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buckysloverrr · 21 days ago

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My Friend, Superman

Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You’ve spent months falling for two men: Clark Kent and Superman. One soft but distant, the other larger-than-life and burning. But when a rooftop secret finally breaks, the truth hits harder than any fall—because they’re the same man, and he’s been in love with you from the start.

Word count: 16k

T/w: 18+, mdni, Friends to Lovers, Filthy Sweet Smut, Praise Kink, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Cowgirl Position, Clark getting jealous of himself, Clark Kent is So in Love It’s Embarrassing

The rooftop is cold this late, even in spring. The kind of cold that wraps around your ankles like smoke and settles in your bones, unnoticed until it’s already made a home there. The wind comes off the river with a low, lonely howl, threading its way between the buildings, tugging at your sleeves, chilling the tips of your ears.

The glow from the Daily Planet’s rotating globe above casts a soft gold halo over the rooftop, broken in places by rusted beams and pigeon-shadowed ledges. It makes everything look softer than it is. You sit near the edge with your knees pulled up, mug cupped between your palms, fingers curled tight around the chipped ceramic. The coffee is reheated, burnt, far too bitter. It sticks to your tongue like ash, but the warmth helps.

Your legs dangle over the ledge like a dare. The city hums below, alive and indifferent. Sirens scream in the distance. A car honks and doesn’t stop. Neon flickers against the glass of neighboring buildings. A billboard across the avenue cycles through three rotating ads, each brighter and more ridiculous than the last.

You close your eyes. Let your head tilt back. Let the noise blur. It’s been another long day, endless edits, typo corrections that weren’t yours, layout arguments you weren’t invited to fix but were expected to solve. And then, of course, there was him.

Clark Kent passed you in the hallway again this afternoon. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened. He smiled that sweet, bashful smile that always makes your chest feel too small and kept walking. Like nothing flickered. Like you didn’t want to stop him. Like he didn’t carry the weight of your attention in every step.

You sigh.

You stay late a lot these days. At first it was about deadlines. Then it became about space. Solitude. Stillness. Avoiding the sound of your neighbor’s latest “guy,” or the way your apartment echoes too much when you’re alone in it.

And then, somewhere along the way… he started showing up.

You don’t hear him land. It’s more like you feel it. The air shifts. The rooftop pressure dips like a storm rolling in, only calmer, warmer, like a held breath finally let go. Then the sound: a barely-there thud of boots on concrete, subtle enough to mistake for imagination if you weren’t already listening for him.

You open your eyes just as the wind stills and there he is.

He stands against the backdrop of the sky like he belongs to it. Silhouetted in starlight. Backlit by the city’s glow. Red cape stirring in the wind behind him, long and silent and soft like a sigh. The blue of his suit catches flecks of gold from the globe above, glinting like embers trapped under fabric.

He’s not smiling yet. Just watching you. That steady, unreadable expression he wears when he’s reading the wind. Reading you.

By all logic, you should be awestruck. He’s a myth made flesh, a force of nature walking on two legs, a god who could turn the Earth if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t look like a god. Not tonight.

He looks like a man who’s tired. Gentle. Steady. Someone who knows how to carry things without making you feel their weight.

“Long shift?” he asks, voice quiet. It’s always quiet with him. Low and smooth, with something careful threaded through it. Like he doesn’t want to break the stillness you’ve built.

You exhale, your breath curling visibly in the air between you. “The longest. The Planet rewrote the front page layout for the third time today. I think I’m legally married to my keyboard now.”

That makes him smile. Not the heroic, picture-perfect smile the world’s seen on the front page. This one’s smaller. Warmer. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention, just gives it.

He laughs under his breath, a sound so rare it always feels like it was meant for you.

You shift over on the ledge without thinking, and he moves just as naturally. Sits beside you with one knee bent up, the other hanging over the edge. The cape pools behind him like a banner at rest.

You don’t dare look too long, but you feel the heat of him beside you, unnatural in the cold. Like he carries the sun in his chest and lets you borrow some of it when you forget what warmth feels like.

“You always show up when I need someone to talk to,” you murmur, sipping your coffee.

He hums. “Just lucky timing.”

But when you glance over, you catch the way he’s looking at you, soft, focused, and unblinking. Like maybe he knew you’d be here. Like maybe he was already halfway across the sky and turned around when he heard your footsteps.

Like maybe he’s been listening for your heartbeat all night.

You pretend not to notice. Pretend not to care that his shoulder is inches from yours. That if you leaned just a little closer, you could rest your head against the emblem on his chest and hear the steady beat beneath it.

He looks back out over the city. You do too. The quiet settles between you, not empty, not awkward, just full. Full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud. All the truths you haven’t worked up the courage to voice yet.

It’s been a few months now. Of this. Of him. Of late nights turning into quiet rituals. He never stays too long. Never explains why he comes. But he listens. Always listens.

You’ve told him things you haven’t told anyone. About your childhood bedroom wallpaper. About the first article you ever published. About the funeral you didn’t cry at, and the birthday you still can’t bring yourself to celebrate.

He never interrupts. Never offers false wisdom. He just… stays. Present. Real. And that matters more than you can admit.

“I think I’m getting too used to this,” you whisper, barely above the wind.

He glances at you. One brow lifted. “Used to what?”

You smile, soft into the rim of your cup. “You. Dropping in like this. Talking to me like I’m not just some reporter who yells at politicians and gets coffee orders wrong.”

His head tilts. That unreadable look again. “You’re not just anything,” he says. “Especially not to me.”

The words fall heavy. Solid. You don’t know what to do with them. So you look at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The softness of his mouth. The way his eyes, those unearthly, unforgettable blue eyes, don’t look through you. They look at you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like you’re something he’s memorized from the inside out.

Your heart trips over itself.

You look away. You don’t know why he comes here. Or why he stays. But you’ve stopped questioning it. Because somewhere between deadline nights and rooftop coffees, between quiet smiles and colder hands brushing too close, you’ve found something here that you didn’t know you needed.

Something that feels like peace.

And for now…

That’s enough.

You don’t know what pulls the words from you tonight. Maybe it’s the stillness, how the rooftop seems to hold its breath when he arrives. Maybe it’s the way the wind dulls, the chaos of Metropolis softening at the edges, as if even the city knows to hush when Superman lands.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The way he listens. Not with the kind of vacant patience people use when they’re waiting for their turn to speak, but the real kind, the kind that makes you feel like your voice is the only sound left in the world worth hearing. Like what you say matters.

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup, ceramic warm against your chilled palms. The bitter scent of burnt roast curls into your nose, the taste still lingering on your tongue like old pennies and late nights. You focus on the swirl of it, watching steam rise into the cold air, hoping it might offer you grace. Or courage.

“There’s this guy at work,” you say at last, voice soft, hesitant. Barely audible over the distant rush of traffic. “Someone I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this much.”

The words feel like they’ve been trapped in your chest for weeks. Maybe longer. You half expect them to get stuck in your throat, but they fall out too easily. Too real.

Superman’s head turns slightly toward you, just enough to catch the shift in his attention. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just waits, still as marble, quiet as snowfall. Only the flick of his cape in the breeze betrays that he’s anything more than stone.

“He’s sweet,” you murmur, tucking a knee beneath you, curling inward. “Kind of dorky. Like… charming in a way that shouldn’t work, but does. Nervous ordering lunch if there’s a line behind him. Stammers sometimes when he talks too fast.”

“Sounds charming,” he says with a soft huff beside you. More breath than laughter, but it’s there.

You let out a low groan and lift your coffee to hide behind it. “He’s impossible.”

“Oh?” he says, amusement warm in the single word.

“I flirt, and he just gives me this wide-eyed look like I’ve offered him a kidney. I complimented his tie once and he turned red all the way to his ears. Like I’d said something indecent.”

You shake your head, laughing into the rim of your mug. It’s easier to talk now, the thread pulled loose and unraveling.

“I brought him coffee every day for a week,” you say, voice quieter. “Put smiley faces on the lid. He said thank you. But not like, ‘thank you beautiful I love you so much’ thank you. It was more like I handed him his dry cleaning and he was thanking me.”

Superman’s lips twitch. Barely. But you catch it. The faintest hint of something, humor, maybe. Or fondness. Or something heavier under the surface.

“He blushes if I so much as stand too close,” you add, half into your cup. “I told him he looked handsome once and he looked like I’d just told him his fly was down in front of the White House press corps.”

“And what’s this mystery man’s name?” Superman asked you.

You pause. The steam from your cup rises, fogging the bottom of your lashes. You can feel the heat blooming in your cheeks before you even say it. Shame coils around your ribs, sharp and a little humiliating, but there’s no point holding it in now.

“…Clark Kent.” The name slips out like a secret. And maybe it is.

The rooftop shifts. Not the wind. Not the world. Him.

He stills beside you. Not visibly. Not obviously. But something settles in his spine. Like the air around him goes denser. Like gravity tugs harder on his frame. Like the whole night narrows.

“Ah,” he says.

Just that.

You glance at him, but his gaze is fixed out on the skyline, jaw set, expression unreadable. The light from the city paints his profile in gold and shadow, and you can’t quite make sense of the tension in it.

You start to regret saying anything. You forgot that Superman and Clark… they know each other. Clark’s the only guy in all of Metropolis to get an interview with Superman, afterall.

“And… he hasn’t made a move?” he asks, but his voice is different now. Quieter. Tighter. Like he’s holding back something sharp in his throat.

You give a small shake of your head. It’s meant to be light, casual, but it doesn’t land that way. Not with the ache behind your words.

“Nope. He probably doesn’t see me that way.” You force a laugh. “I’m background noise. The coworker who won’t shut up about punctuation and calls him out when he leaves his press badge in the copier.”

He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Like the weight of something unspoken is pressing against both of your ribs.

You shift again. Tuck your hands tighter around your mug. Try not to look at him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Lower. Rougher. “I think you’d be surprised.”

You blink. “What?”

His gaze hasn’t moved. His face still turned toward the skyline. But the edge of his voice has changed. It’s softer, yes, but more certain now. Like every word is deliberate. Measured. Carved from truth he’s not supposed to say aloud. “I think… he notices more than you realize.”

The wind brushes past your cheek. Your pulse kicks behind your collarbone.

You stare at him, searching his profile for something you can’t name. “I’ve worked beside him for two years,” you whisper. “He’s never looked at me like…” Like you do, is what you almost say. But you don’t. You can’t.

His throat moves as he swallows. His jaw clenches, subtle. Barely a flicker of tension in a face the world trusts. And you realize, suddenly, that he’s still not looking at you. Like if he does, something will give.

So you don’t push. Just sit beside him. The city below, alive and uncaring. The mug cooling in your hands. The scent of ozone and air and something warmer than either hanging between you.

And Superman, quiet and still beside you, breathes slow. Deep. Like he’s anchoring himself to the edge of something that might, if he isn’t careful, unravel him completely.

The next morning, Clark drops his coffee. It’s not the first time, but something about this one feels more tragic than usual. The lid pops clean off on impact, and a swirl of tan foam splashes in a perfect arc across the bullpen floor, darkening the tile and sending up a scent that’s almost comically specific: oat milk, cinnamon, and the quiet grief of wasted caffeine.

“Shoot,” he mutters, already kneeling to mop it up with a stack of napkins he must’ve grabbed on reflex from the breakroom.

You move without thinking, half-awake and still carrying your own coffee, already reaching into the mess beside him, crouched close enough to feel the residual heat coming off his skin.

Your hands brush and it’s like touching live wire. Just a flicker, skin on skin, the edge of your pinky against the side of his thumb, and he jolts, hands jerking back like you’ve burned him. The napkins flutter to the ground.

You blink at him.

He clears his throat, face already flooding with color, not just his cheeks, but his ears, the back of his neck, the hollow beneath his jaw. All glowing red, like the heat of your touch raced through him and caught fire on its way out.

“I-I’ve got it,” he stammers, not meeting your eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin your shoes.”

You glance down at your boots. Scuffed, cracked, streaked with old ink from a long-forgotten protest assignment. You’d had to sprint through a barricade once in those boots. You’ve poured coffee into storm drains in them. You’ve climbed scaffolding. Sat cross-legged in back alleys. Run from gas canisters.

“Clark,” you say dryly, “they’re already ruined.”

But he doesn’t seem to hear you. Or he’s pretending not to. His attention is fully locked on the floor, hands sweeping in wide, erratic strokes like his whole sense of balance depends on fixing this one, dumb mistake.

You step back slowly. Your coffee cools in your hands as you watch him move. Something in your chest pulls. Tightens. Because he’s been like this all week. Not just awkward. Not just shy. This is different.

This is haunted. Quieter than usual. Smiling too long, like he forgets to stop. Laughing a beat too late, like he’s processing everything on a delay. Tripping over words he used to wield like second nature, like the language itself has turned to static in his mouth.

He’s dropped pens when you brushed past him. You called his name yesterday, just “Clark,” just a greeting, and his voice cracked so hard it drew a stare from Perry across the room. And twice now you’ve looked up to catch him watching you from across the bullpen. Not admiring. Not casual. Not distracted. Just watching. Pinned. Focused. Quietly wrecked. Like you were a flame he couldn’t afford to get closer to and couldn’t look away from.

And yet… he’s everywhere. Holding elevator doors. Pulling out your chair. Leaving an extra muffin, your favorite kind, on the edge of your desk with a Post-It that says “just in case.” Walking you to your car with that sweet, bashful smile, his hands shoved too deep into his pockets like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’d think he was avoiding you. You would think that if he weren’t in your orbit every day like he doesn’t know how to leave it. And you don’t understand it.

Not after last week. Not after the rooftop. Not after you told Superman, told him that Clark Kent barely knew you were alive. That he didn’t see you, not really. That your crush was doomed from the start.

But now? Now Clark looks like a man undone. Like he’s holding something in his chest so tight it’s splitting him open from the inside, and all he knows how to do is mop coffee and run away.

Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut. Maybe Superman said something to Clark. Because now, everything’s shifting.

You feel it in the way he lingers at the corner of your desk. In the way he fumbles over simple questions. In the way his gaze drops to your mouth mid-sentence before he curses himself for it and looks away.

Something’s unraveling.

Some invisible line between you, tugging tighter every time he glances at you like he’s terrified you’ll see what he’s hiding, and even more terrified that you won’t.

“Somebody’s flustered,” Jimmy singsongs, materializing behind your desk like the chaos goblin he is, grinning around two fingers full of instant photos and an open packet of jelly beans.

You blink up from your laptop, still trying to blink sleep out of your eyes from the late night. “What?”

He jerks his chin toward Clark’s desk, where the man in question is currently hunched over a spreadsheet like it personally insulted his intelligence. He’s squinting with such intensity, you’d think the cells were written in code.

“He nearly walked into the copier when you complimented his blazer,” Jimmy says, plunking the photos on your desk and popping a red jelly bean into his mouth. “That’s new, right? The blazer?”

You glance across the bullpen. Navy wool. Soft plaid. A perfect shoulder line and slightly-too-long sleeves that he keeps rolling up mid-morning. You’d said something innocent when he passed your desk earlier, Looks good on you, Kent. Real sharp. Just a kindness. Familiar, warm. Like always. And he’d flushed to the roots. Mumbled something that might’ve been thank you, dropped his papers, and nearly backed into the copier trying to get away.

You cringe a little. “Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable.”

Jimmy snorts so hard he nearly chokes on a jelly bean. “Oh yeah. Uncomfortable people always look like they’re one compliment away from asking for your hand in marriage.”

You shoot him a look.

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I’m just saying. If that boy looked at you any longer earlier, we’d have to slap a warning label on it. Caution: prolonged eye contact may lead to heart palpitations and poor balance.”

You roll your eyes and push his photos back toward him, but his words stick like burrs. Because it’s not just Jimmy.

Lois has been watching you. Watching him. Watching the space between you like it’s saying more than either of you are brave enough to.

She hasn’t said anything directly, Lois rarely does when it comes to other peoples business, but she’s started clearing her throat very pointedly whenever the two of you are in the same room. She’s also taken to referring to you as “Kent’s emotional support columnist,” which you’re not convinced HR would approve of.

And Clark… Clark’s unraveling. His smiles linger too long. His hands fumble around you. He hovers at your desk like he’s building up to something and then chickens out at the last second. Like he’s balancing on the edge of a confession he can’t let go of.

And meanwhile… the nights haven’t stopped. You still find yourself pulled to the rooftop. Coffee in hand. Laptop bag abandoned in a corner. Hair tangled by the wind. Shoulders stiff with the weight of another day trying not to stare at a man who looks at you like he doesn’t know how to stop. And he’s still there.

Superman. He doesn’t come every night but you always hope he will. He lands in silence, always behind you, always just far enough that you hear the wind shift before his boots touch down. The air changes when he arrives. It gets warmer. Quieter. Fuller.

He doesn’t speak at first. Never does. He waits until you do. Until your shoulders drop and your hands stop trembling from typing too much, caring too much, feeling too much. And then he folds into place beside you, a god rendered down into something human, into something yours. Not rehearsed. Not formal. Just… present. Like a ritual neither of you want to name.

You’ve started wondering if he looks forward to it the way you do. The stillness. The city stretched beneath you like a breathing thing. The wind tugging at his cape, the occasional flicker of sirens far below. Sometimes you wonder if you’d even know how to fall asleep without these nights. Lately, though… he’s been asking about Clark.

Not directly. Not enough to raise alarm. But there’s a shift. His silences are longer. His questions softer. Slipped in between sips of coffee and quiet laughter, between stories about Metropolis weirdos and the latest editorial disaster.

“Rough day?”

“Is he treating you well?”

“Has that punk said anything to you?”

You answer honestly. You always do.

Tonight, your mug is balanced precariously on the edge of the ledge beside you, both hands clasped around your knees. The wind threads through your hair. The chill touches the inside of your sleeves and curls behind your ears, but you barely notice it anymore.

“I don’t think he even sees me,” you say. Your voice is barely above a whisper, like if you say it too loud it’ll finally be true. “He looks at me like… like I’m glass. Like I’m going to break if he touches me. Or maybe like he’ll break if he does.”

Superman says nothing at first. Just watches the skyline with those quiet, unreadable eyes. The light from the globe behind you paints him in shifting golds and blues. His cape flutters. The night breathes around him like it belongs to him.

Below, the city pulses. You can hear the muted beat of club bass echoing through the alleys. A woman’s laugh rising somewhere in the distance. A radio playing soft from a cracked window a few floors down, some tired, romantic song about wanting someone who never looks your way.

He turns toward you slowly. “He’s never been good at letting people close,” he says, finally. His voice is low. Strained around the edges. “Sometimes he worries that if he opens the door… the whole house will fall down.”

You frown, studying him. “That sounds… oddly specific. You two must actually be friends, after all.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. Eyes so blue they look painted. Like rain and lightning and old sky. There’s something burning in them tonight, something bright and breaking beneath the surface.

He swallows. Barely. “It’s not hard to recognize fear when you’ve lived in it,” he murmurs. “Even when it wears glasses.”

Your breath catches. But before you can say anything, before you can make sense of the words, or the look on his face, or the way your heart thunders suddenly in your ribs like a warning bell, he moves. Rises. One smooth motion. The wind catches his cape, lifting it like a banner. His silhouette darkens against the glow behind him.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, voice soft. Warm. But weighted. And before you can respond, before your tongue can wrap around the questions you don’t yet know how to ask, he’s gone. Up. Away. Gone like he was never there at all.

You sit there long after the breeze settles. After the heat leaves the space he stood in. The sky blinks with planes and stars and satellites. The wind has teeth again. You feel small. And for the first time, you start to wonder if maybe Clark Kent has been looking at you this whole time.

You just didn’t know what you were looking at.

You’re colder than usual tonight. You hadn’t meant to stay this late. Just one last draft, one last paragraph, one last search for the perfect headline. You’d meant to go straight home, swing by the corner bodega, heat up leftovers, maybe fall asleep to something senseless on TV. Something that wouldn’t make you think of him.

But instead, your feet took you here. Just your bag slung over your shoulder, your thermos in hand, and that quiet, persistent tug in your chest that’s been pulling you to the roof more nights than not. You didn’t bring your coat. You never do when the air feels like this, biting, honest, but so alive. The wind is sharper than it was last week, slicing along your arms in cold ribbons, sneaking beneath the hem of your sleeves and lifting strands of your hair to whip across your cheeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and lean against the edge of the rooftop wall. The city stretches out below silver and gold and humming. Neon reflections ripple in puddles on the street like melting stars. Cars honk. Voices blur. A siren cuts the night, two blocks over, and fades.

And then he’s there. The air stills. Pressure shifts. The rooftop tilts, not physically, but in your body. In your blood. You turn your head slightly, already knowing what you’ll find.

He’s landing behind you in silence, as he always does. The wind swirls at his heels. His cape flutters in a long, slow wave. The light from the Planet’s rotating globe skims across the high planes of his face, painting soft highlights in his hair and casting shadows down the hard set of his jaw.

He’s already walking toward you. His steps don’t make a sound. But your heart does.

His brows knit the moment he sees you properly, hair tousled, shoulders tense, arms crossed too tightly against your chest.

“You’re shivering,” he says, voice quiet and laced with concern.

You inhale through your nose. “I’m fine,” you lie, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your teeth from clicking. “Didn’t realize how cold it got.”

He doesn’t move at first. And then, his hands lift.

Your breath hitches as he reaches up to his collar with a slow, practiced ease, fingers sliding beneath the gold insignia at his shoulder to unclip the cape in a single, effortless motion. The weight of it drops all at once, a sweep of red that catches the wind like silk dipped in fire. The hem kisses the ground beside him as he steps closer.

You don’t move.

You’re not sure you can.

He takes one more step, and you can smell it before you feel it, the scent of him. Not cologne, not aftershave, just the strange, clean weight of sun-warmed metal and wind. Air after lightning. A kind of warmth that doesn’t belong to earthbound men.

Then, carefully, like you might startle, he drapes the cape around your shoulders. It’s heavy. So much heavier than it looks. Dense, heat-soaked fabric that settles against your back like gravity. Like memory. The inside is impossibly soft. Lined with something smooth and brushed, like worn-in velvet or sky-cured cotton. The warmth of it sinks straight through your skin, down to the aching hinge of your spine.

You look down at it, stunned. At him. He’s still close. Closer than usual. His boots barely a breath from yours. And that’s when his hand comes up, gentle, deliberate. Not rushed. Just his knuckles, brushing along your jaw.

A featherlight stroke, the back of his hand tucking the cape tighter beneath your chin, like he needs an excuse to linger. Like it matters to him that you feel protected. Covered. Kept.

Your breath catches in your throat and doesn’t come back because he’s never stood this close before. He’s taller than you remembered. Broader. The space between you contracts under the pressure of his presence. His chest nearly brushes yours with every breath, and each exhale from him is warm and steady, a living current wrapping around you like a second skin. Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. You wonder if he can hear it even though you know he can.

Your chin tips up. Instinct or need, you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. And his eyes are already on you. Not politely. Not blankly. Burning.

And then his voice drops. “Does he know,” he asks, slow and low, “how lucky he is?”

Your lips part, breath escaping in a visible puff. “Who?”

His gaze doesn’t flicker. “The man you told me about.” There’s no game in his tone. No mask. Just that same deep gravity you’ve felt in him since the very first night he landed here, coatless and patient and endlessly kind.

“Clark?” you ask, your voice a thread of sound.

“Does he know what it means to have your attention?” He asks while nodding.

Your skin feels too tight. Too aware. The cape is clutched in your fingers now, bunched between your knuckles, and still it’s not enough to anchor you. You shake your head, barely. “He doesn’t seem to want it.”

And that truth, raw and quiet and far too vulnerable, lands between you with all the weight of gravity. A small confession. But sharp.

His throat works once. Then again. He swallows, visibly. His gaze travels from your eyes to your mouth, where it lingers a second too long before flickering back up to your eyes.

The air gets thick. Charged. Like a storm is about to break in the sky. Or inside him.

You think, for just one heartbeat, that he might kiss you. His lips part. But instead, his voice roughens, like the truth is scraping its way out.

“He wants it,” he says. “Believe me.”

You can barely breathe. He’s still watching you, like he can’t stop. Like your silence might fill in the answer he isn’t allowed to give. And you, wrapped in his cape, standing in his heat, breathing his air, don’t know what to do with your hands. Or your heart. So you say nothing. You just let the quiet stretch between you, trembling and hot and precarious, as if a single word would shatter it all.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to release you from the grip of his proximity. Enough to leave the ache behind.

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just rises, slow and unhurried, into the sky. The wind tugs at his cape, lifting the edges from your shoulders, but you hold it tighter. And then he’s gone. Up. Away. Silent as ever.

And you stand there in the dark, wrapped in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the ache of him, wondering how long this can go on before the truth spills out of someone’s mouth and ruins everything. Or makes it real.

You realize it slowly. Not all at once. Not like a switch being flipped or a line being crossed. But in the spaces between sentences. In the hushed air between thoughts. In the moments where he doesn’t speak, just watches you with that carved-stone stillness, that impossibly patient calm that feels less like restraint and more like reverence.

You notice it in the way he lets silence breathe. Doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t try to solve it. Just lets it hang, heavy or light, whatever it needs to be.

And in the way he listens. Really listens. The kind of listening that feels like being held. Like your voice is something he doesn’t get anywhere else. Like your thoughts carry weight. Like your day matters. Like you do.

It doesn’t hit you all at once. It comes in waves. Realization blooming slowly under your skin like something long dormant waking up.

It sinks in one night when you’re talking about something stupid. Trivial. Work drama. An editorial you fought for, again. The way Perry’s notes clashed with the layout. The headline Lois rewrote over your shoulder with a red pen like a scalpel. You’re venting more than storytelling, sentences peppered with sarcasm, words tumbling loose because it’s late and you’re tired and he’s here.

You sit cross-legged on the rooftop ledge, shoulders hunched slightly from the wind, palms wrapped around a lukewarm thermos. Your legs have that faint ache from a long day, that tension that says you should’ve gone home hours ago. But he’s sitting beside you, and so you didn’t.

Superman is as still as ever. But not in a way that feels distant. It’s the stillness of someone utterly tuned in. Shoulders relaxed. Elbows resting loosely on his knees. Fingers curled near his thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands unless they’re catching someone. Holding something.

His cape shifts when he breathes, deep, quiet, full-bodied breaths that move the air around you. The red fabric stirs in soft waves across the rooftop, occasionally brushing your ankle, like a heartbeat you’re not supposed to notice.

His mouth is curved into that private smile. The one you’ve never seen in photographs. The one he only wears with you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer advice. He just listens. Watches. Quiet and open and focused like you’re telling him the weather patterns of your heart and he doesn’t want to miss a single cloud.

And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of it. How much you’ve told him. Not just tonight. Not just recently. But over the weeks. The months. One late night at a time.

Your job. The daily grind. The politics. The moments you feel seen, and the ones you don’t. Your childhood. The wallpaper in your bedroom, the way your mom used to hum while folding laundry.

Your heartbreak. The one that gutted you quietly. The one you never tell anyone about because it wasn’t dramatic enough to justify the pain. Your favorite books. The one you reread every winter. The one you lied about liking just to impress someone. Your fears. Driving. Water. Getting close.

Your loves. Thunderstorms. Orange peels. Songs you’ll never admit make you cry. Clark. Sweet, dorky, utterly-unaware Clark.

You’ve told Superman everything.

And not once, not once, has he pulled back. Not once has he made you feel small. He doesn’t flinch when you speak. Doesn’t glance away. Doesn’t soften your edges to make you easier to digest.

Some nights, he says almost nothing at all. Just nods. Hums softly. Maybe says your name in that low, near-sacred way of his, like it’s a prayer he’s memorized. But he never leaves. He never looks bored. Or burdened.

He just stays.

And that matters more than you can explain. Because no one stays.

But he does. And now… you’re looking at him differently. Not like a symbol. Not like a god. Not like the man in the sky who breaks the sound barrier and holds tectonic plates steady with his hands.

But like a man who knows your laugh. Who remembers your favorite movie. Who lets you rant. Who makes space for your silences. Who carries your stories in his chest like they’re precious cargo. Who gave you his cape without thinking twice. Who touched your jaw like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And maybe that’s what unravels you. Not the fact that he’s Superman. But the fact that he feels more real to you than anyone else in your life. Not larger-than-life. Not untouchable. Just real. And right here. And that realization?

It’s starting to feel like falling.

The night is warm for early spring. The kind of warmth that clings not just to your skin, but to the air itself. Heavy and intimate, like a whispered secret. It seeps into your sleeves, wraps around your ankles, settles between your shoulder blades like a held breath. It makes your heart race without quite knowing why.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the ledge, the cape he gave you still draped over your lap. The fabric’s weight is familiar now, dense and soft and slightly creased where your fingers keep fisting in the hem. He hadn’t asked for it back. Just showed up with a different one. So, you haven’t offered to return it. It feels like something borrowed, yes, but more than that. Like something left.

Superman is beside you. Boots planted. Elbows resting on his thighs, back slightly hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he doesn’t trust what might happen if he really let himself take up space next to you.

He’s closer than usual. Not touching, but not far. If you leaned the slightest bit to the left, your shoulder would brush his bicep. If you exhaled too sharply, your knee might nudge his. You keep your spine rigid.

You’re not looking at him. You can’t. Not when you know he’s watching you.

His gaze is a weight you’ve come to recognize. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just steady. Open. Unyielding. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you vanish. Like you’re the only anchor he’s allowed to hold onto.

You take a breath. Your voice comes soft. Tucked between heartbeat and hesitation. “Sometimes I think,” you murmur, not looking at him, “if I met you first… things would be easier.”

The words come from somewhere low in your chest. Somewhere bruised and tender and aching with the question you don’t want answered. You don’t even know why you say them. You only know that they’re true. They hang there in the dark. Fragile. Bare. They make the space between you feel suddenly infinite.

You finally glance over. His eyes are already on you and he looks wrecked. Not in any way most people would notice. Not in any way he would ever allow. But you see it.

You know what it means when his jaw stills like that. When the cords in his neck draw tight. When his eyes dim like a stormcloud passing over the sun.

His breath catches. Just barely. Just enough. “You think,” he says, voice low and rough, “you didn’t?”

Your pulse stutters. You blink. Turn toward him fully, heart climbing into your throat. “What?”

His gaze drops for a second, to your mouth, then to your lap, where his cape is still clutched in your fists, and then rises again.

When his eyes meet yours, they are unshielded. Wide open. Pleading. Quiet. Raw. And suddenly, you realize how close he is.

His thigh presses against yours now, light but solid. His knee nudges the side of your folded legs, grounding you, like he’s trying to anchor you in place. And you can feel his warmth radiating outward in slow, low waves—the heat of him seeping into your skin, into your chest, into your pulse.

He burns.

And you’re burning too.

The rooftop goes still. The wind holds its breath. The world softens to nothing but sky and concrete and you and him.

You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe you both do. But suddenly, he’s closer. And so are you. Your noses nearly brushing. Your lips one breath apart.

You stop breathing. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your gaze falls to his. His exhale fans against your cheek, hot and steady. Everything stills.

“I—I should go,” you say, the words cracking in the back of your throat as you jerk back a fraction too fast. “I should… yeah. I’ve got work early.”

It’s a lie. You know it. He knows it. But you can’t stay here. Not when everything inside you is straining toward him like gravity. Not when you’re wrapped in his cape, bathed in his warmth, and trembling with the almost of it all.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Just sits there. Still. Burning. Quiet. He nods once. Slow. Like it costs him something. But his eyes don’t leave yours.And the look on his face? He looks like he wants to follow you. Like if he could just reach out and touch you again, the world might break open. Like he’s waiting, begging, for some rule to shatter so he can finally cross the distance he’s been holding back from all this time.

But he doesn’t speak.

So you stand. Your legs are shaky beneath you, but you manage. You hold his cape tighter around your shoulders like it’s armor, or a secret. And you walk away. Not because you want to. But because you do want to kiss him and you don’t know what it means yet.

Not when he’s Superman.

And not when the other man who you’ve wanted for months, the man who gives you bashful smiles and spills his coffee at work, sits across from you every day like he doesn’t already own your heart.

And then he says it. Quiet. Fractured. “I’m him,” he whispers. “I’m Clark.”

You stop breathing. You stumble. Not like a graceful backpedal. Not a clean retreat. You falter, feet catching on the uneven edge of the rooftop, where rough concrete meets rusted metal, and you reel. Your hand shoots out, catching yourself on the freezing ledge. Stone bites into your palm, rough and sharp. You barely feel it.

You’re too busy drowning. Because no—no, he can’t be. He can’t.

You look at him. At Superman. But it’s not just Superman anymore, is it?

It’s Clark.

The curve of his mouth. The way his shoulders hunch like he’s afraid he’s just ruined everything. The blue of his eyes, familiar, even now. Especially now. You know that look. You’ve seen it across desks, over cheap coffee, in elevators and quiet newsroom corners where his hands would twitch like he almost reached for you and then didn’t.

And now it’s him.

All along, it’s been him.

It’s like all the air’s been sucked from your lungs and replaced with something heavier. Something that won’t let go.

The night tilts around you. The city below blurs. Headlights streak like comets across streets that no longer feel tethered to the world. A horn honks in the distance. A siren wails. Somewhere, down there, life goes on. Unchanged. Unknowing.

But not here. Not in this moment. Not with him standing in front of you.

“No,” you whisper. It’s barely a sound. Barely a breath. The word scrapes up your throat like broken glass. Your fingers clutch the ledge behind you as if it might keep you from flying off the edge of everything you thought was true.

He’s still standing there. Not just Superman. Not just Clark.

Both.

The duality of it fractures something in you. His suit is still darkened from the flight, the blue and red dulled beneath smears of ash, streaks of soot, faint scuffs of battle left behind. His hair’s mussed from wind, curling slightly at his temple, a little out of place. Too human. Too familiar.

His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythm. Controlled. Heavy. Measured like he’s trying to keep the world steady by breathing for it.

But his face…his face is just him.

Clark.

Open. Quiet. Devastated.

“No,” you repeat, louder now, shakier. “No, you…Clark can’t. He wouldn’t lie like that.”

He flinches. It’s small, barely a twitch of the mouth, a pull at his brow, but you catch it. “I didn’t lie,” he says softly, the words fragile and frayed at the edges. “I just… couldn’t tell you.” His voice sounds like gravel and heartbreak. You can feel it sink into your chest.

Your heart’s thundering. Slamming against your ribs like it wants to escape. Your hands are trembling where they hang by your sides, fingers curling against your thighs as if you could hold yourself together if you just gripped hard enough. The cape he gave you what feels like forever ago rests over your shoulders. Too much now. Too heavy. Too warm. Too intimate. It feels like wearing the secret. Like being draped in all the things you didn’t see, couldn’t name, wouldn’t believe.

You don’t take it off. You don’t know how.

“I told you everything,” you say, and it tears out of your chest, raw and wounded. “I told you how I felt about him…about you. I trusted you.”

He doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens. His shoulders lock in place. But he doesn’t look away.

“I know.”

“I told you things I don’t even tell my friends,” you go on, voice rising. “I told you things I don’t admit to myself. And you just…” You shake your head, disbelief washing over your skin like a fever. “You sat there. You listened. And you let me think…”

His voice cuts in, low and sharp. Pained. “That you didn’t matter to me?” His eyes are bright with it now, wild with something barely restrained. “That I didn’t want you? I never wanted you to think that.”

“But you let me,” you whisper. The words fall out like grief. You don’t scream them. You don’t have to. Because the pain is in the quiet. In the way your voice breaks open around the edges like glass fracturing under heat. “Every time I told you how much I wanted him,” you say, softer now. “Every time I said he didn’t see me.”

His voice splinters. “I saw you,” he says. “Gosh, I saw everything.”

And you believe him. That’s the worst part. You believe him.

You take one step forward. Only one. The wind brushes against your back, cool where the cape has fallen open. Your voice is a knife now. Precise. Controlled. Made of something sharp and trembling. “How could you sit there every night and-,”

He doesn’t let you finish. “I just wanted to be yours,” he says. “As him, as me, I didn’t care! As long as I could be here with you.”

The silence after that is scorching. It wraps around your ankles like fire. It climbs your spine like a scream caught in your throat. It burns through every inch of space between you and doesn’t stop.

You can’t speak. You can’t move.

His hands hang at his sides, fingers twitching. Like he wants to reach for you. Like he wants to close the space, undo the damage, gather the broken pieces into something whole again. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, chest rising and falling, lips parted like he might still say more if you don’t run.

And you? You can’t run. But you can’t stay, either. Your whole body feels splintered. Rattling under the weight of everything you thought was real and everything that’s now changed.

He was there for every word. Every late night. Every secret. Every quiet ache you handed him under the guise of friendship. You thought you were speaking to someone else. Someone you trusted. But you were speaking to him. The other version. All of him, in some confusing way.

The wind picks up just as you turn your back on him. It lashes up from the edge of the building like a living thing, tearing across the rooftop with a howl that cuts straight through your sleeves and raises goosebumps along your skin. It grabs at the hem of the cape still wrapped around your shoulders. It smells like him. Like warmth and home and sunlit wind. Like the person you trusted with every soft part of yourself.

Clark.

Superman.

You can’t look at him. You can’t even breathe around the twist in your chest.

The rooftop blurs around the edges, gold light from the Planet’s globe warping against the swell of tears behind your eyes. The city spins beneath you, thousands of feet and faces and voices, but all you can feel is the pounding of your pulse. In your throat. In your ears. In your fingertips.

You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get away. That if you stay a second longer, you’ll either fall apart in front of him or worse, let him hold the pieces.

“Don’t,” he says. It isn’t loud. Isn’t commanding. But it slices through the wind like it’s cutting straight through bone.

Your steps falter.

“Please,” he says again, softer now, frayed at the edges like paper soaked through. “Don’t walk away.” There’s something in his voice, hoarse and unraveling, that hits a nerve you didn’t know was exposed.

Then his fingers brush your wrist. Not tightly. Not enough to stop you. Just a touch. A question.

Your breath hitches.

You freeze.

“You don’t get to ask me that,” you whisper, without turning around. Your voice shakes in your throat like glass. “Not after…”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You spin, fury catching like a spark in dry grass, the cape snapping around you with the force of it. It wraps around your legs like it knows it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Or maybe it never did.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t,” he says immediately, his voice rising, not in anger, but desperation. “I never lied.”

“You let me talk to you,” you say, stepping forward, teeth clenched. “You let me sit next to you and tell you everything I felt, everything I wanted, and you just sat there and watched me.”

“I couldn’t-,”

“You could have.” You cut him off as the words rip out of you, jagged and breathless. “You chose not to.”

His shoulders hitch with the effort of his breathing. His fists curl, uncurl. The muscles in his jaw flex like he’s grinding the truth down between his molars.

“You think I didn’t want to tell you?” he snaps suddenly, sharp and exposed. “You think it didn’t kill me every time I saw the look in your eyes? Every time you hoped for something and I couldn’t give it to you?”

Your heart stutters. But the ache won’t let you relent. “Then why?” you demand. “Why wait? Why let me think Clark was this sweet, shy guy who would never want me, when the whole time, it was you? When Superman looked at me like he wanted me. When, fuck Clark, when you have wanted me as long as I’ve wanted you.”

His mouth opens, then closes. His chest heaves once, like the truth hurts too much to force out. “Because I was scared,” he says finally, shouting. “Because if you saw all of me, you’d leave. I thought if I kept that part hidden, just a little longer… I could keep you.”

You stare at him. You burn in anger. He thought you’d leave? After he always, always stayed for you?

The rooftop hums beneath your feet. The heat of him radiates in waves, too close and too far away all at once.

“I told you everything,” you whisper, stepping in close now, voice unsteady. “I told you what he…what you meant to me. And you didn’t say a word. You never left. Why would I leave you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He repeats, chest heaving. “I just know that I kept every word,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “Every single one. Because they meant everything. Because you do.”

The silence that follows is so thick it aches in your ears. Your chest rises. Falls. Rises again. Somewhere below, the city keeps pulsing, car horns, distant sirens, a train echoing under concrete, but up here, it’s just the two of you. Just a rooftop and a mistake that doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore.

Your hands curl around the edge of the cape. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, raw, reverent.

You whisper, almost against your will, “So every night I told you about him…”

“I was listening,” he says, voice ragged. “As both versions of me… who loves you.”

Your knees nearly buckle. He steps closer, slow like he’s worried you’ll vanish. The wind dies down again, or maybe it just stops touching you. Everything narrows. Your vision. Your world.

He’s the only thing in it now.

“You’re all I see,” he breathes. “Since the day you walked into the bullpen. You were arguing with Perry about a comma splice, and I remember thinking—God, she’s a spitfire. And then you looked at me. Not at Superman. Not through me. At me. Like I mattered.”

Tears crest at your waterline. You don’t stop them.

“I didn’t know how to handle that,” he goes on. “Because I’ve saved cities. I’ve faced gods and aliens. But nothing’s ever undone me like you.”

You step in. You don’t remember doing it. But suddenly you’re toe to toe. Close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. Close enough to see the freckles across his nose, the vulnerability in his eyes. The man inside the myth.

“You already had me,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to pretend to be two people to earn that.” He looks like he might break apart. “I still am yours,” you say.

And that’s all it takes. The air between you detonates. He surges forward and you meet him halfway, lips crashing together like two storms colliding. It’s not neat. It’s not careful. It’s need.

His hands are on your face instantly, cradling, reverent, thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. You fist the front of his suit like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down like it’s sacred.

His body crowds yours without overwhelming you. His thigh brushes yours, his arm snakes around your waist. The cape wraps around both of you like it remembers who it’s meant to protect.

“I thought you’d never,” you gasp between kisses.

“I couldn’t,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Not until I knew you wanted…”

“I want you, Clark,” you say cutting him off, and it tears him in half. He groans, wrecked and low, and kisses you again. Deeper, hungrier. You feel it everywhere, like heat under your skin, like sparks running down your spine.

This isn’t just a kiss. This is a confession. This is every night you sat beside him, aching. Every touch you didn’t ask for. Every word you swallowed. This is the answer to the question you were too afraid to ask.

And he gives it to you with everything he is. He kisses you like you’re the only thing worth saving. Like no other world matters. And you kiss him like you finally believe it.

Because you do. Because he’s not just Superman. And not just Clark. He’s yours. And for the first time since this whole tangled, aching, breathless thing began, you let yourself want all of him.

The next kiss isn’t as gentle. It slams into you like a second confession, hot and unrestrained, a shattering thing made of teeth and tongue and all the silence you’ve held between you. It doesn’t ask. It claims. The kind of kiss you give when there’s no going back. When the dam finally bursts and all that longing surges out at once, tidal and wild and so, so overdue.

His hands are on your face before you can even blink, big and steady, palms spanning your cheeks, thumbs sweeping the corners of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the curve. He tilts your chin up, reverent and aching, and then he kisses you deeper this time, like he needs to taste every breath you’ve ever used to say his name.

You gasp into him, and he doesn’t hesitate. He drinks it down like it’s sacred. Like he’s starving for it. For you. Like he’s been holding this want back so long it’s turned molten. There’s nothing shy in the way he kisses you now. No restraint. No hesitation. Only need, blistering and bright and alive in every touch of his mouth.

Your hands fist in the collar of his suit, desperate, clumsy, and aching. You drag him closer, grounding yourself in the heat of his body, the muscle beneath the impossible fabric. You can feel the taut stretch of his chest against yours, the flutter of his heartbeat too fast for a human man. You dig your nails into his shoulders just to feel something solid.

He groans when you do it, low and wrecked and surprised, like the sound’s been punched out of him. It jolts through you like lightning, crackling through every nerve ending. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, just for a second. The breath he exhales is shattered.

The wind rises again, as if it feels the shift, tugging at the cape still tangled around your shoulders, snapping it wide like a sail as it lifts behind you. But it doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It doesn’t feel like a reminder of what you didn’t know. It feels like being chosen.

And then, he lifts you. Not roughly. Not even consciously. Just a subtle shift, his hands sliding to your thighs, hoisting you into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. His fingers find the bend behind your knees, curl around your body with effortless strength, and you wrap yourself around him without a second thought.

You cling to him like instinct. Like gravity no longer applies. One of his arms supports your weight as the other pulls you impossibly closer, and your chest collides with his, heart to heart, soul to soul. You feel everything now. The heat of him. The tremble in his breath. The tension in his body barely held in check.

And God, he’s warm. He radiates heat like a furnace, like the sun. It bleeds through the fabric, through your clothes, into your skin, curling deep in your belly. Your breath catches, shallow and unsteady, and he leans in to steal it again.

His lips move with yours, soft, then hard, then soft again, tipping into a rhythm that feels like home. His mouth finds your jaw. Then your neck. Then lower, open-mouthed and reverent. He trails heat down the column of your throat, and you shiver, clinging to his shoulders like your knees might give out if he wasn’t holding you already.

When his nose brushes under your ear, the sound he makes could level buildings. It’s wrecked. Unsteady. A groan dragged from somewhere deep, like kissing you is both a relief and a ruin.

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, words shaped like worship. Like surrender. “In every name. In every form.”

The rooftop drops away beneath you in slow, gentle increments. A moment suspended between earth and stars. The skyline unfolds like a painting in motion, glittering and vast. You’re cradled against him, the wind swirling around your ankles, the city a blur of golden light and dizzying height, but all you see is him. His face. His eyes. The heartbreakingly earnest look carved into every line of him.

You rest your forehead against his. Close your eyes. Feel the press of his breath against your lips. He groans again this time quieter. Broken in a different way.

“I never wanted to keep it from you,” he says, and each word is a bruise, tender and aching. “I just… I didn’t want you to fall in love with the symbol instead of the man.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. The man you knew before you knew. The man who carried your coffee and read your work and smiled too long when you complimented his tie. The man who gave you his cape. Who listened to your secrets. Who never stopped showing up.

He’s both. He’s always been both. And you love him. All of him. So you smile, soft and aching and sure.

“Too late,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair. “I fell for both.”

His breath hitches. Then his mouth is back on yours, harder this time, wrecked and desperate and so alive. It’s not polished. It’s not controlled. It’s wild and tangled and almost clumsy, because neither of you can stop now. Because this is the moment everything changes.

He kisses you like a man finally let off the leash. Like he’s been holding back for months. Like kissing you is both a promise and an apology, a confession and a vow. And you kiss him back like you’ll never let him forget what it means to be wanted like this. Fully. Completely. Every impossible part of him.

Because you do. You want every name. Every version. Every inch. Every impossible heartbeat.

And finally you know he’s yours.

The wind wraps around you like a secret. It rushes past your ears, a low, thrumming hush, and you can barely hear anything beyond the pounding of your heart. He’s carrying you, arms locked beneath your thighs, your body cradled to his chest like something precious, fragile, and known. His warmth surrounds you, shields you from the cool bite of the atmosphere, and even though you’re climbing through the clouds, you’ve never felt safer.

You don’t look down. You look at him. At the way his jaw tightens with focus. The furrow of his brow. The set of his mouth, determined and tense, like he’s still holding his breath even now, even after everything.

And then you’re descending. The city lights blur past, amber and blue and gold. A flash of neon. A billboard. A train. A million lives moving just beneath your feet.

Then it’s quiet again. His boots touch down with barely a sound, just the faintest thud of contact, the shift of air as he slows, and suddenly you’re home. Not yours.

His.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re still clinging to him, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. But then he steps forward, gently sets you down, and your feet meet solid ground. And you realize you're in his apartment.

The windows are open, letting in the scent of spring, cool earth, rain-soaked pavement, the metallic tinge of the skyline at night. The curtains ripple softly. There’s a shelf to your left, lined with worn books and framed photos. A navy-blue couch. A single coffee mug left on the desk beside folded glasses.

This is Clark. This is where he lives. Where he wakes. Where he dreams. You’re standing in the middle of it, barefoot and stunned, wrapped in the cape of a man who isn’t supposed to exist this way, tangible, warm, and so painfully real.

And then he turns and pushes you back against the glass. You gasp, startled, breath stolen, as your spine meets the windowpane. It’s cool, shocking against your overheated skin, and your hands scramble for something to hold. But he’s already there, already pressing in. One arm braces against the glass beside your head. The other finds your waist. His body is heat and muscle and reverence, crowding you in until all you can feel is him.

His mouth is on yours before you can speak and it’s not like before. It’s deeper now. Hotter. Less desperation, more claiming. His lips part over yours with fevered intent, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he wants to taste every breath you’ve taken without him. Your fingers find the collar of his suit and pull, and he groans into you, low and helpless, like the sound’s been trapped in his chest for too long.

Your hands shake as you work the suit off his shoulders. The fabric is cool and slick, too perfect for this world. It gives way beneath your fingers, sliding down to reveal the impossible lines of his body, smooth skin, golden and flushed. He shudders when your palms find his chest, and he kisses you harder, faster, like he needs this. Needs you.

Your shirt joins his suit on the floor. Then your pants. Your bra. His boots thud somewhere behind him as he kicks them free, then the last of his suit slips down, crumpling in a heap like the man inside it finally let go of the performance.

And now you’re both bare.

You stand there for a moment, staring. His chest rises and falls in tight, uneven pulls. His skin glows in the warm lamplight, all soft curves over hard muscle. His shoulders are broad, his thighs thick, his arms trembling slightly like he’s fighting himself from reaching for you too soon.

And his hair. Still mostly slicked back from the flight, but now…now it’s human. Disheveled. One single curl has fallen out of place, slipping down over his brow, and your throat closes around the sight.

He’s beautiful. Not because he’s Superman.

But because he’s Clark. Because he’s standing in front of you with reverence in his eyes and nothing left to hide.

He moves first. His hands find your waist, firm and warm and grounding. Then your back. Then your thighs, hoisting you into his arms again like it’s instinct. Your legs wrap around his hips. Your arms drape over his shoulders. He pins you to the glass again, skin to skin now, mouth trailing from your lips to your throat.

Your breath stutters when he presses closer, hips slotted between your thighs, his skin hot and flush with yours. You can feel the tremble in him now, subtle, buried under muscle and strength, but there. Not from fear.

From restraint.

His mouth drags along your neck, slow and open and reverent. “I thought I could be patient,” he murmurs, voice frayed. “But I don’t want to wait anymore.”

The confession sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly, and that one loose curl falls again, curling over your knuckles as you tilt his face toward yours.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes. He shifts, effortless and practiced, and suddenly you’re weightless again, your back sliding higher up the window, glass cool and unyielding behind your shoulder blades. You cling to him instinctively, thighs tightening around his hips, heart thrashing against your ribs like it’s trying to reach him before you do.

He exhales like a man drowning finally given air. “You feel like gravity,” he breathes. “You’re the only thing that’s ever kept me still.”

“Then fall,” you say as you bite your lip.

His eyes darken into something that reflects heat and ache and something dangerous, and he kisses you again, deeper now, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starved for it. For you.

When he pulls back, just far enough to look at you, his gaze is wrecked. “Tell me you want this,” he says.

“God, I do,” you pant. “I always have.”

And it’s true. You don’t want the distance anymore. You don’t want the waiting, the almosts, the ache of not knowing. You want him like this. Right here. Right now. Skin to skin. Name to name. All of him.

So when he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Then I’m yours,” the words brand themselves across your skin. And you believe him because he says it like a vow. Like something he’s waited his whole life to give.

He kisses you like the world is still ending. Like if he stops, it’ll splinter apart. Like nothing outside this window matters. Not the blinking cursor on your half-finished article, not the skyline pulsing with sirens and starlight, not even the cape still pooled at your feet like a red ripple of everything you thought you knew. Just his mouth. Just your body. Just the soft, unraveling sounds you keep making into the heat of his lips.

You’re breathless already. Drunk on him. And then he adjusts you. Not in a rush. Not rough or frantic. Just slow. Steady. Like a ceremony. Like he’s afraid to jostle something sacred.

His hands are under your thighs, spreading warmth that seeps into your bones, fingertips curled just enough to make your breath stutter. Your arms lock around his neck tighter and without hesitation, fingers tangled in his hair, cheek pressed to the side of his head, heart thudding wild and open against his.

He rises off the floor like he doesn’t even notice gravity anymore. You don’t, either. You’re floating, suspended in the hold of a man who could catch planes midair and stop bullets with his chest but chooses to hold you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world. His chest is a furnace, pressed tight against yours, every heartbeat pounding in slow, powerful rhythm beneath his skin. You can feel it. You can feel him. All of him.

The apartment blurs around the edges as the wind stirs gently, coiling around your ankles, brushing through your hair, pushing open the bedroom door like it, too, has been waiting for this. And then he lands. Soft. Like a promise.

His knees touch the edge of the mattress first. Then he lays you down, slow, reverent, arms still wrapped around you like he doesn’t want to let go yet. Like he needs the grounding of your body beneath his, your breath fluttering across his collarbone, the softness of your thighs caging his hips.

The sheets are cool against your back. His body is fire against your front and everything in you aches.

You feel undone just from being looked at like this.

The weight of his gaze as he hovers above you is unbearable and electric and necessary all at once, like sunlight held in place, golden and scorching and all-consuming. His eyes roam over your face, your chest, your parted lips, drinking you in with the slow hunger of a man who’s been starving for years.

His palms glide over your ribs, your hips, your thighs, long, unhurried strokes that leave sparks in their wake. Every touch is mapped with intention. Every inch of skin he brushes feels claimed. Worshiped. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to lay his hands on you and can’t quite believe he’s finally allowed.

And then his mouth. It moves like it knows exactly where to go. He starts at your collarbone, soft and lingering, then down the center of your chest in a line of kisses that feel like punctuation marks to every word he can’t say fast enough.

“Gosh,” he whispers, voice shaking, breath hot against your sternum, “you’re so beautiful.”

You shiver as your hands find his hair, thicker than it looks, soft at the roots but mussed now, wild from your fingers. One curl falls forward again, brushing your temple, and your heart aches with how human he looks like this.

“You don’t have to say that,” you murmur, but even you don’t believe it.

“I do,” he says, instantly. Fervently. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, reverent. “I need you to know what you are. What you’ve always been.” His voice is low. Wrecked. Like it’s crawling up from somewhere deep and fragile.

“I’ve watched you walk into the newsroom a hundred times,” he says, “with your chin up and your hands full and that look on your face like you’re two seconds from telling someone off, but your eyes…” He lowers his head. “You smiled at me once,” he says, mouth brushing your jaw. “That first week. You don’t remember it. But I do. I’ve never stopped.”

You arch into him, neck exposed, breath trembling. His lips drag lower.

“I memorized you,” he says, kissing down your throat. “In daylight. In shadows. In every storm and silence. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

Your nails scrape down his back, over bare shoulder blades and taut muscle and the smooth dip of his spine. He gasps into your skin, voice stuttering like a skipped heartbeat.

“I used to come home and wonder how I’d survive another day pretending I didn’t want you.” He mouths at your shoulder, then lingers at the hollow between your collarbones.

“I used to dream about this,” he murmurs, each word hotter than the last, “but it never came close. You’re more than I ever let myself imagine.”

His hands slide lower, palms dragging along the underside of your thighs, up to your hips, splaying wide at your waist like he’s trying to memorize your shape by feel. You’re so aware of every inch of skin he touches, the press of his chest to yours, the strength in his arms braced on either side of your head.

And his voice breaks again, soft and desperate. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, breath falling into your mouth like a confession. “You undo me.”

And you do. You see it in every tremble. Every kiss. Every sound he makes. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just release.

It’s ruin. And he wants it. He wants you.

All of you.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, spread out beneath him, bathed in the low golden hush of the bedside lamp, your fingers tangled in his hair and your breath rising in time with his.

He looks at you like he’s praying. Like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like every kiss is a test to see if you’ll disappear.

“Clark,” you whisper, brushing your fingers down the flushed slope of his cheek, across the trembling line of his jaw. His skin is fever-warm beneath your touch, soft in places, rough with stubble in others. Tangible. Human. Yours. “You’re allowed to want this.”

“I do,” he says, barely a breath. His lashes flutter, dark and damp, clinging together from sweat or tears or both. “I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, hips tilting up, subtle and slow, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are. His eyes flutter closed at the contact, a stuttered gasp catching in his throat. His arms shake slightly, trying to brace. Trying not to lose control.

“I used to touch myself,” you breathe, lips ghosting over his ear, “after you’d leave.”

His breath catches, sharp and wrecked.

Your teeth graze his earlobe. “After you flew off. After you walked me to my car, all shy and soft-spoken like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”

He makes a sound you’ve never heard before, half groan, half whimper, like the words are unraveling something deep in his chest. His hand tightens on your hip, and he lowers his head, pressing hot kisses down your collarbone to your breast.

“I imagined your hands,” you murmur, dragging your nails up the back of his neck, “your mouth. I thought about your voice while I came. Thought about how you’d sound if I let you hear me.”

“God,” he moans, mouth vibrating against your skin. His hand slips between your legs, slow and reverent, dragging through your slick. When two fingers push into you, you arch instantly, moaning loud enough to make the windows tremble.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice thick with awe. “You’re so…baby, you’re perfect.”

“All for you,” you pant. “Only you.”

That breaks something in him. He kisses his way down your stomach, dragging his mouth over every inch of skin he can reach. His palms splay across your hips, holding you still, and then he’s burying himself between your thighs, tongue warm and slow, lapping through your folds with careful, aching need.

You cry out, high and shaking, fingers gripping his hair as your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against your clit, making your thighs tremble around his ears.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “You sound so good.” He adds a third finger and you sob, eyes rolling back, body twisting. You grind against his mouth shamelessly, chasing the pressure, the heat, the rhythm. He’s moaning like it’s his own orgasm building, like your pleasure is unraveling him from the inside out.

“Clark, fuck. Baby, please.”

“Cum for me,” he murmurs. “Please. I need to feel you break.”

You splinter like glass in sunlight, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name again and again. He holds you through it, lips soft against your inner thigh, murmuring praise so low and full of want it sounds like worship.

When he finally climbs back up your body, you’re shaking, boneless, breathless, slick and ruined. You reach for him. Your hand wraps around his cock, hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach. He jolts at the touch, body going rigid above you.

“Wait. please.”

You stop. Look up. His cheeks are red. His lashes low. His hips twitch in your grip.

“I just,” he bites his lip. “I want you on top.” You blink. His hands slide to your waist, gentle. “I want to feel all of you,” he says softly. “I want to watch your face. I want,” his voice cracks “I want to be good for you.”

Something hot and tender curls in your stomach. You shift. Press a kiss to his jaw. Then his throat. And then, carefully, slowly, you roll him onto his back. He lets you. He exhales like it’s a blessing.

You straddle his hips, watching the way his chest rises, watching the way he looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. You reach down, guide him to your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your folds, wet and hot and aching.

“Is this what you dreamed about?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, please.”

You sink down slowly. He groans, head thrown back, throat taut, hands flying to your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You take him inch by inch, stretching around him, moaning at the fullness, at the way his eyes flutter and his chest arches and his lips part around a helpless sound.

“Oh, you feel,” he gasps. “You feel like…like home.”

You bottom out, sitting fully in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands reverent on your skin. You haven’t even moved yet and already he looks wrecked. Because you’re everything he’s ever wanted, finally his, and there’s nothing left to hide.

You don’t move at first. You just sit there, straddling him, full, breathless, and trembling. Your thighs quiver where they press to his sides, your hands spread wide over the endless warmth of his chest. His heart pounds beneath your palms, thrumming like thunder, like a war drum in the silence between you. Too fast. Too strong. Too much for any man.

But not for him.

You know this heart. You’ve felt it before, soft against your shoulder during late-night walks, pulsing warm through the rooftop air when he stood too close. You’ve felt it through every brush of his hand, every quiet smile, every almost.

Now it’s yours.

And it’s racing.

Your lashes flutter as you look down at him—his eyes wide and glassy, flushed all the way to his ears, mouth parted like he’s still trying to breathe through the heat of being inside you.

You shift just slightly. Tighten around him. His body jolts, hips twitching up in pure reflex, a broken sound bursting from his lips like it was torn from his chest. His hands fly to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Baby,” he gasps, voice thick with awe, “please.”

You lean forward, chest brushing his, nose skimming along his cheek. “I could stay like this,” you whisper, lips grazing the corner of his mouth. “Just like this. Forever.”

He whimpers. A real, helpless, soft sound. It hits you low, makes your core throb where you hold him, pulsing around him like your body’s already begging for more. Your hands rise to cradle his jaw, and you kiss him slow. Deep. Languid. Your tongues slide together, hungry and slick, and you feel him tremble under you. His fingers grip tighter, possessive and sweet, reverent like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you like this, even now.

You start to move. Your hips roll slow, dragging over him with obscene friction, and his breath catches in a low, strangled moan. He’s thick inside you, stretching you open perfectly, his cock dragging along every nerve ending like it knows where you’re weakest. The base of him rubs right against your clit with every grind, his pubic bone nudging it just enough to make you shudder.

“Oh my god,” you whisper into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

His grip on you stutters. “You’re so warm,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight, so perfect.”

“You are,” you murmur, hips circling. “You feel so good, Clark. I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.”

A groan cracks out of him, full-bodied and deep, like the sound was buried under years of restraint. He tilts his head back, jaw clenched, eyes glazed with disbelief.

“I can feel every inch of you,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re so deep… it’s like you’re under my skin.”

He cries out when you clench around him, and it’s not even intentional, it’s just how your body reacts to him. To his size. To the way he fills you completely, every stroke rubbing right up against the spot that makes your toes curl and your thighs tremble. His hands flex and slide up your back, down to your hips again, dragging you harder against him. The pressure builds with each deep grind, slow, dragging, and thick.

“You ride me so good,” he pants, wrecked. “Like you were made to do it. Like…like you knew.”

“I did,” you moan, nails sinking into his shoulders. “I knew. Every time you touched me. Every time you looked at me like I was something precious. I knew I could be so good for you if you’d just let me.”

He looks like he could cry. You keep rolling your hips, slow and deep and aching, chasing your high with the kind of devotion that feels holy. The friction against your clit is relentless now, dragging against the ridge of his body with every glide, heat blooming fast behind your ribs, down your spine, between your legs.

Your rhythm falters. You bite your lip and cry out his name.

His eyes fly open. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Let me feel it please.”

You break. Your whole body locks, back arching, nails clawing down his chest as your orgasm crashes through you. Your pussy clenches around him, soaking, pulsing, dragging another wrecked moan from his throat.

He grabs your hips, tight, trembling, and thrusts up into you. Hard. Again. And again.

He can’t stop. Won’t. Your thighs are still shaking, your body still fluttering around him, and he’s fucking up into you with open desperation now, hips snapping, cock pounding into you with each gasp of your name.

He’s not even trying to hold back. He’s completely undone. His head tips back, his neck straining, jaw slack.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “You’re perfect. You're everything. I can’t, oh gosh, I can’t.”

You lean down again, your chest pressed to his, lips at his ear. “Cum inside me,” you whisper, voice soaked in heat and need. “Fill me up, Clark. I want to feel you. Want all of it. Please.”

He shatters. His thrusts lose rhythm, stuttering, gasping, almost violent with how hard he jerks beneath you. He moans your name as he spills inside you, deep and hot, cock pulsing again and again as his arms crush you to his chest.

You cling to him, shaking, slick and overstimulated, every inch of you pulsing, his body buried inside you like it’s where he belongs.

His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, kissing, panting, whispering your name over and over like it’s a promise. And in that breathless silence after, nothing else matters. Because you’re still joined. Still trembling. Still his. And he’s yours. In every name. In every form.

You don’t move for a long, long time.

You just stay there, straddling him, body flushed and heavy, every inch of you slick with heat and sweat and the kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. Your cheek rests against his chest, and beneath your ear, his heart is still racing, loud and erratic, faster than it should be, but steadying with every breath he takes.

The sheets are tangled beneath you. Warmth radiates off his skin. Your thighs still tremble from the way he touched you, how deeply he filled you, and his hands haven’t stopped moving. One spreads over the small of your back, thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. The other is cradled between your shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide, holding you like a precious, delicate thing he’s still scared to break.

His cock is still inside you. Not fully hard now, but not soft either, just there, nestled deep in the heat of your body, like he’s reluctant to let go. Like you both are. You’re sensitive. Wet. Tender and raw and sore in the best way. The way that says he’ll still be inside you long after you’ve pulled apart.

And God, you don’t want to move. Not yet. You hum softly against his chest, the sound barely audible over the soft rise and fall of his breathing. The golden light from the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, painting you both in honeyed warmth. The air smells like sweat and sex and skin. Familiar. Safe.

He shifts beneath you, just enough to press a kiss into your hairline. His lips linger. Stay.

“My girl,” he murmurs.

You smile sleepily, feeling more content than you have in years.

“I am yours,” you say softly, trailing your fingers over the broad line of his ribs, feeling the rise of each one beneath your palm. You press your hand flat over his heart and feel it jump beneath your touch. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says, his voice a whisper against your temple. “I think I’ve always known.”

You tip your chin slightly, kiss the underside of his jaw. “You’ve never said that before. My girl.”

He stills for a moment, then smiles, shy and crooked. “Felt right,” he admits. “Hearing you call me Clark while you were wrapped around me like that… I just,” he breaks off, breath catching. “You’re the only person outside my parents in this world who’s ever made me feel like I belong somewhere.”

Your heart clenches. You lift your head, look down at him. His face is flushed, hair mussed and curling, lips still kiss-swollen. The curl of his smile is dazed and boyish, eyes glassy with the remnants of pleasure. And beneath all that is hope. Fragile and shining.

“Clark Kent,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You’re still inside me. You don’t have to sweet-talk me right now.”

He laughs, quiet and startled and disbelieving. “Can’t help it,” he says, wrapping his arms tighter around you, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You’re here. You’re with me. I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up.”

“You won’t,” you promise. “I’m real. This is real.”

He swallows thickly. Nods. “I’m still not over it,” he says quietly.

“Over what?”

He hesitates. The hand on your spine pauses. “You’d come to me on the rooftop,” he says, his voice soft, “after everything. And you’d talk to me. About your day. About your coworkers. About how Jimmy kept stealing your snacks and Lois left you on read.”

You smile. “She always leaves me on read.”

“And I’d just sit there,” he continues, “listening to you, watching you, and all I could think was how jealous I was.”

You blink. Lift your head again. “Jealous?”

“Of me,” he says, sheepish. “Of Clark. I wanted to be the one you gave that smile to. The one you leaned against. The one who got to touch you without gloves.”

You stare at him Then burst out laughing.

He groans and hides his face in your neck. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You were jealous of yourself?”

“I didn’t say it made sense,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin.

“Oh my God,” you giggle, propping yourself up on your elbows so you can see his face. “Clark, that is-,”

“Don’t say it.”

“The most romantic and stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

His cheeks are flushed. “I just…I wanted your attention like that. All of it. I wanted your mornings. Your evenings. Your jokes. Your voice. I wanted to be the one who made you laugh in the elevator and flushed when you got too close and…Golly, I wanted this.”

You study him. Let the smile fade into something softer, warmer. “You already had me,” you whisper. “I was already yours.”

His breath catches like it hurts.

You kiss him slow. Then start pressing long, melting kisses that leave him trembling beneath you. You press soft kisses to the corner of his mouth, then down his jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear, to the curve of his throat.

His breath stutters. His hands tighten on your waist. “What’re you doing?” he asks, voice rough.

“Leaving marks.” You suck gently at the side of his neck, slow and steady. His hips twitch beneath you and his cock stirs slightly inside you, still too soft for more, but warm and twitching with every brush of your mouth. “Since you were so jealous of yourself,” you murmur, “I figured I’d give you something else to be jealous of.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No,” you whisper, kissing lower, “just making sure everyone knows who you belong to. Including you.”

You suck another mark onto the curve of his shoulder, deep and dark and possessive, and feel his breath hitch beneath you. His whole body is pliant now, muscles loose and ruined, chest rising in slow, shaky breaths.

His cock gives one last twitch inside you.

“You good down there?” you tease. “Or are you going to be jealous of your cock too?”

“Hush,” he groans into your shoulder, face bright red at your words.

“Or maybe the blanket because it’s on me, too?” You glance down. The cotton is bunched low around his hips, sticking to your thighs, damp and tangled.

“Sweetheart,” he warns. “You’re real cute when you try to give me guff.”

You laugh, quiet and smug, and settle against his chest again, your arms around his ribs, your head tucked beneath his chin. He holds you like he’ll never let go. And maybe he won’t. Because after a long pause, he exhales slow, and presses one last kiss to your temple.

“My girl,” he whispers. The words ripple through you like heat.

You press another kiss to the pulse at his throat and whisper what you’ve known for a long, long time.

“Yours.”

The breakroom smells like burnt toast and freshly ground coffee, too much char, not enough cream. The overhead fluorescents buzz faintly, cold and unforgiving, a little too bright for how wrecked you feel inside. There’s a smear of something sticky on the counter no one’s bothered to wipe up, and a half-eaten blueberry muffin sits abandoned near the sink.

You lean against the cabinets in your yesterday blouse, buttoned all the way up this time, tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt, trying to fake normal with every careful inch of fabric. But your legs still ache faintly from being wrapped around him. Your throat’s a little sore from moaning his name. And your skin hums like it hasn’t fully come down from last night’s altitude.

Clark stands at the counter, frowning at the coffee machine like he’s trying to will it into compliance. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms with the faintest bruising at the knuckles. His tie is crooked. His hair is damp from his morning shower, curling faintly at the nape of his neck, with one stubborn curl already starting to fall over his brow.

He’s still flushed. Still bashful. Still trying so hard not to look at you. And yet, he does. A lot.

You cross your arms loosely over your chest and watch him, your shoulder brushing the doorframe as you tilt your head.

“You’re really going to pretend everything’s normal?” you ask, lips tugging into the barest hint of a smile.

“I made coffee,” he says, quiet but hopeful, lifting the carafe like it’s some kind of peace offering. “I figured that’s… normal.”

“Clark.” You arch a brow and step forward, slow and teasing, until the hem of your skirt brushes his shin.

He stills. The air between you tightens. Sharpens. He turns to face you fully, mug still in one hand.

And there he is.

All of him.

Clark Kent. Superman. The man who pressed his mouth to your neck like it might save him. The man who made you come with his fingers buried deep, who whispered your name into your skin like he could make a home of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he still looks like the sweet, clumsy guy who brings extra muffins to the bullpen and blushes when you call him “Kent.”

You reach for the mug he’s holding, fingers brushing his. His hand is warm as always, but rougher than usual. You catch sight of the scrapes on his knuckles, red and fresh, a little dried blood along the cuticle. A mission. A fire. A fall. You’ll ask later. But for now, you just let your fingers linger a moment longer than necessary before taking the mug from his hand.

He watches you sip like he’s worried it’s too hot. Like the coffee might hurt you and he’ll never forgive himself if it does.

You lower the cup with a slow exhale. The taste is terrible, over-brewed, too bitter, but it makes your chest ache, anyway.

“How’d I miss it?” you murmur.

His brow furrows. “Miss what?”

You nudge him with your hip. Playful. Testing. “That you were Superman.”

He gives you a small, sheepish smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Guess I’m just a really good reporter.”

You shake your head and set the mug down beside the sink. “No,” you say, voice quiet but sure. “You’re a really good liar.”

Something flickers across his face. Guilt, regret, something heavier than either. His shoulders slope slightly. He looks down.

“I never wanted to lie,” he says softly. “I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

Your heart catches. You step closer again, your hand rising to smooth his crooked tie. Your fingers brush the front of his shirt, warm from the heat of his chest beneath. He smells like soap and cedar and ozone.

“Clark,” you say gently, fingers settling at his collar. “I know.”

He finally looks at you, eyes wide and blue and full of something that hurts to hold.

You rise up on your toes and kiss his cheek, just beneath his eye, where the skin is soft and warm and still slightly flushed. The kiss lingers longer than it needs to. When you pull back, his eyes flutter closed for half a second like he’s anchoring the moment.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you whisper.

His throat works on a swallow. The flush deepens, rising high into his ears. He smiles small and wrecked and completely undone.

“I really am,” he says. Then, quieter still, he adds, “I’m so in love with you, it scares me.” The words hit somewhere deep. Behind your ribs. Beneath your skin.

You pick the coffee back up, sip again just to steady yourself, and glance at him over the rim. “Good,” you say, voice light. “Now you know how I felt all this time.”

He huffs a laugh, almost disbelieving. His hand finds your hip. Light. Tentative. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you in this setting but can’t help needing to.

You lean into it. Into him. He presses a kiss to your hairline. His thumb strokes lazy circles at your waist.

There’s a sound outside the breakroom, someone laughing, printers firing up, but none of it touches you. Not here. Not in this quiet corner of morning. Not with his lips brushing yours, slow and reverent, like he’s thanking you for something he doesn’t have words for yet. The coffee. The newsroom. The bruise on his knuckle and the blush in his cheeks.

This is Clark. Yours. And for the first time since all of this began, he’s letting himself be.

#i’m SO in love with love sick clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #superman x reader #superman smut

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