep down, there’s a knot in his chest. It’s not just that you haven’t eaten much—it’s that he’s seen you shy away from something that normally brings you joy.

You take one tiny bite more, and he realizes there’s something bigger going on. But in that moment, all he can do is offer presence and patience. Every gesture—soft smiles, a light touch on your hand, a playful wink—reminds you that you’re not alone.

Later that night, the clock hits three a.m., and a sound drifts through the apartment: a soft, almost whispering shuffle. Clark stirs in bed, noticing you’re not beside him. His chest tightens slightly. “Where’d she go…?” he mutters to himself, worried. Moonlight spills through the window, and he rises quietly, following an instinct he can’t explain.

The floor is cold under his bare feet as he approaches the kitchen. The door is slightly open, and the dim light reveals your silhouette in front of the fridge. His heart aches when he sees the piece of cake in your hand, your mouth smeared with frosting, your eyes red and wet. You’re crying silently, as if hoping no one will see.

Clark moves closer, not saying a word at first, just watching. There’s no judgment in his eyes, only tenderness and concern. Every bite you take, almost mindlessly, makes his chest ache with both sadness and affection: he’s noticed you eating so little these past weeks, and now, in the middle of the night, he understands what’s been happening.

“Hey… I’m here,” he whispers, warm and soothing. He doesn’t make you drop the cake or stop eating; he just stands there. And in that chaos, a small thread of relief winds through you.

When you finally tilt your head toward him, he’s all softness. He sits down beside you on the kitchen floor, resting an elbow on the counter and offering his hand. “Let’s just breathe together. That’s it, okay?”

You try, shaky and uneven, following his slow, steady rhythm. His presence eases the tension bit by bit; you realize you’re not alone, even though you felt like you were.

“You know…” he starts, low and firm. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been eating much these past few weeks. I’ve been worried.” There’s no blame, only care. Your shoulders shake and you look at the cake, embarrassed.

He nods gently, not pushing. “It's okay… but even so… I’m here for you. Always.” His arm wraps around your shoulders, and you lean into him, letting him hold you.

He wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, then presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay… you don’t have to hide it. You don’t have to fight this alone.” His warmth, his steady heartbeat, his reassuring voice, it all slowly untangles the knot in your chest.

Minutes pass, silent except for your breaths syncing with his. Each gentle gesture—an arm around your back, a kiss to your hair, a soft squeeze—reminds you that even in your messiest, most vulnerable moments, someone loves you completely.

Eventually, he guides you to the couch, still with the cake in your hands. “You don’t have to finish it right now. What matters is that you know I’m here… that you don’t have to face this alone.” You snuggle into him, and for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can be fully yourself without hiding.

Clark looks down at you with nothing but tenderness. He doesn’t need to say more; his silence says it all: he understands, he supports you, and together you can get through these rough patches.

The air in the city was thick with this weird quiet, the kind that always made your nerves spike. Clark had been checking every street and alley for days, tracking the guy who’d been going after women alone. Every failed attempt made him more frustrated, but he knew with a little patience, he could catch the guy—and make sure no one else got hurt.

“I trust you,” you’d said the night before as he adjusted your jacket, “just… be careful.”

“Always,” he’d said, that deep voice of his making you feel safe. “But this time, I need you… to be my bait.”

The word made you raise an eyebrow, but you didn’t argue. You trusted him, always had. And honestly, knowing he had a plan to finally catch this guy gave you a weird kind of relief—even though your heart was hammering.

“Just stay alert and follow my instructions,” he said, guiding you to the corner of a dimly lit alley. “If all goes well, it’ll be quick.”

You walked slowly, trying to look casual. You noticed the tension in his face, the way his hands kept clenching like he was holding back a storm. And then, just like Clark predicted, he appeared.

A tall man, face partially covered, eyes cold as ice, stepped out from the shadows. Your stomach dropped. Before you could react, a burst of gunfire grazed your arm, slicing the skin and sending a sharp sting up your nerve endings. Blood started to form in a thin line, and your breathing hitched.

“Don’t move!” Clark’s voice boomed from the shadows, urgent and full of command.

Before the guy could make another move, Clark was there—faster than your eyes could track—blocking him and slamming him against the wall with impossible strength. His gaze locked on you, wide and worried, his blue eyes radiating concern and just the tiniest bit of guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, voice cracking slightly, that mix of fear and guilt making your heart ache.

“I’m fine… just a scratch,” you managed, trying to sound calm while he inspected your wounded arm carefully.

Clark closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, then pulled you into his arms, holding you close, strong but gentle. You could feel every muscle in him tense and release, the guilt leaking out in every gesture.

“No… I shouldn’t have let you go through this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “This is my fault.”

You looked him straight in the eye, lifting your hand to brush his cheek. His face was a storm of emotion, and all you wanted was to calm him down.

“Clark,” you said softly, “listen. This isn’t your fault. I trust you and… you saved me. Yeah, I got a little hurt, but it could’ve been worse if I were alone. You saved me. That’s what matters.”

He sighed, forehead pressing against yours. The guilt in his eyes started mixing with relief, his arm tightening around you like he was scared to let go.

“I can’t stand seeing you hurt,” he whispered. “I swear, if I could turn back time, I would.”

“Shh…” you murmured, resting your head on his chest. “It’s okay. You’re here, and that’s what counts. I’m fine. You’ve got me.”

His fingers traced soft lines over your wounded arm, his breath shaking. Every gesture was laced with worry and love. He gave you a small, vulnerable smile—something very few people ever got to see.

“You’re insanely brave,” he said, voice trembling. “I don’t know how you do this.”

“Because I’ve got you,” you said, grinning despite the fear. “You’re always here for me.”

His chest moved against your head, a tiny gesture but loaded with emotion. You hugged him tight, feeling the tension and guilt slip from him, replaced with relief and warmth.

“Thank you for being with me,” he whispered. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Always,” you said, nuzzling into his chest. “Even when you’re using me as bait.”

Clark let out a small gasp, and you both laughed quietly, breaking the tension of the night. Ridiculous, yes, but somehow perfect.

“I’ll never put you in danger like this again,” he promised. “Unless it’s absolutely necessary. But even then… I’ll always protect you.”

“I know,” you said, resting your head on his chest. “And that’s enough for me. Always.”

The city hummed quietly around you, but you both knew it was just a pause. Nothing could erase the fact that the night had been dangerous. Yet, as Clark held you tight, and you comforted him with your words and touch, everything felt a little safer. Because at the end of the day, nothing mattered more than being together—and taking care of each other.

And Clark knew that.

The evening started off calm enough. Your two-year-old was running around the living room, his giggles bouncing off the walls while you finished getting ready to go out. A girls’ night with Lois and Cat didn’t sound like anything wild, but after two years of diapers, bottles, and zero sleep, it was practically a luxury getaway.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” you asked Clark, slipping on your coat and grabbing your bag.

He gave you that warm, grounding smile that always made your nerves settle, brushing a hand over your son’s hair.

“I’m Superman,” he teased with a wink. “How hard can babysitting be for one night?”

You laughed, stealing a quick kiss before bending down to eye-level with your son.

“Be good for Daddy, okay, love? Mommy’s coming back soon.”

Your little boy nodded absentmindedly, way too focused on pushing a toy truck across the carpet. He didn’t seem worried at all. But the second the door shut behind you… everything fell apart.

Clark had barely started picking up toys when he heard the first whimper. Turning around, he saw your son standing in the middle of the room, lower lip trembling, eyes filling fast with tears.

“Hey, buddy… what’s wrong?” Clark crouched down, concern already spreading.

The answer was a full-blown wail, loud enough to shake the Kent farmhouse in Smallville.

“Mamaaaa!”

Clark froze for half a second, panic flashing across his face. He scooped the kid up, rocking him back and forth.

“Mommy’s coming back soon, champ. You’re hanging out with me tonight, alright?”

But the crying didn’t stop. Clark tried making funny faces, puffing out his cheeks, crossing his eyes, even making goofy noises with his lips. Nothing. The sobbing just got louder.

“Okay… that didn’t work,” Clark muttered under his breath, bouncing him gently.

He tried toys. Tickles. Even pulled out a bedtime story book early. Nada. The only thing your son wanted was you.

Clark flopped onto the couch, his son still crying into his shoulder. That’s when his eyes landed on the picture frame on the coffee table. He grabbed it with one free hand and showed it.

It was a photo of you, laughing under the sun, hair wind-tossed.

“Look, buddy… it’s Mommy.” Clark smiled softly.

The crying hiccupped to a stop. Your son stared, reaching for the frame with chubby little hands.

“Mama!” he squealed, this time not in distress but in delight.

Clark’s heart melted instantly. Idea unlocked. He stood up, went to the closet, and dragged out a heavy box: family photo albums.

“You wanna see more pictures of Mommy?”

Your toddler clapped, eyes sparkling through leftover tears.

Storytime, Kent style

One by one, Clark opened the albums. You in college, you at your first job, you laughing at a fair, you with him at your wedding.

“Here’s Mommy the day we first met,” he explained, pointing at a younger you in a simple dress, glowing.

The little boy listened intently, his tiny hands brushing each page like he could get closer to you that way.

“And here—” Clark pointed to another, from a summer trip. “Mommy was so happy that day ‘cause she got the biggest ice cream cone you’ve ever seen… and nearly spilled it all over her dress.”

That earned a giggle, soft but genuine. Clark felt like he’d just been handed oxygen after drowning. He kept going, narrating every picture, filling in with silly details when his memory failed.

Hours slipped by. The couch turned into a sea of open albums, loose photos, and cozy laughter. Your son curled up against Clark’s chest, eyes heavy, clinging to every “Mom story.”

When you finally walked through the door—tired but glowing from your night out—you froze at the sight.

Clark was on the couch, surrounded by albums like some kind of memory explosion had gone off. Your son was fast asleep in his arms, clutching one of your photos like it was a stuffed animal. Clark, hair rumpled and glasses crooked, gave you a sheepish but proud grin.

“Think we survived,” he whispered, careful not to wake him.

Your heart twisted in the sweetest way. You walked over, brushing your hand over your son’s soft hair.

“What on earth happened here?”

Clark chuckled quietly, kissing the top of your little boy’s head.

"Let's just say... toys, books, funny faces--none of it worked.

The only thing he wanted was you. So I told him stories. A

lot of them."

Tears pricked your eyes as you looked at the chaos of

photos around them.

"Oh, Clark.."

He lowered his voice, a touch of wonder in his tone.

"You know, I never realized how many stories about you I

had in my head... until I had to tell them all tonight."

You sank down beside him, resting your head on his

shoulder. Your son sighed in his sleep, hugging the photo

tighter. Clark's arm slipped around you, holding his whole

world in one frame: you, him, and the little boy who adored

you.

In that quiet moment, you knew-your son would never

question how much love surrounded him.