sflame15-blog

[sflame15-blog]

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 - 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Summary: Born yesterday, a faceless hero garnered Metropolis’ attention after defeating city threats with a tiny fist. As a journalist with an artistic hand, you were given the assignment of a lifetime. All for an editorial cartoon, and no photos of him online, you had to do the unimaginable: fake a fall.

Content: Just a good old rescue from the man in the red cape ;-> & reader has a silly crush on clark kent

W/C: 4,314

AI-GEN VOICE: Du du dun dun! This episode is brought to you by Guy Gardner’s Power Powder, the best protein powder of the galaxy.

HOST: Look at the size of that thing! That’s AI. Definish.

GUEST: The guy wears his trunks outside his pants.

HOST: I might wear my boxers last from now on–

You unplugged your wired earphones, not bothering to let the podcast host finish his sentence. 

This will be the last rage-bait content you’ll ever consume. You swear it. 

At this point, you’ve gotten a bit too desperate to achieve an accurate description of the mystery man. An adequate likeness that would make Jimmy Olsen’s blood boil. If he was able to coin “Superman,” then the best way you could outdo him is to put a face on the name.

A few days ago, your good old boss, Mr. Perry White, stopped you in the middle of scanning identification. This is not a surprising treat. He delivers witty morning greetings to whoever walks by his path every morning.

Since you’re not much of an exception to the horrible tradition, it was a surprise when Perry came to you with a question that could potentially change the state of your career. 

It went along the lines of, “Can you draw caricatures?”, to the eventual “I have a special assignment for you,” then the final nail on the coffin: “Make an editorial cartoon of the man in the cape. Send a copy to Roxanne for edits on Saturday.” 

Today is Saturday, and what do you have so far? Crumpled papers, eraser shavings in every desk corner, droopy bags, and an open tab filled with images of muscular actors. 

In the few years since you worked in the Daily Planet, this was probably the most daunting task you ever had. 

Why would he entrust you with a column that seems impossible to achieve in a week? In addition, Super or Man or whatever he’s called just became an “existence” in the city’s business. 

The most recent photograph of him is literally a blurry zigzag. How would you know what he looks like, when all that he is was born yesterday? 

“Chief must’ve expected so much from you, huh?” Jimmy swiveled his chair to face you with an expression your brain daydreams of beating up. “Sorry Jimmy, I can’t hear you with all that leftover salad in your teeth.”

Before Jimmy could utter a stupid comeback, Clark walked into the scene, without so much an echo of footsteps nor other sounds from an approaching person. 

“Your knight in shining armor is here!” Clark looked at the both of you in playful confusion while settling down in his chair with a small smile, putting down his suitcase and an extra tie. With Clark blocking out the sight of a red-haired moron you had to endure on the daily, you could finally focus on actual work. Serious journalism with a mug of black coffee.

That’s what you thought your days in the office would usually go, when in reality, you needed more stacks of paper to shield yourself from both Jimmy and Kent. 

Despite Clark’s calming presence in the office, and his table connected to yours, you can’t help but notice the sudden swell of warmth in the room’s temperature when he sits too still, how the words that were supposed to be in your computer screen remain stuck in your head before he goes to the bathroom, how the rays of sunlight slide through his dark curls then turn his dark blue eyes to lighter shades of sky blue. 

Noticing a lot of details is a talent that got you to where you are now, but you often question where you apply these special skills. 

Yes, you’re quietly aware of your fondness towards Clark as a coworker. Over time, you began admiring his rapid work ethic, the way he could finish a handful of articles in a day without consuming an ounce of energy drinks to combat the deadlines. Even in the midst of rushing words and time constraints, Clark remains the perfect balance between prompt professionalism and the positive energy of a puppy. 

You never thought your mind would soon revolve around Kent. 

He was just this clumsy giant with glasses, who checks off the boxes of a total people-pleaser. Then exactly a month ago, when some guy started flying around buildings, saving cats stuck in trees, and fighting machines that came out of nowhere, you started noticing the cushions of his chair, often devoid of the friendly giant. You started to worry whenever Clark was found absent on the job, mostly by you, which led to his stupid face occupying your mind day and night, denying you the freedom to ponder on anything else other than him. 

Now here you are, juggling between your schoolgirl hyperfixation with Clark and the editorial cartoon of a new superhero. Hopeful similarities? You don’t think so. 

“Have you proposed any sketches to Perry yet?” Clark asked while fidgeting with a pen, which immediately fell out of his knuckles after merely seconds of contact. 

Cute. Amazing. Out of this world.

As he slowly picked the pen off the ground, you saw Jimmy making smooching noises towards clueless Clark. You paid him no mind, though the veins on your neck felt like it would pop out any second. 

“I’d rather have you take this assignment, Clark, considering you were able to have two interviews with the guy.” You sighed as you shuffled random papers on your desk. Clark faced you with his frames slipping off. As he immediately puts it back on, you realize you’ve never seen him without it before. 

“It doesn’t have to be too accurate. You can draw any man in a blue suit and a red cape. The guy has black hair if you’re not sure with hair color. Clean cut. Definitely ravishing.” You cocked an eyebrow. Given the look on your face, he cleared his throat. 

“He, um, he doesn’t have to be handsome in the cartoon. Just an optional truth.” He muttered the last sentence before he busied himself on the keyboard, prepping for his first draft, which will most likely be finished within an hour. At times like these, you wish you could write at the speed of his light so you could keep up with him. His normal rate is at the top of your game. 

“Maybe you can jump off any building and hope that he will catch you.” Your heart jumped out of its chest the moment you realized that Lois was listening in the whole time, grabbing a brewed cup from the nearby espresso machine. 

“We should bet on it. 5 bucks. Dibs on the injuries.” Jimmy slammed his palm on the desk. Paperworks fly off the wooden surface and scatter on the hardwood panels, his eyes glinting with childlike joy. 

Clark furiously shook his head, pure concern etched into his features. “Please don’t. No bets and no jumping from high places. That’s the very last thing heroes want you to do.” A part of you was itching to laugh at how ridiculous the conversation has become, and yet, as your eyes found its way to Clark like a shy ragazza, you were a bit surprised to find some fog on his lenses, and his nostrils were flared in a scale that would welcome invisible dust. You bit the insides of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling. Perhaps it’s the natural tricks of summer weather. 

“Some crazy fan might pull him by the boots to take a clear picture of him. And let’s face it, she doesn’t have the guts to put herself in danger. She’s always been a safe player, unlike Ms. Troublemaker Lane here.” Your circle went silent, bracing for Lois’ fumes to set off. 

With Lois’ icy glare, that officially marked the end of the discussion. 

Though the terrifying look was directed towards Jimmy, chills crawled up your spine. As Lois strided towards Olsen and bonked him in the head with a rolled up binder several times, your shoulders tried to shake away the tense sensations. 

“Don’t believe him. I think you’re an excellent columnist. One of the bravest, even.” Clark commented, looking over at you with his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. 

Now, there’s that funny feeling again. 

“Thanks, Clark.” You managed a small smile before your fingers slipped a piece of gridded paper, gently placing its looming blankness in front of you. You stared at the digital clock on your screen, your chest tightening at the passing seconds – time spent refreshing webpages for at least a semblance of a heroic face. 

Maybe you should stick with Clark’s descriptions: a ravishing man in a blue suit, red cape, and black hair. You’d be too stubborn if you decided to see him for yourself, putting yourself in life-threatening situations just to savor a glimpse, a word, an observation in the flesh. 

But it’s hard to deny that there’s some truth in Jimmy’s words. You’ve played things too safe in a world where your words should reveal hard truths and expose bitter realities. You’ve deprived yourself of that curious hunger, waiting on information rather than stirring the pots and taking risks. 

On the touchpad, your trembling fingers swiped through the tabs on the screen, offering suspense as the clock ticked in an almost tortuous pace. Your eyes helplessly darted around different laptop screens. Seeing finished drafts while you barely got a simple drawing really does feel like a slap in your short lived career. 

As if your legs got a spirit of its own, you stood up from your chair, grabbed your wool coat since it was windy outside, and took your phone because you’re attached to it. 

A fresh wave of nausea and courage pumped your lungs while your surroundings blurred in vertical streaks. The loud thumping of your heart washed out the typical sounds of clanking keyboards and the scattered nature of heated conversations. 

Once you stood in front of the closed elevator doors, you took a deep breath and let out a shaky one. Beside the metal doors, blinking red numbers stared at you like a warning, begging you to choose wisely. Like a crazy person, you nodded your head to the challenges that await you at the top of the building, where you’re half sure that you could witness the man in the red cape up close. 

After a few, painfully slow minutes, the neon sign blinked to your current floor. You reluctantly stepped inside, alongside a handful of other staff writers, each taking turns pressing on their respective buttons. Before the doors slid to a smooth close, you almost choked on your saliva and swore your eyes already deceived you. 

There he is, Clark Kent, running towards you. Despite his tall height, he runs at the speed of a daisy carried by the wind. His sharp features seem delicately frazzled, ensuring apologies with every person he might’ve budged. Dark curls covered some parts of his face, but a rare shred of worry was evidently written in his features. 

Somehow, the whole scene went by in slow motion, characteristic of the romantic comedies you’d put on the television screen with a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

It was as if you were viewing every kinks of your reaction and his in third person, urging for the adorable gentleman to reach for the loser protagonist and hold her for the first time in his warm embrace. Then gently, the girl hugs him back and flashes a relieved smile at the camera. 

Happily never after! 

Instead of a fading shot, his eyes managed to latch onto your widened stare, before the elevator doors closed in finality.

“Sorry, lady. Your friend was kind of slow.” A guy with a stache shrugged before whistling his body to the front, standing near the buttons. You looked down at your heels to hide the ridiculous grin forming on your lips and the feel-good warmth that clawed its way to your cheeks.

For the longest time, Clark has been an effortless distraction to your work, but today was the first time he ever made a direct effort to completely divert your senses. You replayed the scene in your mind just to rehash the way he looked at you. 

What a fool.

You took mental notes of the people who came and went like robots on a mission. As soon as the last passenger left, you shuddered at the space they left behind. Now it’s time to count down the seconds. 

As soon as the elevator doors slid open, you were welcomed with the bustling sounds of the city and sunlight that’s bright enough to provoke tears in your eyes. You rushed outside to slip on your coat before you placed strands of hair behind your ears. They weren’t lying when they said that the view up here was amazing, and it was actually nice to gather some fresh air for a change. 

Up here, the skies drowned out the infinite noise that crowded your mind only seconds ago. 

Is this how the nomad in the sky feels most of the time? To be one with the air, finding solace in the light of day then the stars at night? 

He still doesn’t make any sense to you. Why is he here, on your planet specifically? Either a cruel prank or some divine gift, what were his intentions? Is he making a good first impression to collect the people’s trust, by disguising himself as a promising entity? 

You know all sorts of stuff may get on social media in the near future. But now you’re here to stamp on something that’s never been done before. You’re also sure that a lot of people are competing with each other to capture this one, valuable thing — Superman’s face.

With his speed, there were attempts to plaster his face on the surface of general knowledge. You've heard stories of people faking for a rescue, but once they were taken someplace safe, there were no traces of him. Even parents would purposefully put their pets on tree branches with a camera all set up – for the sake of views perhaps – but unfortunately for them, all they’ve taken was an indecipherable shape. 

The viral chase has become embarrassing at this point, and with hypocrisy in your veins, you’d go through the same humiliation for the sake of curiosity, at the cost of your assignment, and maybe, just a secret maybe, more precious compliments from Clark. 

As you walked towards the edge, the metal door at the corner of your eye creaked open, wide enough for an incoming figure, yet as the door swayed back and forth, you realized that no one was coming. It must’ve been the wind, you thought to yourself. 

You folded your arms in the harsh wind. Its strength caused your heels to scratch the rough asphalt, leaving marks similar to white chalk. After some time, merely eight feet away from the edge, you started to get annoyed at the winds’ push and pull, so as an act of defiance, you stayed put, waiting for nature to stop ushering your plans too quickly. 

As if the poltergeists of past enemies found you, you lost your balance. Your fingers tried to grasp onto something while your legs wobbled forward. Far below the vast skies, gigantic skyscrapers bounced in sync together, and as your body tried to stay still, the wind made your efforts hopeless.

You braced yourself, using your arms as a shield and your glutes as your anchor. You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What in the world–” With all the air blocking out your ear pathways, you had a hard time hearing yourself. Yet that became the least of your worries. 

There’s a freaking monster coming your way. Turquoise, scaly, and slow. Its large silhouette faintly reminded you of Baby Bop from the Barney shows you used to watch as a kid. 

And it’s nearby, of all places.

How did you get so lucky? 

You’re aware of the consequences if you don’t go down a flight of stairs anytime soon. But the good news is that you don’t have to purposefully grab Superman’s attention anymore.

“It’s dangerous to stand so close to the edge, miss.” Your heart leaped out of your chest. 

Was there someone else on the rooftop with you? 

A man’s tall shadow creeped up from behind, shielding you from the sun. His voice was deep. Every word uttered was crisp and clear. A sound akin to a glimmer of hope, like everything will be okay. You turned around, expecting that the voice is a figment of your imagination, but lo and behold, there’s actually a man floating in front of you. 

And Clark wasn’t wrong about the ravishing part. 

He’s not a bald alien with green skin and beaded eyes. No, he’s quite far from those descriptions. With his smooth dark hair and a tiny curl falling out of place, he looked at you with a watchful softness that you can’t explain. 

Though it’s your first time to behold him, he’s oddly familiar.

Given his otherworldly abilities, Superman is an untouchable force. No one could easily reckon where he actually came from. 

But here you are, standing on the rooftops of the beloved Planet building, while he’s floating 50 feet up in the air. And no, you can’t do the math, only a confident approximation. 

In a few minutes, the giant would come between you and Superman, destroying your beloved offices and the lives of those you care about. Now that you finally got the reference you needed, all thanks to photographic memory, you had no choice but to deliver yourself to safer grounds. If you have enough time to do so. 

Superman lowered himself to the ground, his red cape fluttering gently on his back. His scarlet boots appear dirtied by asphalt clinging onto his soles. His tight blue suit hugged his well-built torso, broad enough to make a lot of girls gape online. His sharp jawline, his piercing cerulean blue eyes, and his vibrant costume were easy to trust. 

A million more questions ran through your mind, but there’s one that stood out to you the most. Have you seen him before? Your heart hammered against your chest. An imaginary lightbulb flickered on top of your head, yet still not to its full extent. 

First things first, you need to be saved, and the most definite opportunity is him. 

As if he could read your mind, he reached a large palm towards you, a bright smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“I’ll take you.” He politely offered, and you silently nodded at the rare invitation. It sounded weird and dreamy to your ears, the way he softly asked the question, straying away from the heroic stance he presented earlier. It’s like you accidentally stepped into a private, personal moment, and you wonder why he’s letting you in so easily, merely with a subtle change of tone. 

The sun formed a glowing halo behind his back, the warm rays resembling a long embrace. He pulled you closer to his chest, his fingers holding you into place. Slowly, he guided your elbows to rest on his shoulders, clasping your fingers behind the nape of his neck. “Is it alright if I carry you to Metropolis Park?” He lowered his head until you could see him eye to eye. You noticed your startled reflection in his eyes–a deep pool of blue.

You let out an awkward laugh, mostly because you’ve already foreseen the next step, where you have to fly with the man in the sky. And you have to swallow down your fear of heights, not only for your sake, but also for the people he’ll save after you. “Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll try my best to make the experience less painful for you.” 

“How do you know my name?” 

Superman lifted your feet off the ground before a spillage of follow-up questions left your lips. You whispered a forbidden mixture of prayers and swear words, mortified that all of your senses unabashedly pressed onto him just to keep yourself from fainting in his arms. You squeezed your eyes shut as your fingers clawed on every chiseled muscle on his back. 

Nothing could ever prepare you for this moment, and it wasn’t as magical as it looked like in the movies. It was more like a wild rollercoaster ride rather than a graceful plane launch. Upwards and all over the place. The more you stay in the present moment, the more likely your stomach food will be flushed in the toilet food. 

“We’re almost there. I’m sorry for the sudden flight response. Oh.” Your ears perked at the slip of an accent. 

For some reason, visions of swaying cornfields and lush green plantations came to you in flashes. The smell of oak barrels full of sweet and fruity burgundy. Clark Kent with lopsided glasses. 

You couldn’t believe it, how random parts somehow clicked into place. It took you a fair amount of time to actually land on the answers before landing on the ground itself. 

The same guy who writes articles at the speed of light, never needing a cup of coffee for replenishment. The same coworker who comes into the office with windswept hair and a dimpled smile on his face. The same sports journalist who compliments your paragraphs word for word, reciting the sentences jokingly like a Shakespearean play. 

Clark Kent, the man who decided to stay with your cramming sessions while everyone went back to their homes, and when you tried to convince him that he doesn’t have to, he pretended to type on his keyboard with a finished document. 

Clark Kent, who leaves while Superman fights monsters outside, like David defeating a hundred or so Goliaths.

Clark Kent, the center of your world, and apparently, the world revolves around him. 

You could be wrong, but everything made sense. Pure coincidence? You might be onto something. The only thing standing in your way from the truth were the delicate frames on his face. Your private eyes for the cute nerd have led to the biggest investigation of your life, and you’re willing to keep that secret for him to the grave. 

“Hold on tight.” He cleared his throat. Once your eyes fluttered open, Superman welcomed your recovering sights with a reassuring grin. 

God, those dimples were to die for. This could perhaps be the last time you’ll encounter this version of Kent, apart from the clumsy giant your mind, heart, and soul never ceased to obsess over.  

Superman carefully placed you on the ground, your trembling feet grazing the wet grass below. You felt like a lovesick mermaid who’s still navigating her new feet, learning how to walk again one step at a time. Not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of Clark, you forced yourself to keep a cool stance, wiping your sweaty palms on the sides of your coat. 

When you turned to check if he was still there, you were surprised to find him staring. Usually, Clark Kent would look away and choke on his saliva until his cheeks turned pink, but Superman was still looking with caring intent. Was it observant? Curious? You’re no longer sure what his looks meant anymore. 

“Thanks, Superman. No need to worry about me. I think others need more saving.” Before Superman uttered a word, the monster made an ear-piercing screech from afar. Gaping onlookers pulled out their phones, not at the deafening sound, but towards the man in the cape. 

“Holy shit, that’s him.”

“In the flesh!”

A huge crowd cautiously surrounded the figure while Superman floated a few feet up in the air. Their active phones followed suit, gasping at the scene like he’s some majestic god. With one deep look at the skies, he flew away, setting his sights on the Daily Planet building, merely moments away from being in a shambled state. 

In his absence, citizens rushed to post the next trending footage. You could see the glowing numbers in the reflection of their eyes. Your phone vibrated against the pockets of your coat. 

Messages from Lois and Jimmy might have flooded and bombarded your screen by now. You checked and expected spamming from the office group chat. You were right about most of them. Jimmy typed your name in all caps. Lois mentioned yours with exclamation marks. But as you scrolled further, missed calls from Clark came into view. 

And one voicemail.

That was least expected. You clicked on the voicemail and put your phone against your ear, letting your voice and his panting drown out the noise. 

Kindly leave your message after the beep! Beeeeeeeep!

Hey! Hey, can you hear me? Oh, voicemail.  This is the best I can do. This is Clark. Clark Kent? I-I’m calling right now because I have a feeling you might do something you’ll regret later on. Not that you’re being careless– YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY NOT BY THE WAY.  I’m just worried.  Well, worried is an understatement.  I’m scared shitless. For you. What I assume you might do. How your mind works. I meant it, Y/N. You’re truly one of the great ones here. Jimmy is a tease. I just hope, um…you can see yourself through me. And of course, don’t forget those who care about you. Lois. Mr. Perry. Your admirer in the sky. I wish you could hear me. Let me convince you there are other ways. I have some ideas but I need you to stay where you are.  Oh god, I hope you’re still there. Wait for me. Please wait for me!

End of voicemail.

[sflame15-blog]

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: four times clark kent almost said he loved you, and the one he actually did.

warnings: fluff; language; clark being a simp; smut; unprotected sex (*sigh* please don't do that); riding; clark has a massive cock; alcohol consumption (you get wasted); fainting; poorly proofread.

word count: 5.8k (i had a lot to say)

note: can't believe i created this monster in the span of 36 hours while also managing to balance my job and college. that has to be a superpower. anyways i'm literally begging you to like it :,)

All it took for Clark Kent to finally ask you out on your first date was for you to get stood up on a date with another guy.

Huh. Who would've thought.

It had been weeks—no, months of pining between you and Clark, to the point where everyone in the Daily Planet would just roll their eyes everytime you got within 3 feet of each other.

One-sided pining would be a better definition. In fact, the only one pining was you, since Clark didn't seem to have a clue about your massive crush on him. He was too distracted by his own massive crush on you to do anything but gladly take each drop of attention you gave him and pray to God he didn't look like an absolute idiot while doing it (he did).

Everytime you talked directly to him, everytime you smiled at him from your desk—God, everytime you as much as looked at him. It was all it would take for his heart to nearly break through his ribcage and crawl straight to you.

"Careful, Smallvile." With a small chuckle when he almost walked straight into a wall because you waved him goodbye on your way out of the office.

"Nice work, Kent." On a random morning after the fresh releasing of yet another of his interviews with Superman. Though he didn't miss the slight narrow of your eyes, a layer of suspicion lying beneath the look of approval.

"Are you blushing, Kansas?" With a grin threatening to split your face in half when you witnessed his cheeks turn to a deep shade of maroon after complimenting the color of his new tie.

Every small interaction, every word that rolled off the tip of your tongue when you were near him screamed FLIRT. It was like an instinct. And of course everyone else could notice it except for the dumbass you were interested in.

You had to physically restrain yourself not to walk over that giant dork, take both of his shoulders and shake until he got some sense into that pretty head of his. One particular afternoon, your fingers almost snapped the pen you were holding while you huffed an exasperated: "That's it, I'm asking him out."

Lois had to yank you back to your chair by your elbow, rolling her eyes. "No you're not. He'll come to it eventually. Just give him some time... Alright, extra time."

It wasn't until a random monday in the Daily Planet's break room.

The smell of freshly made coffee hanged in the early morning air, golden rays of sunlight seeping through the windows. Of course the only two people to arrive at the office at this hour would be farm boy and unhealthy-workaholic-driven-by-caffeine-and-despair girl.

You smile at Clark. He smiles back, then proceeds to accidently pour some of the coffee in his mug—the one that had a poorly printed but cute drawing of Baby Yoda and read Yoda Best Journalist—, barely missing his own pants. You smile harder.

"So... do tell me, Smallvile," You tease, like it was so usual to happen whenever you were near him. Anything to get that flustered expression on his face. "How was your weekend?"

"Uh... you know," He starts, shrugging. "Just some writing research, a Star Wars marathon... the usual."

God, he was such a nerd. Cute.

It took you a few seconds to notice the slightly hesitant expression on his face, like he was waiting for you to say something. You figure he had asked you about your weekend too. You must've been smiling too dumbly at him to hear it.

"Oh, don't ask me about it." You exhale deeply. "I mean, if there's anything worse than getting stood up on a date by a guy that spells tangerine wrong, please, enlighten me. Maybe that'll make me pity myself less."

You try to make yourself look busy—and less miserable—by reaching to a mug on a high shelf. Too high of a shelf. You struggle to wrap your fingers around the ceramic, stretching your arm as high as you can.

You smell him first. Mint toothpaste and caffeine and something else you couldn't quite put your mind on. Then came the slight press of his chest against your back—still respectful, but able to rise goosebumps on your skin nonetheless.

He grabs the mug you had been struggling to reach like it was nothing. Just another day living inside his ridiculously giantic 6'5 frame.

"What an idiot."

Your head snaps up in surprise. Partly because it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to remember what he was even talking about, but also because of the tone in his voice. One that you had never heard coming from him before. Clark was always so gentle and has never been anything but polite to you or anyone else you know. But now... now his grip on the mug has his knuckles turning white and his jaw is clenched so tight you're surprised you don't hear his teeth shatter.

"He has no clue what he's missing." Clark continues through gritted teeth. "Like there aren't hundreds of guys out there who would give anything for the chance to go on a date with you—Gosh, I would like to take you out on date, you know, sometime. If you were ever interested in that, of course..."

You chuckle, though it comes humorless and sharp. Clark couldn't be that dense. He had to be playing with you. It had to be some joke—because there was no way he wasn't doing it on purpose.

"Sure, Kent." You reply sharply, then turn around to leave, not bothering to take the coffee he had thoughtfully already poured for you.

Because how dare he say shit like that. How dare him look at you and say there were hundreds of men that would like to go out with you when the only reason you had even agreed to go out with that moron—only to get stood up by said moron—was to at least make an effort to get Clark out of your head. How dare him imply he was one of those men when he still couldn't even bring himself to ask you to—

You turn around, very slowly. It was enough to still catch the frown on his face and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Wait a minute..." You point a finger at him like it was some accusation. "Did you just ask me out?"

"Uh, I—" His eyes widen, darting between the finger you have pointed at his chest then back to your face, like he doesn't know what could be the wrong answer. "I guess so."

It sounds more like a question than anything.

"And you were just gonna let me walk away like that?"

Clark scratches the back of his neck. "... I guess so."

"Jesus Christ, Kent," You half-sigh, half-chuckle, a simile already tugging at the corner of your lips as realization creeps in. "You really are adorable."

He barely had time to recompose from his confused state before you grabbed him by the back of his neck, pulled him down to place a loud kiss on his cheek and told him you were free on friday night.

"Oh my God, Clark, just... stop talking. I think I literally have wine in my nose right now."

Clark smiles so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. A very frequent occurrence for almost the whole night.

He could say the same for you, too. Actually, more than one time, you had to straight up cut him off mid-sentence and beg for him to stop talking because you just couldn't stop laughing.

Like just a few minutes ago when he somehow grew comfortable enough tell you about the one time he got his head stuck on a gap between the Kent's farm fence because some idiot middle school classmate made him fully believe that "if your head fits somewhere, then the rest of your body does, too". He learned that, even if it could be true, of course he was too big for that.

Clark was midway through detailed commentary on Ma Kent's poor attempts to free him from the universe teaching him a lesson when you, mid-laugh, desperately gestured for him to stop. Though not before you could prevent the sound that escaped you in the middle of your fit of laughter, similar to a snort. Your eyes widened and you immediately covered your mouth, but Clark had already heard it. He thought it was adorable.

He hadn't expected your first date to be like this. He expected having to bring up awkward topics just to prevent you from falling in uncomfortable silence—he had even googled random facts to mention when you eventually had nothing else to talk about.

He didn't expect the way you felt so comfortable around him. The way your eyes glimmered in interest for every word that came out of his mouth. The way you didn't hold back your laughter, not once—you couldn't even if you tried to.

Freedom suited you.

Clark wonders if that would be the closest he would ever experience to being drunk. The sound of your laughter, the look on your face while you laughed. The way your head tilts backwards, cheeks flushed and puffed by the lift of your lips, the crinkles that form by the corner of your eyes. It was like you had grown your own personal glow that hanged around your body like a halo. And, above all, the fact that he was the reason for that. That was enough to make him lightheaded. Dizzy, even.

I love you.

It was so vivid, his voice sounding so loud and sure inside his own head that it was almost as if he had heard himself actually say it.

Clark chokes on his water. Not the easily manageable kind of choking—the kind where there's splashes across the table and uncontrollable coughing. The kind where there's tears gathering in his eyes and he can't tell whether it's because of his struggle to breathe or the force of realization hitting him.

I love you?! What the hay, dude? Calm down.

He had felt it once before. That day back in the Daily Planet's break room when he had to gather every ounce of self-assurance in his body to mumble out the words to ask you out. When you stared back at him like he had just made some joke, then turned around to leave and he swore he heard something crack inside his chest. But it still didn't get even close to the strength of it now.

"Oh my God, Clark, are you okay?"

And the look of concern in your face only makes it worse. It's much worse. So much that he feels his palms sweat and a sharp ting of fear creep up his spine.

When Clark finally gathers the strength to compose himself, straightening his back and inhaling a deep breath through his nose, he looks so comically panicked it only takes one look at his expression—and the reassurance that he's just fine—for you to burst out laughing again.

And when you do, he doesn't say anything—he just laughs with you. He doesn't tell you that the reason to the absolute shock in his eyes is because he just realized that yes—he might just be falling in love with you.

And if not that, Clark guessed it was safe to say he was at least halfway through it.

"You just committed the worst of crimes." You manage to say through the big smile forming on your face.

Clark's chest rumbles against your back with a low grumble, the sound vibrating right through you. The end credits to How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days rolls in the tv across your living room.

"You just slept through my favorite movie."

Clark huffs out a quiet laugh, still half-asleep. He shifts behind you and the arm around your waist instinctively pulls you closer to him. "Hm—I'm sorry, baby. Was tired. We can watch it again if you want."

The large hand wrapped protectively around your breast shifts, and you're already grinning because you can perfectly picture the blush creeping onto Clark's face when he realizes where his hands wandered in his sleep. You've been waiting for this moment for the past thirty minutes.

But maybe you had made the wrong judgement. Because Clark's hand doesn't leave your breast. In fact, it scoots closer, squeezes it. You shiver. He smiles against your neck.

You're still trying to compose yourself, your mouth partly open in surprise, when a slight and unpretentious shift of his hips makes you freeze. You gasp. Out loud.

Clark's entire body stiffens. He clears his throat. Pulls his arms away from you.

Because the bulge you just felt nudging against your ass through the fabric of your shorts was the outline of Clark's cock. Right there. Pressing against you and half-hard.

Clark slowly starts to expand the gap between your bodies, to the point not a single part of him is touching you anymore, and it makes your stomach sink in disappointment.

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't be." You retort. A little too fast.

"No, I—I really am." Clark continues, and you swear you hear his voice break. "I swear I wasn't thinking of anything."

You shift, turning around to face him—only to find a frightened look on his face. Clark swallows so hard it's visible. His mouth opens and then closes again while trying to come up with the right words to an apology you don't need.

"It's just that—I just woke up and—"

Sometimes he thinks so much you swear it makes your head ache. So you grab him by the collar of his shirt and smash your lips against his.

You can tell the kiss takes him off guard. There's a long beat before Clark's lips hesitantly start to move against yours, but when you lift one leg and hook it around his hip, pulling him closer—his entire body relaxes against you, as if he physically needed the reassurance that you wanted him.

Everything after that becomes a blur.

His hands are everywhere—they roam your waist, the whole expanse of your back, then back down to grip your hip—eventually, they land on your ass, and you melt into the kiss, practically moaning against his mouth.

Suddenly, you're on top of him. Your legs now positioned on both sides of his hips to straddle his lap. He starts to gather more confidence, his fingers digging deeply into the flesh of your ass.

Suddenly, he's pulling your shirt up and over your head. You're not wearing a bra.

Suddenly, Clark's eyes lock to your chest and the look that forms on his face is as if he has seen God himself.

"Gosh, they're perfect." He breathes, then spares you a quick, nervous glance, wordlessly asking for permission. You nod, and he dives right in.

Clark's mouth ataches to every expanse of skin between and around your breasts, his hands kneading the flesh his lips are too occupied to give the proper attention. When he finally wraps his lips around one nipple, a stretched groan forms from deep in his throat. Clark's tongue swirls around the hardened bud, and you're not sure, but you swear you see his eyes roll to the back of his head.

His hand dips lower, finds the hem of your loose shorts, pulls it to the side along with your panties. Your eyelids flutter closed and a sigh escapes your lips. His middle finger slides through your folds to gather the wetness pooling there, and you shudder. Clark moans.

"You're perfect, baby. You're so perfect for me."

Soon he's shirtless too. All warm skin and broad shoulders and impossibly hard chest. Your shorts and panties follow, as well as his sweatpants. You have no clue where your clothes land after you blindly toss them aside. As soon as they're out of the way, you practically jump back into his lap.

Your hands roam every inch of skin they can reach, from the back of his neck to around his chest, then grabbing his biceps—and when that becomes not enough, you pull away from him just enough to pull the waistband of his boxers from where they rest above his hips and down his legs. He gets the hint, kicking them aside.

You gather up strength to look down from his eyes, his pupils fully blown with lust, your own eyes trailing to the golden skin on his chest, then down to his abdomen, then—

"Alright, there's no way that monstruosity is gonna fit inside me."

Your eyes threaten to bulge out of your skull at the full sight of him, not a single layer of fabric to mask his length now. It's big. Too big. Resting painfully hard and heavy against his lower abdomen, thick head flushed and already glistening with pre-cum.

The rise and fall of his chest against your hand when he exhales a shaky breath is what pulls you out of your trance. You look up at Clark to find his eyebrows furrowed, starry eyes staring up at you with hesitation and self-doubt pooling inside.

"Clark, baby, it was a joke." But then you add, because you can't ignore the sweat gathering in your palms and the icy sensation pooling in your stomach: "I mean, kind of."

Clark's shoulders shake a little, and you genuinely can't tell if he's suppressing a laugh or if it's purely out of nervousness. Well, that would make it two of you.

"Just..." You start again, then reach between your bodies. Clark hisses through his teeth when your fingers hesitantly wrap around the base of his cock to allign himself to your entrance. "Be gentle."

Clark looks up at you like you just asked him if the sky could be blue—but there's also something else there. Something in his deep, soft blue eyes that tells you he would do anything if only you asked him. Something that tells you he was willing to pull out his own heart from inside his chest and hand it to you.

"Of course I will, love." He replies, simply. "Always."

Your eyes linger on the foreign vulnerability displayed across Clark's face as you take a painfully long breath. Then slowly start to sink down his shaft, lips parting in a silent gasp when the tip sinks inside.

It's your fault, really. Your fault for being way too greedy and impatient to have him inside you before even letting him properly prep you. Though you suppose he shares the same eagerness, because something tells you Clark would never be letting you do that if he wasn't in a such desperate state himself.

You release a little squeal while lowering yourself, his girth spreading you open. Clark soothes you throughout every inch, fingers drawing circles on the small of your back so softly they just barely graze your skin.

Your heart skips several beats when the stretch starts to become too much, too deep, too—

Clark's finger taps the skin of your back, motioning for you to stop. You didn't even realize your eyes were closed before you have to peak one open to check the man currently lying beneath you.

"Breathe, baby. Don't rush." His voice is soft, but there's a hint of sterness to it that tells you it's more a command than anything else, like he's scolding you for trying to take more than you can handle. "We'll take our time, okay?"

You nod, making sure to breathe in and out through your mouth. A slight string of relief courses through your body when air reaches your lungs again, and it allows your muscles to relax a little. You take that as cue to resume your movements, walls spreading again to accommodate the size of him.

"You don't have to go all the—"

But you're already there, taking all of him inside you in one last sink of your hips, thighs now fully able to rest against his.

"Clark, oh my God—"

You feel full. So impossibly filled to the brim you're sure you never experienced anything like this before. Your chest rises and falls quickly as you fight to get air into your lungs, a choked whine building in your throat.

"I know, baby, I know." Clark moans, and his expression contorts into something between blinding pleasure and slight pain. "Feels too good."

After a few moments of petrified bliss, you start to move. Slowly first. Just a curious, tentative roll of your hips, testing the waters and still trying to get used to the feeling of having him buried so insanely deep inside you. The delicious burn of his shaft when you move is enough to make you whimper, hands clutching his chest.

Your thighs tremble uncontrollably with the effort of holding your own weight when you start to move up and down his cock. The words of praise rolling off Clark's tongue are the only thing that gets you going. He mumbles how pretty you look like this. How well you're doing for him. You barely feel concious enough to hear it, but it's surely there—hands dragging up and down your sides, caressing you, coaxing you to pick up your own pace and not once rushing your movements.

But then his hips buck up into you, a hesitant, barely there movement—like it's purely involuntary. The high pitched sound that escapes your lips when he reaches that spot inside you—a spot no one, not even your past lovers, not even yourself, has ever been able to reach—is enough to reassure him to do it again.

And again.

And again.

Your head falls back, mouth hanging open. A babbling, incoherent string of thankyouthankyouthankyou's tumble from your lips and your cheeks heat with embarrassment. You don't know what you're thanking. God, you're not sure you still know your own name. You think you might be drooling a little.

"Oh my God, Clark, I think I'm already—"

"That's okay, baby." Clark breathes out. "Look at me."

You feel him lightly tap the side of your face, and you think it's because it's been a few seconds and you still didn't respond him. You can't tell anymore. Somehow, you bring yourself to slowly open your eyes.

"There she is. There's my girl. Thought I lost you for a second."

You don't slow your movements, the rolls of your hips now bordering on wildness while a familiar pool of heat starts gathering inside your belly.

Clark holds your gaze, and you notice his lips are curving into a small, but surely smug smile. That bastard. But then he speaks again, and his voice is so soft you wonder if you just imagined it. "It's okay. Let go for me."

You start to lose senses. Your vision turns white and your legs threaten to fail you, but Clark's right there to catch you. He grips your waist and steadies the rythm of your hips, rocking you back and forth on his cock.

But it's the look on his face that does it for you.

He's focused, eyebrows knitting together and bottom lip catching between his teeth. Like he isn't doing it for himself. Like he's too busy trying to make you feel good. Too concentrated on the task of pushing you off the edge of ecstasy to even bring himself to think about his own pleasure.

You blindly lurch yourself forward to what—you were still about find out—would only be your first orgasm of the night.

Drink night with you, Jimmy and Lois was always a terrible idea.

Only a few drinks in, and Jimmy already seemed like he was in dare with himself to gather the number to every girl in the pub, and everytime Clark dared to spare a glance at Lois, she'd have that look in her face that said she was only a few drinks away from throwing up.

Let's not even get started about you, though. It was the first time Clark ever witnessed your drunk self. Fine, you got a little tipsy after one or two glasses of wine on your first date, but he realized that wine drunk was nothing compared to 5-shots-of-vodka-and-3-rounds-of-sex-on-the-beaches drunk.

Clark came to that realization somewhere between the many of your very enthusiastic performances on the pub's karaoke. Probably during the Juno by Sabrina Carpenter one—which you made sure to direct every lyric to the mortified, 6'5 tall man sitting absolutely dumbfounded while you unashamedly pointed at him through some specific lines.

Clark didn't even want to picture how he looked in that moment. Probably like a live tomato, if the temperature of his cheeks had been any indication. But he couldn't say the implication of you what you were singing to him didn't make his stomach churn with... excitement. He would make sure to bring it up as soon as you were in your right state of mind again.

When it finally was time for him to take you home, Lois had to forcefully pull away the microphone clutched in your hand, yelling a humored "have fun with that one" to Clark.

It was a comical scene. The way he dramatically hoisted you up in his arms—he didn't trust your own feet in that moment—and turned to carry you out of the pub, all while you still screamed the lyrics to Total Eclipse of the Heart.

You're still humming the tune of it now, while he carried you safely up the stairs to your apartment, your heels hanging from his fingers by their straps.

"Alright, hold on tight, trouble." Clark says when he finally reaches your door, then waits until you have your arms securely wrapped around his neck to switch your weight to one arm while his now free hand fumbles in his pocket.

"Wow—you're like, really strong, Clark." You muse, slurring slightly. Clark smiles softly at the impressed expression on your face. "Did anyone ever tell you that?"

He chuckles. If you found that impressive, he could only imagine if you found out he could stop a whole train with his bare hands. Though you wouldn't. Not yet.

"Hey, I tought I had lost that!" You point at the keys Clark's using to unlock your door, looking genuinely confused. The incredible fast pace in which you could change subjects while drunk was alarming.

You clearly had already forgotten the particular part of the night where you anxiously pulled Clark's arm and confesed "Clark, I lost my keys!", to which he only chuckled and responded with an amused "I have your keys, sweetheart". You just shrugged him off, then ran back to Lois' side to sing along to whatever pop hit she was already blaring on the microphone.

A few minutes later, when Clark had already made sure you got your teeth brushed, changed you into an oversized shirt and tucked you under a warm blanket, he can't help but sigh contentedly to the sight of you snuggling against his shoulder. Your lips refuse to stop rambling, slurring something about the size of his hands, which you're holding up against your own palms.

In that simple moment, with your flushed face half-buried between the crook of his neck and the soft sound of your voice vibrating against him, Clark's chest is suddenly filled with so much love he feels pressure wrapping like a tight fist around his heart, almost forcing the words out of his mouth.

Shut up, idiot. He thinks to himself. She's not even going to remember it tomorrow.

"I mean, what did they feed you in that farm? That can't be a normal size for anyone." Clark manages to hear you say above his internal monologue, but he's only half paying attention.

"Is that so, sweatheart?"

"Of course! Even your... well, I'm not saying the word, but you know what I'm talking about. Clark, that's huge. Which is not bad at all—actually, it's very convenient. Now that I'm thinking about it, I think it's great, now that I'm getting used to it."

You suddenly sit up straight on the bed, turning to face him with a dead serious expression on your face.

"You know what? Clark, take off your clothes. I need to prove a point."

Clark raises his eyebrows almost all the way up to his hairline. "Sweetheart, I'm not having sex with you right now."

"What? Why?" You let your hands fall exasperatedly against your sides, like you actually believed he'd agree with that. It takes everything in him not to laugh at the way your lips pout in genuine disappointment.

"Because you're drunk." Clark states, like it's oh so obvious. "Almost passed out, actually,"

You roll your eyes dramatically. "Alright, now you're being ridiculous. I'm not that drunk."

He sighs, then holds out both hands in front of your face. "Babe, how many fingers am I holding up?"

The serious tone in his voice makes it clear that, regardless if you get the right answer or not, he's still not going back in his decision. You make an effort nonetheless, eyebrows furrowing and closing one eye in an attempt to see clearly through the blurry haze your vision has become.

"Huh... twelve?"

It's half past 6 p.m. on a friday, and you're still hunched on the edge of your seat at the Daily Planet, staring at your computer like you're trying to burn the words on the screen into your eyelids.

Except for you and Clark, there's not a single soul still left in the office—though you suspect the only reason he's still there is to keep an eye on you. Quick, nervous glances are sent towards you every few minutes, but he knows better than trying to convince you to stop for the day.

You've been stuck in this specific article for pretty much the whole day, and it's just getting on your nerves. Not only that, but the questionable amount of coffee you've ingested in the past six hours might be affecting your cognitive thinking, because you refuse to leave until you've got it figured out.

It was one of your biggest flaws, for sure. The way you could completely shut off your brain for the rest of the world when it decided to hyperfixate on a specific task. You're only half aware of the fact that the last time you granted yourself the privilege of giving your legs a stretch was at least three hours ago, and that the grumble caused by your empty stomach can probably be heard from across the room.

You vaguely remember two or three snacks being carefully placed on your desk throughout the afternoon, only halting the frenetic typing to send Clark a quick 'thank you' smile. You were quick to throw the packages inside your drawer as soon as he wasn't looking, though, too focused to allow yourself to have a lunch break.

It's only when you find yourself staring dumbfounded at the screen after realizing you just mispelled the word vacation, that you start thinking maybe you really needed to give your neurons a rest.

Alright, time for a break.

You rise from your seat, groaning as you stretch your arms above your head. You grumble when the light coming from the lamp hanging from the ceiling suddenly feels a little too bright, and your skin prickles in a strange, funny way. The tingle rises to the back of your head, and white spots start forming behind your eyelids.

Uh oh.

Everything goes blank.

It was a quick black out, really. It couldn't have passed more than two minutes by the time you're slowly gathering conciousness again. Though you suppose that was enough time for you to wake up sitting up on the floor, gentle hands adjusting your position so your back is resting against the wall.

Clark is crouching in front of you, soft hands holding both sides of your face. You think you see his lips form the shape of your name, but it still doesn't quite reach your ears.

"Oh, hello. Good morning." You joke as soon as the ringing in your ears starts softening and becomes much more bearable.

Clark blinks once. Twice. Then drops his hands from your face and lowers his head between them, elbows resting on his knees. His shoulders shake with a deep, trembling breath.

You give him a moment to calm himself before looking back up to you. When he does, you notice his fingers not so subtly rubbing his eyes.

"Clark, are you crying?"

"For fuck's sake—you scared me." You barely have time to register the fact it might be the first and only time you ever hear Clark swear. He's already talking again. "You're so incredibly stubborn, and so incredibly oblivious to your own basic needs that your body needs to reach the point of exhaustion before you give it some rest."

Your mind spirals with the fast speed in which the words spill from his mouth. You stare at him, jaw slacking. Usually, you're always the one talking his ears off, not the other way around.

You don't think you've ever seen Clark speak so much in the span of a few seconds. Your brain fails to register some words, some of them blurring together into incoherent ramble.

"... and it just makes me so frustrated—so incredibly frustrated because I care for you and I love you so much I don't even know what to do with myself."

And when he says it—it's so sudden and sure and honest that it makes you confused for a few seconds.

"Clark? What—"

"That's enough for today." He interrupts, already rising to his feet and reaching across your desk to turn off your computer. You don't think he realizes what he just said to you.

Clark starts gathering your things, picking random utensils that are messily scattered across your table. You call his name again, but he doesn't turn, still too busy tossing your belongings inside your bag.

"I'm taking you home, and I don't want to hear you complain about—"

"Clark."

He turns at you then, head snapping towards the urgency in your tone. You're still a little confused and sitting on the floor like a grounded child, but now you finally have his attention.

"I love you too."

A beat passes. Two. Clark's hand is freezed mid-movement, still holding your bag—lips slightly parted in surprise, blue eyes widening. You can almost hear the gears turning inside his head.

Then he smiles.

It knocks all the air off your lungs, almost like a physical blow—the way Clark grins at you. It's the brightest, widest smile you've ever witnessed on his face. For a moment, it seems he forgets the reason he was even arguing with you. Clark's beaming, dimples and all.

Your head still feels a little dizzy and your legs are jelly, but you smile back, heart swelling with so much love you're afraid it won't fit inside your chest.

All it took for Clark Kent to finally say he loved you was some low blood pressure and your questionable built neuronal system.

Huh. Who would've thought.

[sflame15-blog]

fifth time's the charm

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: 4 moments he almost said “I love you,” and one moment where he finally did.

Word count: 4.3k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

I. Coffee

The secondhand coffee machine in Clark’s kitchen sputters again, issuing a pathetic hiss and a few reluctant gurgles like it’s fighting for its life. The sound echoes softly through the quiet apartment, accompanied only by the low, rhythmic hum of his voice. He’s not singing—just humming, some nameless, comforting tune you’ve come to associate with him when he’s deep in thought or focused on something small. You realize you’ve heard it more often lately. It’s always soft, always slightly off-key, but it settles into the background like a heartbeat.

You’re curled up on his worn, overstuffed couch, a blanket tucked over your legs, its fibers still warm from the dryer. The morning sun drapes over your cheek through the half-open blinds, warming your skin ever so slightly. Outside, the city is waking up—horns blare in the distance, someone yells about a dog, a bus grumbles past—but in here, it’s quiet. Slow. Still.

Clark turns from the counter with two mismatched mugs in his hands—one with a fading print of the Metropolis skyline, the other chipped slightly at the rim. There’s a small tremble in his fingers, just the tiniest betrayal of movement. He tries to hide it, keeping his grip steady, his face neutral. But you see it. You notice it now—the soft signs, the cracks in the armor. The quiet exhaustion in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The humanity in a man who so often feels like he carries the weight of the world without letting it show.

He walks over and hands you your mug carefully, as though the moment is delicate, sacred somehow. You catch the faint scent of the coffee before you take a sip—rich, smooth, with just a hint of cinnamon. It’s perfect. Suspiciously perfect.

You pause mid-sip, blinking up at him. “Wait… how did you know I like it like this?”

Clark hesitates. His eyes flicker down to his socks—gray, worn, one of them inside out. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish.

“You mentioned it,” he says, his voice low, a little unsure. “That night at the diner. You said your barista always puts too much syrup in.”

You frown slightly, surprised. “That was two weeks ago.”

He shrugs, almost apologetically. “I remember things. Especially about you.”

Your chest tightens—just a little, just enough to make your breath catch. Something unspoken swells between you, warm and sudden. You look down at your cup to hide your face, but you can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips.

Clark sits beside you, careful not to jostle the couch. He sinks into the cushions slowly, one arm resting along the back, his body angled slightly toward yours. His knee brushes yours, and though it’s the lightest touch, you feel it like a spark. His warmth bleeds through the space between you before you even look up.

When you do, he’s already watching you.

There’s something different in his eyes today—quieter than usual, but deeper. Like there’s something behind them he hasn’t said yet. A thousand unsent letters sitting just behind his tongue. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to speak.

You beat him to it, nudging his side gently with your elbow. “You gonna say something cheesy again?”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I…” His voice trails off for a second, then steadies. “I was just gonna say I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s simple. No dramatic inflection, no flourish. Just that.

But it lands like an anchor in your chest—heavy in the best way.

You turn toward him, the smile still lingering in your voice as your tone softens. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

He leans in, barely—like he’s moving without realizing it. Like gravity’s pulling him closer. But then he catches himself. Stops. Retreats just enough to let you breathe. As if he’s afraid to press the moment too far, afraid that naming the thing between you might shatter it before it’s ready.

He doesn’t say I love you.

He doesn’t have to.

You see it in the way he looks at you, in the quiet reverence of it. Like you’re something rare. Something breakable and brilliant. It’s not just affection—it’s intent. A kind of waiting. A kind of hope.

And maybe you don’t say it either. Not out loud.

But the way your shoulders settle into his, the way your fingers brush against his when you hand back the mug, the way you let your head fall gently onto his shoulder a minute later—all of that says enough.

Love is brewing here. Quietly. Patiently.

Just like the coffee he made, exactly how you like it.

II. Ramblings

The evening air has a bite to it, crisp in the way late summer sometimes is when the day begins to retreat and the first hints of fall sneak in around the edges. The city speaks around you, softened in the golden hour glow. Metropolis' east side is quieter at this time of day—just a few scattered people out walking dogs or lingering at cafe tables, their voices low and half-lost in the hush of a waning sun.

The sky overhead is painted in fading strokes of rose and molten gold, clouds drifting like brushstrokes across a canvas. Light glints off the windows of nearby buildings, setting them ablaze for a moment before dimming again. The world feels slower here, like it’s catching its breath.

You and Clark walk side by side, your pace unhurried. Comfortable. Familiar. The soles of your shoes scuff softly against the pavement. His jacket brushes your arm every now and then, and your hands swing between you, knuckles brushing with each step—tiny electric touches that say more than either of you has figured out how to put into words. Yet.

Clark steals glances at you as you talk about your day—your boss's passive-aggressive emails, the chaos in the breakroom, some intern who mistook decaf for espresso and turned the office into a war zone. You catch him looking and raise an eyebrow, but he just grins, sheepish and unapologetic, like he can’t help himself.

He looks at you like he's trying to memorize you in real time. Not just how you look in this light, but how you are in this moment—how your mouth moves when you laugh, how you tug at your sleeve when you're self-conscious, how your eyes crinkle when you’re teasing him. Like if he doesn’t commit all of it to memory, he’ll forget something important.

You reach your building before you know it—a quiet, brick-front place tucked between a florist’s shop and an apartment complex with ivy crawling up the side. You stop at the base of the steps, and so does he.

His hand lingers near yours. Close enough to feel the warmth, but not quite touching. His fingers graze your skin—once, then again. Like he wants to hold your hand but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to anymore. Or maybe he just doesn’t want the moment to end.

You tilt your head toward him, voice low. “You’re stalling.”

Clark laughs under his breath, looking down at your hands with that crooked smile that always gets to you. “Am I that obvious?”

“Just a little.”

He inhales, slow and deliberate, like he’s bracing for something—or holding something back. He lets the breath out in a soft, half-laugh. “I just... I really like this,” he says. His voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges. “Being with you. Even if it’s just... walking and talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even when I talk too much about my work drama?”

“Especially then.” His eyes meet yours, steady now. “You let me in. That means something.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward—just full. You watch him in the last stretch of sunlight, the way the gold outlines his jaw, the faint curl of hair at his temple, the thoughtful crease between his brows. You get the feeling he’s on the verge of something. Like there’s a door half-open inside him and he’s debating whether to walk through it.

His thumb brushes your knuckle again, slow and gentle this time. Intentional. You feel it down to your ribs.

Then his lips part.

“I think I lo—”

But he stops. The words catch like a bird in flight—startling, unsure. His mouth shuts abruptly, and for just a moment, his eyes widen, like even he didn’t mean to get that close to the edge.

You blink at him, heart tight in your chest. “You think you what?” Your voice is soft. Encouraging. But steady.

Clark blinks once, twice, and then clears his throat. “I think I… left my umbrella at the office.”

You stare at him.

A beat passes.

Then, involuntarily, a laugh escapes you—light and genuine. “Clark,” you say, “it’s August.”

He shrugs, helplessly, all wide eyes and boyish charm. “You never know,” he offers weakly.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The air is thick with the thing he didn’t say.

You lean forward and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s brief—barely there—but his breath stutters just a little. His body goes still. Like he’s afraid if he moves, the spell will break.

When you pull back, he looks at you like you’ve knocked all the wind from his lungs.

“I’ll text you later,” you whisper, your smile soft around the edges.

He nods, wordless, watching you as you turn and head into your building. The door swings shut behind you slowly, and in that last sliver of glass before it closes, you catch a glimpse of his reflection.

He’s still standing there.

Eyes fixed on the spot where you just were. Like he’s trying to will you back.

There’s longing etched into every line of his face. And something else, too—something tender and raw and a little lost. The unspoken sitting heavy on his tongue.

He doesn’t say it.

But he came close.

So close, it’s still ringing in the air after the door clicks shut.

III. The Busted Zipper

You’re once again walking side by side through Centennial Park, shoes crunching softly over the winding gravel path, when the sky turns on you. What had been a patchwork of sunshine and scattered clouds just moments ago shifts suddenly—like someone flipped a switch in the heavens. A sharp breeze cuts through the trees, rustling leaves into a frenzy, and the sky darkens with startling speed, the blue swallowed by a rolling tide of storm-gray clouds.

You glance up, frowning. “My weather app did not mention this.”

The wind picks up, tugging insistently at your clothes. Your jacket zipper catches halfway up, then jams completely, refusing to budge no matter how hard you pull. You huff, half-laughing, half-exasperated, as the fabric flaps open in the breeze like a reluctant flag.

“Perfect timing,” you mutter, futilely yanking at the zipper again.

Beside you, Clark slows, his brow knitting in concern. Without a word, he shrugs off his coat. It happens so smoothly, so instinctively, it almost doesn’t register until you feel the sudden weight of it settling around your shoulders—warm, heavy, and comforting. His hands reach up to adjust the lapels, smoothing them over your chest with deliberate care, as if ensuring every part of you is protected from the creeping chill.

You blink at him. “Clark, I’m not gonna let you freeze for me—”

He just shakes his head, calm and certain. “I’ll be fine.”

His voice is soft but steady. His hands linger a second longer than necessary before dropping to his sides. He tucks them into his pockets, his shoulders curling slightly inward against the breeze. You can’t help but notice the way he shivers—just barely, just once.

You inhale, and the coat pulls around you like a cocoon. It smells like soap and fresh cotton. And something else—something harder to name. Something warm and grounding, like the sun hitting pavement after rain. Like the feeling of safety in a storm. Like him.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you zip the coat higher—his coat—and fold your arms inside it. His posture is casual, but there’s tension in his frame now, like something’s coiled in his chest, something he’s trying not to let slip out.

“You always this gallant?” you ask, your voice light, teasing, trying to soften the sudden weight in the air.

He looks over with a smile—a real one—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I try.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You gonna ask for it back later, or am I keeping it forever?”

Clark’s smile shifts. Less playful now. It gentles, mellows into something quieter. His gaze lingers on you, thoughtful.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says, almost under his breath. “You keeping something of mine.”

You freeze for half a second. Something flutters in your chest—delicate and unsteady. Not panic. Not fear. Something more dangerous.

Hope.

The wind rattles a tree above you, scattering leaves into the air, and you let them fall around you like confetti, but your attention is pinned to Clark. He isn’t looking at you now—his eyes have gone distant, fixed on the path ahead like there’s something very important in the middle distance he needs to study. His jaw tightens, like he’s about to say something. Or swallow it instead.

Then, quietly: “I…”

You tilt your head toward him. You don’t rush him. You know the weight of unfinished sentences. You know how carefully they get carried.

But he stops. You see it happen in real time—the hesitation, the brief flicker of fear, the soft retreat behind his eyes.

He shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

You stop walking, reach out, and gently catch his hand. The contact is small, but it roots him. He glances down at where your fingers curl around his.

“It is,” you say softly. “If you were gonna say it, it’s important.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—emotion, raw and unguarded—but it vanishes almost as quickly as it comes. He offers you a smile, but it’s practiced. A gentle deflection.

“Just wanted to say…” he pauses, almost making you believe him, “you look good in my coat.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Searching. Waiting. But you know he’s not ready—not yet. And maybe you’re not either.

So you let him have the out.

You smile, faintly. “It’s a good coat.”

You start walking again, side by side under a sky heavy with unspoken words and almost-rain. He doesn’t take his hand back right away, and neither do you. The wind has calmed for now, but the air feels charged. The kind of hush that comes before the sky finally breaks open.

You don’t talk for the next few steps. You don’t need to. The weight of what he didn’t say—what you felt anyway—settles around you, heavier than the coat draped across your shoulders.

You keep walking, heart full, steps slow, the storm holding off a little longer.

But you know it’s coming.

And maybe, just maybe, next time, he’ll let it rain.

IV. The Call

The nightmare hits hard.

It doesn't creep in. It crashes—sudden, visceral, and overwhelming. One moment, you're sleeping soundly. The next, you're gasping into the darkness, lungs tight, heart pounding against your ribs like it's trying to escape. The room is too quiet, the shadows too long. Sweat clings to your skin despite the chill in the air.

You sit up abruptly, tangled in your sheets like something tried to pull you under and almost succeeded. You don’t remember the details, not clearly—just impressions. Panic. Falling. A voice screaming your name. Or maybe you were the one screaming. The remnants of the dream are already dissolving like smoke, but the fear lingers, sharp and disorienting.

Your hands tremble as they fumble across the nightstand. Your phone is there, cool and familiar beneath your fingertips. You unlock it without thinking, muscle memory guiding you. His name is the first one on the list.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even question it.

You tap the call button, and hold the phone to your ear like it’s a lifeline.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then—his voice. Soft. Sleep-roughened. Gentle in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Hey,” Clark says, quiet and warm. “You okay?”

His voice is like a light flipped on in a dark room—no sudden brightness, just a glow that steadies you.

You swallow hard, trying to find your own voice. “I… yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just…”

He cuts you off gently. “You can always call me.”

There’s no edge to it. No trace of annoyance or confusion. Just concern. Calm, grounded concern.

“What happened?”

“I had a bad dream,” you say. Your voice is unsteady, barely above a whisper. “I don’t even remember all of it. Just… it felt real. Too real. I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. Not silence—just stillness. Like he’s taking that in, wrapping his mind around your fear and already trying to shoulder it for you.

Then, softly: “Do you want me to come over?”

You glance at the clock glowing on your nightstand. 2:06 a.m.

You huff a breath through your nose, part laugh, part disbelief. “Clark… it’s two in the morning.”

“I’ll fly—uh, drive. Fast.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you let out a shaky laugh, something like tension loosening in your chest. You can almost see his sheepish smile through the phone.

“I’m okay,” you say, softer now. “I mean… I will be. Just needed this. Needed you.”

He exhales slowly on the other end. The kind of breath that sounds like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“I’m always here,” he says. “Okay? Always.”

His voice holds weight. A kind of gravity that draws your heart closer to steady. You believe him—without needing proof, without needing anything more than the way he says it.

You don’t respond right away. You don’t have to. The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It means something. The call has become more than just a connection—it’s a tether. A thread stretching between two hearts in the dark.

And in that silence… you feel it.

Something he’s not saying.

It sits between the words. In the hitch of his breath. In the way he doesn’t rush to fill the space. You know him well enough to recognize it now—that careful pause, like he’s standing at the edge of something bigger than both of you. Like the truth is already in his mouth, but he’s weighing the moment, wondering if this is the time.

You feel your own heart rise to meet it. Expectant. Open.

But instead, he says:

“Close your eyes.”

You blink at the ceiling, where the shadows stretch across plaster like long, reaching fingers.

“I’ll stay on the line,” he adds gently. “I’ll talk. Just… close your eyes.”

So you do.

You sink back into the sheets, the pillow cool against your cheek. The sound of his voice hums in your ear—low, steady, soothing. He doesn’t fill the air with stories or distractions. Just small things. Quiet things. A whispered “You’re okay now,” like a promise. A murmur of your name every now and then, like he’s reminding you you’re not alone. Like he’s anchoring you to the moment, pulling you gently out of the nightmare’s gravity.

Your breathing slows. Your fingers stop trembling. The tension in your chest unwinds thread by thread.

Eventually, you drift.

Not all at once, but slowly, safely—held by the sound of him. The warmth in his voice like a blanket across your heart.

You fall asleep to him.

And long after your breath evens out, long after you’ve slipped into dreamless quiet, Clark stays on the line—listening, just in case. Just to be near.

Because he almost said it.

And maybe next time… he will.

V. The First Time

It’s Sunday, and finally, the world has slowed to a gentle crawl. The usual chaos—the relentless rush of city life, the sharp edges of weekday urgency—has softened into a muted pause. It’s as if time itself has exhaled, allowing space for something quieter, something deeper.

Outside, the rain drizzles steadily, whispering softly against the windows like a lullaby meant just for the two of you. The sky is a sheet of soft gray, blurred by mist and drizzle, and the sound of water hitting the pavement blends into the background like a delicate symphony. The city has faded into a gentle hush, its hurried heartbeat replaced by the rhythmic tapping of raindrops.

Inside, an old Cary Grant movie plays, but neither of you has really been paying attention for the past hour. The dialogue and the scenes have melted into white noise, a backdrop to this moment. Instead, your focus has been elsewhere.

You’re curled up on Clark’s couch, limbs intertwined and tucked beneath a shared, oversized blanket that smells faintly of lavender and clean cotton. Your legs drape lazily across his lap, warm and familiar, while your head rests gently on his chest, the steady rise and fall of it syncing with your breath. His fingers move slowly, tracing soft, absentminded patterns along your back—circles, lines, nothing deliberate, just a comforting rhythm. It’s like his hands are learning you, memorizing every curve and contour, as if engraving you into his skin with gentle touches.

The air between you is warm, still, and full of quiet energy—an unspoken promise hanging in the space. And then something shifts. Subtle but undeniable.

You feel it first—his heartbeat quickens beneath your ear, a gentle but unmistakable change. Your own heart responds, speeding up just enough to notice the difference. Instinctively, you lift your head, eyes meeting his, and you find that he’s already looking at you. Not distracted by the movie, not caught in thought, not averting his gaze shyly. No—he’s watching you with a kind of raw, vulnerable intensity that feels new and electric.

“You’re staring again,” you whisper softly, a small smile curving your lips.

Clark blinks, caught off guard, his gaze flickering away for a moment before settling back on you. “Oh—uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be,” you say gently, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your faces inch closer, noses brushing lightly, and he lets out the softest, breathiest laugh—nervous, almost like he’s afraid to mess this up. That laugh speaks volumes: he’s trying, trying so hard to get this right, to say everything he feels without saying too much.

Then, suddenly, quietly—but with the surety of a truth finally spoken—he says it.

“I love you.”

The words land softly between you, but inside, they echo like a thunderclap. They settle beneath your ribs like a secret long held, a treasure finally claimed.

You freeze, stunned by the weight and clarity of those three simple words. The room seems to hold its breath. And then, barely above a whisper, you say, “You what?”

He repeats it, firmer this time, eyes locking with yours. “I love you. I’ve… been trying to say it. For a while.”

You search his face, seeing the vulnerability, the hesitation, and the hope wrapped in those words. “So why didn’t you?”

Clark lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck like the words had been stuck there for a long time. His gaze drops to your legs covered by the blanket before meeting your eyes again, steady and open.

“I wanted to be sure,” he admits quietly. “Not about how I feel—I’ve known that for a long time. Maybe before I even admitted it to myself. But I was scared. Scared I’d say it too soon, scare you off, or mess up something that feels perfect to me. I didn’t want to rush it or say it in the wrong moment. I wanted it to mean something real.”

You soften, warmth blooming in your chest as he keeps going, as if releasing the weight of those held-back words is a relief.

“I overthink everything. Especially with you. You’re important to me—more than I can really say—and I didn’t want to ruin what we have by rushing or stumbling over the moment. Sometimes I almost said it—like it was right there on the tip of my tongue—and then I’d pull back, hoping for the right moment. Not just some careless blur, thrown out when we’re distracted by a laugh or a kiss or even—” he glances down at the couch cushions, “—toast crumbs.”

You bite your lip to hold back a smile. “You didn’t want to say ‘I love you’ next to toast crumbs?”

He groans and buries his face in his hands, chuckling softly. “No! Well, yes. But I wanted it to feel right. I wanted to give you something real, something that mattered. And the more I waited, the more I worried I’d mess it up if I said it, so I kept holding it in.”

You tilt your head, watching him with gentle eyes. “So why now? What changed?”

Clark lifts his gaze again, those soft eyes full of something like hope and relief. “Because when I looked at you just now, I realized I couldn’t keep waiting. You looked at me like you already knew. Like you’d been waiting for me to catch up. And I thought—what if I stop waiting for some perfect moment? What if I just say the truth?”

He pauses, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. But I was scared—scared I’d say it wrong, or too small, or too big. I wanted to give you the right words, the right feeling.”

You reach out, your fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, your thumb brushing softly across his cheek. “Clark,” you whisper, “you said it exactly right.”

And then, slowly, you lean in to kiss him. It’s a kiss full of all the things left unspoken, tender and lingering. When you pull back, your smile is soft, full of every hope and fear he’d been carrying.

“I love you,” you say quietly, steadily. “You’re not late. You’re right on time.”

His breath catches, and his arms tighten around you, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment—trying to hold it close, to keep it real. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

You grin, heart soaring. “I had a pretty good idea.”

Outside, the rain continues to fall softly, a steady rhythm against the windows.

Inside, everything else falls away—the walls, the doubts, the reasons to hold back.

And wrapped in blankets and in each other’s arms, there are no more almosts.

Only always.

[sflame15-blog]

✿ what matters most ✿

(clark kent x reader blurb)

summary: Clark is hard on himself, luckily he has you to remind him who he really is. content: fluffy fluff, lots of comfort, established relationship, 1.5k words

based on this request

⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹

Grocery bags nearly slipping from your grasp, you swung the apartment door closed with your foot, stumbling into the entryway.

“Clark?” You called out.

It was odd that Clark would let you do all this heavy lifting without offering to help. In fact, you can’t remember a time he ever let you bring the groceries up your building’s five flights of stairs on your own.

Nearly spilling the contents of the paper bags, you heaped them haphazardly onto the kitchen counter. Looking around, there was no sign of your boyfriend; a presence that was pretty hard to miss.

Then out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of one leather-loafered foot on the ground. You rounded the kitchen counter into the cramped living room to find Clark - all six feet and five inches of him - huddled on the ground with his knees up to his chest. Dropping your keys, you rushed to where he was sitting against the back of the couch with his head in his hands.

“Clark? Clark, baby, what happened?”

You quickly kneeled next to him, lifting his chin in your hand to get a look at his face. His brow was furrowed in distress, faint dampness on his cheeks where a few stray tears lingered.

“Oh my God, Clark, what happened? Did someone do something?”

Every day, you watched your boyfriend fly off to save the world from the window of this apartment. And every day, you waited for some terrible news, word that he wasn’t returning, that he was finally hurt so badly that even his otherworldly healing ability wouldn’t be able to put him back together. Your stomach dropped now, thinking this must be that day.

“Yes, someone did something,” he said quietly, hands running anxiously over his tweed work trousers. “I did.”

That answer was somehow worse than anything you were picturing. Surely Clark couldn’t have done anything that bad…right?

“Oh, Clark. I’m sure it’s okay. Whatever you- whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together, I promise. Just tell me what happened.”

Your heart was pounding behind your ribs, mind spiraling ahead to all the worst case scenarios. You even tried to remember where you’d last seen your suitcase in case you and Clark needed to flee the country.

“Do you know the new custodian at the Daily Planet office? Lynn?” He asked, voice shaking.

“Um, I think so, yeah.” You tried to visualize Lynn’s face, vaguely recalling the kind eyed, middle aged woman who had emptied your trash can this morning. “Why? What about her?”

“I did something awful.” Clark’s eyes finally met yours. There was pain behind his blue irises that made your stomach churn.

“Clark, you’re making me nervous. Just tell me, I promise I won’t judge you-”

“I would understand if you did,” he said. “I probably deserve it.”

“Sweetie, I’m trying to understand, but I need you to focus. Tell me, please, what did you do to Lynn?” You grabbed his hand for reassurance. You were really trying to be comforting but the suspense was slowly killing you.

“I was on the elevator after work, I had just finished a long phone interview with that city counselor, the one I told you about, and my brain was totally fried…” Clark took a breath to rein in his rambling. “Lynn was on the elevator too but her stop was first and when she got off she said ‘have a good night Mr. Kent’ and I…gosh, I can’t believe how awful I was…I said…’you too, Linda.”

Clark ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots until it was all tousled and messy with his distress. You waited with baited breath for the rest of his story, for him to finally tell you what he did that was so terrible. 

When he didn’t continue, you asked, “and then…?”

“And then, I tried to correct myself, to say sorry for calling her the wrong name, but the elevator doors had already closed. Now, she’s out there thinking that after two weeks of her cleaning our office, I don’t even know her name!”

A wave of relief washed over you. You sat back on your heels, a slow smile spreading on your face as Clark squeezed his eyes tight like he could erase the shameful memory from his mind. When he heard the small laugh you couldn’t help but let slip, his eyes shot up, indignant.

“See I knew you’d judge me! You’re laughing at me!”

“No, baby, I…I’m sorry, I’m not,” you gathered yourself, trying to suppress the giggle that was fighting through your words. “I’m not laughing at you, Clark I promise. I’m just admiring you.”

“Why? You heard what I did, you should be mad at me,” he shook his head. “I can’t believe I was such a…such a bonehead.”

“Hey,” you grabbed Clark’s face between your hands, pulling his eyes towards yours. Your heart squeezed with such affection for this sweet man you couldn’t help but place a small kiss on his nose. Your touch seemed to soften him a bit, his head involuntarily nuzzling into your soft palm.

“Clark, I know it’s important to you that you're kind to people, but everyone makes mistakes sometimes. There are four hundred people that work in that building, you can’t be expected to remember all of their names.”

“Yes, I should,” he shook his head. “I have powers no one else has. I can lift buildings and run a thousand miles an hour, but I can’t remember a simple name? I’m pathetic.”

You lowered yourself back onto the floor so you could sit across from him, your eyes directly on his. His expression was downtrodden, hair messy around his face. You brushed a single curl off his forehead.

“Clark,” you began gently. “I love you, but that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

Clark pulled away from you in shock, not expecting such a blunt response.

“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” He asked, feeling betrayed.

“No, I’m trying to make you see the truth here,” you said. “Clark, your greatest power has never been your strength, or your speed. Your greatest power is the way you make every person you encounter feel like they matter. You don’t save people because they’re perfect, you save people because you think everyone is worth saving - even when they make mistakes. And sometimes, you’re gonna make mistakes, too. But you have to give yourself the same grace you give everyone else, Clark. Because you matter, too.”

Clark let your words wash over him for a second, biting the inside of his cheek as he considered their meaning. 

“So you’re saying I’m just like everyone else,” he surmised, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

“No, you’re not,” you smiled softly. “Because most other people wouldn’t spend this much time thinking about one small interaction.”

“I just feel like such a jerk,” he confessed.

“I know you do, baby,” you nudged his leg with your toe. “I also know you’re going to find a great way to make it up to Lynn. But you can’t do that if you keep sitting here throwing yourself this little pity party.” 

Clark gasped in indignation, “pity par…I am not throwing myself a pity party!”

Your eyebrows shot up, teasing. For the first time since you’d gotten home, Clark let himself smile a little, his dimples creasing.

“Okay fine, maybe a small pity party,” Clark conceded, leaning forward to bring his face closer to yours, your sweet, silly boyfriend finally returning to you. “Not even a party. More like a pity shindig. A pity soirée if you will.”

Rolling your eyes lovingly, you leaned forward to nearly close the gap between your lips and his. Clark moved to kiss you, but you pulled back slightly.

“Well then, surely you can take a break from your pity soirée long enough to help me put away the groceries,” you pecked his cheek before standing and padding to the kitchen, leaving him to watch you go with an adoring smile on his face.

⋆˚✿˖°

The next morning, when you arrived at work, you noticed a ginormous bouquet of flowers sitting on Lynn’s cleaning cart. In handwriting you’d recognize anywhere, the card read:

Thank you for all you do, Lynn. You’re our superhero!

Love, your co-workers.

Forcing down the tears that were beginning to well, you made your way to your desk. Not only did he go out of his way to make sure she knows how important she is, he didn’t even take the credit for it. Metropolis may have Superman, and this office has Lynn, but your superhero would forever be Clark Kent.

As you entered your password into your work computer, a large arm reached around you, placing a single rose across your keyboard - the same color as the roses in Lynn’s bouquet. 

Clark leaned over your shoulder, close enough for only you to hear as he whispered, “just so you know, you matter to me most of all.”

⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹

a/n: thank you to the anon who sent a request for this!! i hope you like it, i loved writing sweet sad boy Clark!! I'm always open to requests but just write whatever inspires me so if i don't get to some, i'm sorry!! I have some longer fics in the works for Clark/Superman still so sorry if i disappear for a few days while I finish them! mwah!

[sflame15-blog]

how to: fall in love again

summary: lovergirl at heart, you've decided love isn't anything you're willing to risk pursuing again after your last boyfriend. and then comes clark kent who's a little too perfect at breaking down those walls. and isn't that terrifying?

word count: 10.8k...yeah <3

a/n: the word count getting longer when i edited oh i'm sure. this one was serious to me. like notes app outline, specific through-line playlist, pinterest board inspo serious. hope it's serious for you guys too hehe fem!reader, no spoilers, avoidant attachment tbh, bit angsty but happy ending! happy reading, let me know what you think <3

If there was anyone more cynical about love in Metropolis than you, you’d be delighted to know. 

It’s not like you’re against love by any means. In fact, you really, well, love it. You love your friends and you love seeing them in love. You enjoy romance books and love songs and romantic comedies. You take pleasure in finding the ways in which love is around you each day. 

You’ve just decided that romantically, it’s not for you. Not anymore, at least. 

It’s been three years since you swore off of it and honestly? You’re doing great! So what if sometimes a viscous yearning creeps through your apartment on a Sunday night? That hardly means anything!

Relationships are one thing and you’ve had your fair share. Once in high school, a couple in college. They never ended well, not like how you would’ve wanted rather. Sometimes they faded like a bruise and other times you were left alone and behind in the rearview. 

But none of that mattered to you anymore once you met Ben.

Six years ago, you fell in love. Ben was a dream and a half. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents and revel in the way they gush over him and the both of you together. The kind of guy someone writes songs about with a swooning guitar and lyrics that wax poetic. The kind of guy you marry. At the time, Ben was it for you. 

Then, three years ago, Ben broke your heart. You hadn’t seen it coming. It felt completely out of left field. You believed you were everything each other wanted until he was walking out the door. 

“I’m not..happy anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy.” He had said and you remember a nauseating confusion coursing through your veins. What did that mean? You were happy….weren’t you? And before he walked out the door, “I hope you find someone who does.”

He clearly had. Two months later he was engaged to another woman you’d had in your home at dinner parties and holidays and suddenly it all clicked. You’re only slightly embarrassed to admit how long you cried and the amount of sweets you ate to try and feel better. 

While the wound was still fresh, the ache cutting so deep in your bones, you decided you never wanted to risk feeling like that again. It took you a while before you felt like you were yourself again.

Two years ago, you got a job as a columnist for the Daily Planet. A basic “how-to” column that you’ve come to love, even if you’d rather be writing something more substantial. There, you met Clark Kent. 

He was everything Ben wasn’t from the second you were introduced. The second he’d fixed his striking blue eyes on yours and smiled at you, something inside you jolted. And you’ve been petrified ever since.

Because if there was anyone who could make you consider taking that risk again, it was Clark.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s a busy day at the Daily Planet. Well, it’s always “busy” but it’s especially so today. The printers are working overtime and there’s people fluttering all about, checking edits and typing like there’s no tomorrow. An argument splits open near the coffee counter. 

Deadlines will do that to you.

You’d arrived earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to considering you were basically done with your newest “how-to” for the next print. Still, the only time you can pin Perry White down to talk to him about writing for something other than your column is on his way from the coffee machine and back to his office. 

“But Perry, I think I’ve really got something here! If you’d just look at it-” your footsteps are hurried as you keep pace with Perry. He stops suddenly and you nearly stumble over yourself, words getting cut off.

“Look kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm but right now I need you to stick to your how-to’s,” he fixes you a look and fits his cigar between his lips before resuming his trail to his office. You sigh, but you don’t want to give up that easily.

“But could you at least just-” you start to plead and then you’re cut off again. He holds up a finger this time and heaves a sigh.

“I’ve given you my answer, kid. We’ve got a deadline to meet.” The words form around the cigar in his mouth. You wither, footsteps faltering. 

“Yes, Chief,” you sigh, to which he just shakes his head. Your shoulders sag, the entirety of your body drooping like a wilted rose. When Perry’s out of earshot you toss your head back with a frustrated groan. 

This wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d be by now. Two years seemed like enough time to establish yourself at the Daily Planet. Your little column that’s shoved towards the back of the paper seemed like as good a stepping stone as any towards writing about something more. 

It’s not like you dislike your column, in fact, you really enjoy it. You just feel like you have more to offer after two years if Perry would just give you the chance one of these days.

You’re admittedly, a little visibly pouty on your way to your desk. It feels a little childish, like you might as well cross your arms and stomp your foot with a hmph! You don’t, of course. Though maybe it’d provide some kind of emotional release. That’s why toddlers do it, right?

As you near your desk you notice there’s a new coffee cup waiting for you by your keyboard. The culprit, you notice next, is standing next to your desk with his bag still on his shoulder like he just got in. Which, he probably did.

It’s hard for you to stay grumpy at the sight of Clark. His tie is slightly askew and he’s holding his own cup of coffee, hot where yours is iced. 

He’s far too nice to you, you think, but he’s a wonderful friend. And God knows you were in dire need of a good one after what happened. Sometimes though, when you start to feel a little lonely, you wonder if he’d be a wonderful boyfriend too, but you’re quick to shove that aside. 

It’s better for you to just be friends. Less scary that way. Less of a risk that you end up absolutely demolished again, too.

“Was just dropping this off. Just how you like it,” he says when you’re within earshot, motioning towards the coffee that wasn’t there when you’d gone after Perry this morning. You can see the ring of condensation it leaves against the lacquered top of your desk. You smile at him.

“Thank you. You know you don’t have to.” 

He matches your smile and shrugs. 

“Yeah but I want to,” he says. There’s a faint pink that blushes his cheeks but you think it might just be the lighting. Still, you revel in the fact that he wants to do a nice thing for you. You try to quell it. The familiar fear of getting too close to someone again prickling your skin.

On paper, Clark is the perfect guy to be with after Ben. He’s charming and patient and kind, overwhelmingly so, to everything and everyone he encounters. He never fails to make you smile. Doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome, too. 

Truth is, Clark Kent scares you to death.

“How’d it go with Perry this morning?” he asks, breaking you from your thoughts. You deflate, frustrated all over again. A grimace pulls at his face at the look on yours and the huff that escapes you. “That bad?”

“He refused to read it! Appreciates my enthusiasm but wants me to,” you twist your voice into your best impression of your editor-in-chief, “stick to my how-tos.”

You relish in the chuckle your impression pulls out of Clark. He opens his mouth to say something and is cut off.

“Stop flirting and get to work, Kent. We’ve got a deadline,” Perry’s voice seems to boom as he strides past your bullpen on the floor. Clark flounders, cheeks warming into an embarrassed red. You’re all too aware of the amount of eyes on you and you feel yourself start to fold inwards.

The two of you look at each other and Clark flashes you a tight lipped, shy smile. He motions towards his desk across the way and you nod, wordlessly communicating with each other.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say before he can walk away. 

“Anytime, really,” he says as he passes. There’s a fleeting press of his hand against your back. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, heat radiating out from where his touch lingered. You steel yourself for a beat before sitting down at your desk. 

The ice in your coffee shifts as you log into your computer. You glance over to Clark though you can only see the back of his head from here. The side of your hand brushes against the cold drops of condensation on your coffee cup. Goosebumps skitter up your arm.

When you finally take the first sip, a pleased hum drifts out of you. It’s just how you like it, like he had said, but it’s also better somehow. Familiar, but different in the best way. 

Just like Clark, you think.

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Despite it being sarcasm, you can’t get Perry’s insinuation that Clark was flirting with you out of your head. It’s been weeks and no matter how hard you try, it stays at the back of your mind constantly. And it’s starting to do a number to your nervous system.

Sure, maybe your interactions can be read as flirtatious but Clark’s also your closest friend. It’s just friendly banter and actions to show you care. Hardly anything romantic. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself anyway.

It’s a Wednesday towards the end of summer when you start to notice something different. 

The second the workday ends, you’re logging out with a swiftness. You’re not alone. Nearly everyone at the surrounding desks does the same. 

There’s a shuffle of sound as everyone starts to pack up their things. The corner of your notebook bends as you shove it in your bag and you curse under your breath. You’re inspecting it, trying to bend it back into place but the crease is still there in the corner. Annoying.

“Heading out?” 

The sound of Clark’s voice behind you makes you jump in surprise, your bag falling from your hands and to the ground. You’re pressing your hand to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when you turn to face him.

Clark has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. You’re not sure how someone so…big can be so quiet. Or how he only seems to be able to sneak up on you, considering his occasional clumsiness tends to alert his presence. Too busy always trying to not occupy so much space that he almost seems to occupy even more. 

“Sorry! Sorry.” He’s dropped to the ground to retrieve your bag and bent notebook for you. His lips press together in a sympathetic grimace as he hands them over. Your hand falls from your chest to take them. 

“Jesus, you’re like a stealth agent or something, Clark. I’ll never understand it.” You shove the notebook into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. He shakes his head and is reaching to grab your water bottle for you before you even get a chance to turn around and get it yourself.

He holds it out to you and you smile your thanks. There’s a shock of something almost magnetic when your fingers brush his in the exchange. You try not to flinch away too noticeably. 

“Do you have plans? Like, now?” he asks, almost a little nervous. It makes you nervous and you hesitate in your movements. The corners of your eyes crease as you narrow them quizzically at him. “Sorry, that was..really forward.”

“No…why?” You start to walk away, full trust that he’ll follow you. He does. You slide your water bottle into your bag as you walk, Clark keeping pace. “Do you?”

“Oh! No, no I–Well…maybe?” he stumbles over his words and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders straighten just a tad. “There’s this new ice cream place that just opened downtown and I saw it and thought of you and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to check it out?”

You nearly trip over yourself, a pit dropping from your throat to your stomach. He thought of you. Is he asking you on a date? He thought of you. A mirage of emotions rushes through you and over your face. Clark starts to panic at your silence.

“Totally friendly!” You let out a soft breath. He thought of you. “Obviously! We don’t have to, unless you want to. And it doesn’t have to be tonight, sorry I didn’t–”

Clark’s a panic rambler you’ve come to notice. It’s rather endearing if you’re honest. The two of you pause outside the elevator. You nudge him with your shoulder which jostles you more than it does him.

“Tonight’s great, Clark,” you say, cutting off his rambling. He looks at you and breathes something like a sigh of relief at the sight of your smile. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He lets you in first, mumbling under his breath.

“Great. Great, okay.”

Clark leads you around downtown Metropolis, his hand hovering just above the small of your back as a guide when needed. You fall into step and easy conversation the whole way, Clark making you laugh without even trying to be funny. 

You mention the argument that you heard break out by the coffee this morning and he tells you it was Jimmy and Lois arguing–Jimmy annoyed that Lois has used up all the sugar. He mentions his Ma is planning to come visit him in the coming weeks and you swear you can feel your chest start to expand at the evident admiration for her in his voice. 

“Here it is!” he announces a few minutes later as you turn a corner. 

The first thing you notice is the red, yellow, and blue striped awning with scalloped edges. A sign above reads Super Scoops in bright letters and a bold font. The obvious hero homage makes you snort but the small line out the door leads you to believe it must be good.

“How’d you find this place?” you ask, relishing in the shade the awning gives while you wait in line.

“Just happened upon it on the way into work today,” he shrugs. He hopes you don’t realize his route to work from his apartment never crosses this section of downtown. If you do, he’s none the wiser. 

“And the whole,” you wave a hand around, “Superman of it all isn’t at all why you wanted to try it?”

You’re teasing. Poking a jest at his superhero work connection. Clark scoffs a little though there’s no malice behind it, and briefly wonders if maybe you’ve figured him out. (You haven’t.)

“No!” his voice pitches up an inch. “I know you like ice cream and you just did that how-to bit about summer and I just thought you might like it s’all.”

There he goes again. Thinking of you and sending your heart ablaze. You need to get a grip. 

The line moves quickly for which you’re thankful. When you get to the counter, you opt for a swirl of soft serve on a cone and Clark gets his in a cup. The price seems a little outrageous for what you’re getting and you accredit it to the theming. 

You pull out your wallet and Clark gives you a piercing look, bumping your hand away though not unkindly. You go to protest but relent and put your wallet back in your bag when he swipes his card. He shoves his wallet back into the pocket of his slacks, stepping off to the side with you.

“I could’ve paid for that, you know,” you say, eyes locked onto the employee dispensing the swirl of chocolate and vanilla onto a cone. The uniforms here are rather silly. Blue t-shirts with little red capes attached, the parlor’s logo on the back. 

“I know. I didn’t want you to,” he states simply, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You probably should’ve expected it. Small town, farm boy chivalry and such. 

Clark collects your ice creams from the teenager behind the counter who looks a little miserable. You accredit that to the uniform. He passes your cone off to you as he leads you out the door. 

A comforting silence hangs around you as you linger in a little grassy patch next door. There’s kids running around and a dog chases them off leash. A hum of delight escapes you at your first taste of the soft serve. It’s exceptionally good.

Golden rays of the fading sun cast a radiant haze around the outline of your body. Ice cream is starting to melt around the rim of your cone. The surface tension breaks and a rivulet slips over your knuckles. You let out a soft gasp, more an exhale than anything and quickly lick it off. 

Clark’s looking at you. Endearment glimmers in his irises, the sunlight reflecting off of it. You’re trying desperately to ignore the sticky feeling on your knuckles. You need to wash your hands. Or steal a generous glob of hand sanitizer even.

You catch his eye and feel pinned by his stare. You blink at him. 

“What?” you ask. A thorn of self-consciousness pokes at you for a brief moment. Clark shakes his head.

You’ve got a smear of vanilla soft serve across your left cheek from when you tilted your hand to lick the ice cream off your knuckles. Your eyes are doe like. Backlit by the setting sun, the fleeting rays highlight the frizz in your hair, creating a halo around your head. 

Clark thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“You’ve got a little..” he gestures towards his own face. You bristle with a light embarrassment. Before you can reach up to wipe away the ice cream from your face, Clark beats you to it.

He’s somehow procured a napkin and softly wipes the ice cream you smeared across your cheek away. You don’t remember seeing him grab them on your way out of the parlor. 

Time seems to slow. The seconds drag by like the pouring of a thick stream of honey. The moment feels incredibly intimate for what it is. Your breath stills in your lungs. 

“There we go,” he says. He turns and tosses the napkin into the trashcan. The spell breaks. Your fingertips reach up to graze against the spot he cleaned. You drop them before he can turn back around to catch you.

“Thank you,” your voice feels a little shaky. Clark smiles at you with a soft shake of his head, a silent don’t worry about it, and takes a bite of his ice cream.

“This is really good,” he says, swallowing it down. He looks so..boyish in this moment and it does something funny to your heart. Combined with him wiping your face clean, you’re a little afraid you could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest.

You’re staring at him, something sweet and awe-like in your eyes. Something in Clark brightens at your attention. His cheeks twinge pink and he smiles softly. 

“Careful,” he points at your cone that’s starting to melt down to your fingers again. You blink away, embarrassed at your staring and hurriedly lick up the melted cream. What is going on with you?

Clark seems to have figured out a way to weasel himself inside and poke at your tender bits, making things in your chest twitch and move in a way they hadn’t in years. You weren’t sure when he had been able to step in so close to do so.

It feels all too familiar, yet different, just like that coffee he’d brought you a few weeks back. Your heart stutters, the beat spelling out an uh-oh.  

You think you might be falling in love with him.

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Things steadily progress with Clark after your ice cream not-date.

You’ve crossed into hug territory. Simple side ones when you see him in the office in the mornings. Longer, more proper ones when you go your separate ways after a hang out. Each one starts to untie the rope that’d been knotted around your heart three years ago. 

The risk grows more and more each day and now it feels even more ominous. Because now Clark’s more than just a potential romantic partner, he’s also one of your closest friends. And the thought of losing him in two ways instead of one scares you infinitely more.

You don’t mean to work so late on a Friday but it happens anyway and when you log out and pack up your things, the moon has risen completely in the sky. Clark has stayed late today too but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to finish so he can walk you home. 

You’ve never asked and he’s never outright offered except for the very first time. Now it’s just become something unspoken. A given in your friendship. You appreciate it all the same.

He lingers outside your apartment with you tonight and you can tell something’s bothering him. Like he’s holding himself back, restraining from something. You go to ask if he’s okay or what’s wrong but you never get the chance. 

Because Clark asks if you want to get dinner with him tomorrow night.

“Like a date. A nice, proper one with dinner and dessert.”

And despite the fear that shivers down your spine and the choking anxiety like a lump in your throat, you agree. 

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds…nice.” 

You hope your smile looks real and not as scared as you feel. He seems to buy it. He’s beaming with glee, trying to hide the intensity of it and failing. Quite adorably, you might add.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7.” He states. No sense of a question, just a simple statement. Warmth rushes through you. 

“Okay.” The word is pushed out with a breath. Clark smiles at you. 

“It’s a date!” 

His enthusiasm is comforting and you squeak out a confirming uh huh! which is all you can seem to muster. Words are failing you. He reaches out to squeeze your hand briefly instead of hugging you goodbye tonight. 

You’re grateful for the change, certain he would’ve been able to feel your racing heart when your chest pressed against him. You watch him walk a few strides down the hall before you go inside. 

You’re already nervous when you wake up on Saturday morning. You spend a lot of the day panicking, over both the mundane and existential. Should you wear a dress? What if this goes horribly sideways and the two of you never speak again?

The usual.

In the end, you decide on your nicest dress, or rather, the nicest date night dress you own. You feel good. So long as you don’t think too seriously about it all. 

You’re trying to practice some age-old breathing exercise in the mirror to calm your nerves. Trying not to overthink too much about your shoes or your hair or how this is your first date in three years. You’re interrupted by a knock on your door.

A quick glance at the clock on your way to the door shows it’s seven on the dot. You’re a little surprised at Clark’s punctuality. Not because you didn’t think he wouldn’t be but because you’ve never experienced it before. A punctual date, that is.

You pause at the door for a beat. Then, you shake out your hands and swing it open.

Clark stands at your doorstep with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Peonies and delphiniums, chamomile sprinkled amongst blushing roses in a brown paper wrapping tied with string. He must’ve stopped by the florist for these, you think. It might be the prettiest arrangement anyone’s ever shown you, let alone given you.

Clark is staring at you, jaw a little slack. You feel yourself start to fluster under his gaze, shrinking slowly. 

“Wow. You look..” his voice trails off, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing and back up to lock with yours. “You look great.”

Your smile is a little shy, bright around the edges. The heat beneath your skin makes you feel like you could burst into flames.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” you say. He’s wearing clothes similar to what he wears to work, a charcoal pair of slacks and the usual white button down but he’s not wearing a tie and the sleeves are pushed up his forearms. It’s really doing something to you. 

A blush rises on his cheeks and it’s his turn to offer you a shy smile. He clears his throat.

“These are for you,” he says, holding the flowers out for you to take. The paper crinkles as you take them from him. Your fingers brushing sends a pleasant zing! down your back. You can’t resist pressing your nose against the blossoms. 

“They’re beautiful,” you say on an inhale. Clark could say the same about you ten times over. “Come in. I’ll put them in a vase and then we can go?”

You back up to let Clark inside and he closes the door behind him. He stands in the tiny entryway. It’s not very big, your apartment; it looks even smaller with him standing in it.

“You can come in further, you know?” your laugh carries through the air like a breeze. He lingers in the entry of your shoebox kitchen now. The bouquet lays gently on the little kitchen table tucked away in a nook off the kitchen.

You’re grateful for the boost of height the kitten heels you decided on give you, albeit small, as you reach up to grab your favorite vase. Clark’s eyes trail after you as you flit around the kitchen. Watching as you bring the vase to the kitchen sink to fill it with water and take it over to the table.  

You untie the string and paper around the bouquet and place the flowers in the water with the utmost of care. It’s a perfect fit. You fluff it a little bit, arranging it so each blossom has space to shine. Then, you slide it to the center of your little homely kitchen table. 

It’s picturesque. And so are you, standing with your hands clasped, admiring it. Clark wishes he had a camera. You turn and look at him, taken aback a bit at the sweet look in his eyes.

“Ready?” you ask. Clark blinks like he’s been shaken out of a stupor. 

“Right. Yes! Let’s go.”

He follows close behind you as you grab your bag off the hook by the door and lock up. It’s your turn to follow him as soon as you leave your building. Ever the gentleman, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk and offers you his arm to hold.

Butterflies that have laid dormant inside you start to revive and flutter around your stomach. It’s a beautiful night in Metropolis, the sky clear and the air fresh. You think you’d be satisfied if you never made it to dinner and just walked around all night instead. Your feet might not thank you though. 

He takes you to a nice restaurant a few blocks over. A place as nice as this was always reserved for anniversary dates in the past, never for a first. This specific one Clark leads you into, you’d never been to. The reservations always too hard to come by.

You’re a little awestruck when you walk in. Your eyes dance around, taking it all in as you get seated. Beautiful artwork decorating the walls. The tables covered in pristine white linens. The lights are low and there’s music playing softly in the background. Clark pulls your chair out for you and pushes it in. 

“This place is so nice,” you say, as you sit. “How’d you even manage a reservation with so short notice?”

Clark looks a little sheepish, his shoulders hunching upwards towards his ears. 

“Oh I, uh- This is going to sound presumptuous and I apologize. I got one a while ago. It’s just taken me so long to work myself up to asking you out.” He says it like a confession. Something in you preens at the idea of Clark liking you so much, he’d plan so far ahead for a first date with you. 

Your nerves start to ease as the night progresses and maybe the bottle of red wine you share helps a bit too. It’s easy with Clark. As if you’ve always been doing this. It sends a thrill through you. 

Slowly but surely, your defenses start to come down. The hesitancy and fear that normally holds you back starts to fade. Clark starts to see you really shine with each new thing he learns and each new laugh that escapes you.

Just like he said when he asked you out, you get dessert after dinner. A rich slice of the most decadent chocolate cake you’ve ever had in your life. Your eyes close when you take the first bite, a delighted hum escaping you louder than you’d like. 

“Oh my god,” you open your eyes and the amused admiration in Clark’s eyes is clear as the moon in the sky. You get a little shy, your skin prickling under his gaze. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

You gesture for him to try it. Clark’s reaction almost mimics yours.

“Golly,” is all he says and you laugh a little at his choice of word, both of you going in for another bite. The cake is gone almost embarrassingly fast but you’re both too stuffed to care. The waiter drops off the check as you take your final sip of wine, draining the glass. 

He reaches for it without hesitation, doesn’t flinch at the total, just slides his card into the fold and sets it on the edge where it’s quickly retrieved. You fold your arms and rest them on the table, your hands holding on limply to the space above your elbows. 

The edges of you feel fuzzy. Your head is tilted a little towards your shoulder, a serene smile on your face. To Clark, you look radiant even in the dim lighting. When the waiter brings back his card, you watch as he signs and puts his card back in his wallet. 

He offers you his hand to help you out of your seat and neither of you let go as you walk out of the restaurant. In fact, you make the move to intertwine his fingers with yours and swing them a little between you. He pulls you into his side and you giggle, your shoulder bumping his bicep. 

You feel giddy head to toe. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the wine. Maybe it’s Clark’s fingers slotted between yours. Or the way he’s been looking at you all night.

All you know is you feel more happy than scared and it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way that you’ve forgotten how good it feels. And maybe it’s your lapse in memory or maybe it’s Clark but it feels even better this time around.

You’re laughing at something Clark says–he’s been making you do that a lot tonight–when there’s a call of your name. The laughter gets stuck in your throat and dies out quick, your steps faltering on the sidewalk. Clark’s eyes are swimming with concern when he looks at your face. 

“Is that you?” Ben’s voice is just like you remember it. You turn towards it and your hand falls out of Clark’s grip when you catch sight of him. Because standing next to him is Jane. Beautiful, alluring Jane who drank your wine at your hosted parties and probably slept in your bed when you weren’t around. 

You think you might be sick. 

“Oh my god, how are you?” Ben gives you a hug, like you’re still friendly and things ended amicably. Like the last time you saw him he didn’t put your heart through a paper shredder. Your limbs feel wooden as you half-heartedly reciprocate. Ben steps back and wraps his arm around Jane’s waist. “You remember Jane?”

She lifts her left hand in a wave and the streetlight overhead catches on the ring on her finger, making it glint. At least she looks a little awkward at the whole situation. You nod, a pounding starting to form behind your brow. 

“Yeah, I..I remember,” you reply. You take a deep breath, force yourself to smile and sound way more friendly than you feel. “Good to see you.”

The puzzle pieces start to click into place in Clark’s head. He’s not completely aware of your dating history but he’s easily figures out that’s what this is. And that you’re completely beside yourself. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, steady and strong. You relax a bit without even realizing. 

Ben catches the motion and his eyebrows raise a hair. He has to look up at Clark, not by a lot but enough that you notice it if you’re paying close attention. And you are. Then Ben looks at you, silently waiting for an introduction.

“Oh. Ben,” his name tastes like venom on your tongue. “This is-”

“Clark Kent.” He finishes for you, taking a step forward and extending his hand. You think you can see Ben wince from Clark’s grip but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. (And if Clark put more of a grip into the handshake than normal, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

There’s a beat of silence that passes. The four of you stand on the sidewalk, almost mirror images of each other. The same wave of nausea passes over you, the pressure in your head getting worse.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Ben says, voice genuine. Something in you bristles at that, taking it more as one final nail in the coffin jab at you. Clark feels you stiffen in his hold. You’re not sure what to even say, lips parting but nothing coming out. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. Ben nods at you and Jane gives you a tight smile as they pass. You blink at their retreating figures. You’ve long since gotten over the love you held for him but you didn’t expect the pain of it all to still linger. 

You don’t want to let this one twisted encounter ruin the great night you’ve had with Clark but you can feel your reservations start to creep back in. It’s like Clark can see you start to slowly build those walls back up after he’d worked to pull them apart all night.

“Hey, you okay?” 

You focus on the good. The softness of his voice. The care in his eyes. The steadfast grip of his arm around your waist. You inhale and on your exhale, flash him a shaky smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was just…” A plethora of words dance around your head. Weird. Unexpected. Awful. Horrifying. “Strange.”

Clark nods and glances over his shoulder in the direction they walked off in. He looks back at you, your eyes locked where his just were. He clears his throat softly and your gaze finds his.

“Sorry but, I couldn’t stand that guy.” A sudden laugh, loud and genuine bursts out of you. A sentence so unlike Clark and yet, you can tell he means it. His eyes crinkle at the corners at the glow that’s started to come back to your face. He almost hadn’t noticed how dim you’d become in that guy’s presence. 

“Yeah,” you say, as your laughter dies down. Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Clark walks you home, conversation still full but maybe not as lively as it had been pre-Ben and Jane. You hate how they seem to haunt you like this. But you revel in how easy it was–and is–for Clark to make you laugh again. 

He expects the night to end at your doorstep but you invite him inside for a little while longer. You’re a little surprised, mostly delighted when he agrees. 

“Make yourself at home,” you say, kicking off your shoes and walking into your kitchen. Clark toes his shoes off and neatly arranges them next to yours. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Clark glances over and can see you grabbing two glasses down from a cupboard near your tiny stove. You set them on the counter and at his silence, look up to where he’s standing.

“Oh! Water’s fine.”

He takes interest in your photos hanging on the walls and the knick-knacks on your shelves. He particularly likes a corkboard you’ve got hung up with a bunch of mementos pinned: movie ticket stubs, fortunes from fortune cookies, postcards, one of your first how-to pieces from the Planet, a photobooth strip of you. 

You bring your drinks in, and set them on the coffee table, water for him and another glass of wine for you. You sit, knees pulled up on the couch and your feet tucked beneath you, your body facing Clark. You like how he looks sitting in your space. Like he fits right in. 

You talk for hours about anything and everything that seems to come to mind. You share the abridged version of Ben and Jane and your chest goes warm at how quick Clark notices your need for a subject change. He switches gears smoothly. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

The hours tick by without either of you paying much attention. Your drinks sit empty on the table and when the conversation lulls, you take them into the sink. Clark checks his watch when you leave the room. 

“Oh gosh, it’s late,” he says. You come out of the kitchen to an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“Clark, it’s okay,” you shake your head with a smile. His mouth is twisted into an apologetic frown. 

“Still. I should let you get to bed.” Only then do you realize how tired you feel.

You walk him to your front door and watch him put his shoes back on. When he straightens up, you take a step closer to him.

“I had a really good time tonight.” You say softly. Your eyes shine in the dim lamplight. 

“Me too.” Clark smiles. He swallows and shifts on his feet. “Would you..wanna do this again?”

“I’d like that.” You nod, smiling widely up at him. He nods.

Clark leans down to hug you goodnight, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Yours reach up and over his shoulders. Your body sinks into his and you think you could stay right there forever. After a beat, he pulls back but you don’t let go right away.

With your arms around his neck and his around your waist, it leaves hardly any space between you both. Suddenly, the air feels similar to the moment before lightning strikes nearby in a storm. Your gazes both fall from eyes to lips and back. 

Clark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you track the motion with your eyes. You swallow, lips parting only just. He starts to lean in and your eyelids start to flutter shut. Your hands are trembling from both anticipation and uncertainty. Not about him, but about the unknown. You send a quick plea outwards that he doesn’t notice. 

There’s no telling what lies on the other side of letting Clark kiss you, a faint warning siren echoing in the back of your mind. You decide to ignore it the second his lips brush against yours. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

The siren fades into a silent static hum, your senses flooded with ClarkClarkClark. Of the gentle press of his lips to yours, pliant and willing. Of the press of his body against yours as you eagerly push up to reciprocate. 

You wonder briefly why you hadn’t done this any sooner. There’s such an ease to it that you almost feel like you’re experiencing deja vu. Like there’s another version of you that wasn’t burned, that gets to kiss Clark like this all the time. You’re envious of her immediately.

His hands slide to your hips to pull you even closer to him and that dreaded siren breaks through the static in your brain. You pull back, your hands falling to his shoulders. Clark’s glasses are askew and have fogged up considerably but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wait,” you say breathlessly. He’s quick to renew the gap of space between your bodies.

“Sorry-”

“No, no, it’s not- you’re okay,” you pause, chest heaving. You try to catch your breath, coming up short. Your arms fall from his shoulders as you take a step back. “I think I need a second.”

The wounded expression on Clark’s face makes you feel considerably worse. He resembles a confused, kicked puppy and you think you might be sick. 

You turn on your heel and make a beeline for the bathroom. Clark catches your shaking hand wiping at your eyes and doesn’t think twice before following after you. To apologize, if anything. Convinced he’s done something wrong enough to make you cry.

The counter of your bathroom is cold against your palms. You take a couple deep breaths in and out. Mentally kicking yourself because why can’t you just be normal about this and cursing Ben (and his bloodline, too) under your breath for causing your aversion to love in the first place. 

You turn the tap on, splashing cold water on your face in hopes that it’ll shock your system back to normal. Back to how it felt mere moments ago when you were kissing Clark. 

A gentle knock on the door makes you jump.

“Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Your heart pinches, a piece of it chipping away at how sad he sounds. You don’t say anything for a beat. “Did I…” a defeated sigh, “sorry, did I do something wrong?”

You turn the water off. 

“Oh, Clark,” you sigh. He hears the lock click and then the door swings open. This time, his heart twists at the expression on your face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just..”

You let out a sad laugh and then your eyes are pinching shut. You press your face into your hands.

“I’m just a mess.” Your words are muffled against your palms. Clark tsks in disagreement and takes a step towards you. His fingers circle around your wrists and he’s so soft with you, you think you might burst into tears all over again. 

“Hey, hey, no. Look at me,” his voice is equally tender and you let him pull your hands away. The reveal of your eyes shiny with unshed tears chips away at his heart. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” you sniffle, rapidly trying to blink away the tears. One slips past anyway and he quickly smooths it away.

“You’re most certainly not fine,” he says, voice still gentle but firm. Your shoulders slump. Clark sighs. “Let’s get you some water. That sound good?”

You nod, looking at the floor. He leads you over to your couch and sits you down before getting you a glass of water from the kitchen. He’s back faster than you expect and you whisper a quiet thank you when he hands you the water. 

He doesn’t sit until you’ve drunk a considerable amount. You cradle the cup in your hands, looking anywhere but at Clark. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say. You spare a quick glance up at him. “It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I just…I haven’t done this since..”

“Since Ben?” Clark fills in. You look at him with a small smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and sad. 

“Yeah. I just spooked myself a bit,” you say. Clark nods in understanding. 

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, resting a hand on your knee. Your eyes focus on it. 

“Okay. I just don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” you say, gaze lifting to his eyes. They’re looking at you like you’re made of porcelain. He scoots a little closer to you on the couch and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His palm settles on your cheek. 

“We can take it slow, yeah?” Clark offers. You perk up, a little surprised. After all this, he still likes you. He still wants to try with you. The realization makes you ache. You nod, anyway.

Slow is perfect.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The air outside has started to go cold, summer finally fading away into a brisk autumn. You’ve five more dates with Clark now under your belt. It’s slowly getting easier, less scary though you can’t deny that your brain continues to do risk assessments over each new romantic gesture.

He brings you a new assortment of flowers each time. The newest, a golden arrangement featuring sunflowers and dahlias, sits in the usual spot on your kitchen table. The sun reflects off the petals through the window. 

Clark’s at your apartment again in a handknit sweater his Ma made him, sat at the table and warming his hands with a cup of cocoa. Speaking of.. 

“My Ma is visiting this weekend,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“And she’d…like to meet you.” 

The world seems to still, your body going with it. You blink at him, lips parting and closing. 

“Oh!”

Clark rushes his words out, sensing the rising panic in your chest.

“You don’t have to, I know we’re taking it slow and this is definitely, probably not even remotely close to that. But I’ve talked about you so much she won’t stop asking about you, even before this started. It’s only if you want to.”

Your heart picks up at the image in your head of Clark including you in his updates to his Ma. It makes you burn from the inside, a sweetness pooling in your veins. He talks about you. The pendulum swings back and forth in your head as you consider it. 

“Okay,” you say. Clark raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re sure?” When you nod, he beams. He gets up from his seat and comes over to press a kiss against the top of your head. His excitement is sweet to witness. “I’ll call and let her know.”

On Sunday, you go over to Clark’s for dinner. 

You shift nervously outside the door to his apartment. Your fingers are stiff from the brisk air outside and from the tight grip you have on the flowers you picked up on the way over. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, willing your body to still.

Then, you lift your fist and knock it against his door. You’re wiping your palm against the front of your pants when he answers the door. His smile is blinding.

“Hi,” he steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you and he dips his head to kiss your cheek in greeting as you’re toeing off your shoes. “You look nice.”

“Hi,” You smile, nerves still going haywire beneath your skin. “Thanks.”

“Clark? Is she here?” You can hear her voice from the kitchen and you glance at Clark, grip tightening on the small bouquet in your hand. You’re a little nervous that it's not as nice as it could be. Clark presses a hand against the small of your back and you remember to breathe.

He leads you the short distance to the kitchen in lieu of a response. As soon as she sees you, her eyes light up. You smile nervously at her and give a small wave of your hand.

“Ma, this is-” Clark starts to say, but he’s quickly cut off. 

“You must be, y/n!” Her accent is thick as honey and it warms your heart. 

“Hi,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as nervous as you feel. “These are for you, Mrs. Kent.”

You hold out the flowers to her and she takes them with a soft audible aw. Then she’s pulling you into a hug and saying, “call me Martha.”

It takes you a beat to huge her back. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been hugged like this. Different from how Clark hugs you, different from your own mother’s hugs. This one has a specific air of home to it that’s overwhelming. 

You look at Clark over her shoulder who looks extra smiley.  When she pulls back, she looks at the flowers again. Then she turns to Clark who already has a hand extended to take them and go put them in water. 

“Clark has told me so much about you,” she says. A hand, weathered and gentle from age touches your cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than he described.”

“Ma,” Clark says, from the kitchen sink. You smile, loving that boyish part of him that still gets embarrassed when his mom shares something she probably shouldn’t. Martha tsks and angles herself slightly to look at him, her hand falling away.

“I’m serious, Clark.” She turns to you and lowers her voice a smidge. “He’s always talking about you, it's hard to get him to stop. I knew I had to meet the girl he’s so sweet on from the second he mentioned you.”

You can feel your skin start to flush. Your eyes catch onto Clark who’s arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on his own kitchen table. 

“You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over,” she says almost conspiratorially. Your body softens, something distantly familiar coursing through your veins. Clark catches your eye and smiles at you and it leaves you a little dizzy. 

When the food is ready, the two of them fall into a rhythm, bringing dishes to the table. Watching the two of them interact, you can tell where Clark gets it from. His mannerisms and certain words and phrases in his vernacular. 

Clark pulls out both yours and Martha’s chairs when you sit to eat. The food is delicious and you make a note to ask Martha for recipes when the night ends. 

It’s as easy to talk to her as it is Clark. She asks questions about you and your job and your family. And she also asks about you and Clark. How you met and when you started “going steady” as she puts it. You’re particularly fond of the stories she shares about Clark when he was little. Even more fond of the red blush that covers his cheeks at the more embarrassing ones. 

In the back of your mind though you can’t get Martha’s words out of your head. 

You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over. 

It unnerves you slightly. And at the same time, you wonder how you could even begin to describe how much it means to you to have his Ma treat you so kind and warm. Like you’re already part of the family. Your mind starts to analyze a risk assessment, a voice in the back of your mind poking and prodding and whispering that something this good has to come down. 

Clark reaches for your hand at the table and gives it a quick squeeze, momentarily pulling you out of your spiral. You look at him with a soft smile, ever grateful and surprised that he can read you so well.

At the end of the night, Martha hugs you tight again and you soak it in. 

“It was so good to meet you, dear,” she says, pulling back from the hug. Her hands hold onto your forearms.

“You too,” you smile and she gives your arms a squeeze. She looks at Clark, who’s holding your purse for you in his hand. 

“You make sure she gets home safe, Clark.” 

Clark lips twitch. “I know, Ma. I always do.”

He’s true to his words, walks you safely home and all the way to your door like he always does. You linger outside the door until you’re toeing the line of inviting him in. He kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet, his hand cradling your jaw and yours pressed against his chest. 

It quiets your brain enough for you to get to bed but when you wake up the next morning, it’s racing immediately again. You’re distracted during the work day and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to stop. A steady downward spiral.

Clark comes home with you after work. You’re unusually quiet on the walk to your apartment and through dinner–leftovers from the night before that Martha insisted you take home with you.

You clear the table of dishes and Clark helps you wash up. When the two of you go to sit on your couch, Clark sits first and holds out a hand. 

“C’mere,” he says, all but pulling you to sit in his lap, though really you might as well be straddling him. For the first time all day, the chatter in your brain starts to dim. “What’s wrong? You’ve been unusually quiet all day.”

You look down at your hands in your lap and shrug. You’re not sure how to phrase it even if you tried. 

“It’s..nothing. It’s silly,” you finally say, still refusing to look at him.

“Hey,” his voice is a soft caress against your skin, gentle like his fingers that tilt your cheek so you look at him. “It’s just me. You can tell me.”

Your gaze roves his face, stars in your eyes. Clark pushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek like a feather. His eyes haven’t once strayed from yours. 

A shiver runs down your spine and you try not to squirm. It’s still new being seen like this. Like he’s looking right through you, straight into the messy walls of your subconscious. You swallow, your mouth dry and the words hang in a lump in your throat.

“Just..when I met your mom yesterday,” you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, feeling a little silly. Clark’s looking at you, so tenderly it squeezes your heart in your chest. “She hugged me. Like really hugged me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and something shimmers in his eyes as he scans your face. One hand rubs against your arm and his thumb on the other spreads a tear across the apple of your cheek as he wipes it away.

“Honey, that’s a good thing. Yeah?” 

“I-” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nodding though your shoulders inch up towards your ears. “Yeah. Yes. I dunno, it just…”

Your shoulders drop on an exhale and your eyes flutter open and latch onto his. Clark looks at you with quiet reassurance. His fingertips trail against the skin of your arms featherlight while he waits for you to finish your thought.

“It felt like home,” your voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Clark's eyes seem to soften even more than they already were. The corners of your mouth twitch into a small smile. You look away to wipe at your eyes, damp fingertips coming to rest along the side of his neck.  “Been a while since I’ve had that.”

Your eyes lock back on his. Something familiar is swirling in his eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat for the briefest of moments. Your heart starts to play a symphony against your ribcage. Clark’s hands have migrated to the small of your back.

“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says. Your fingers against his neck can feel the timbre of his voice. There’s a rush of warmth that covers you from head to toe. It’s dizzying enough to leave you a little nauseous, though there’s a fleeting thought that wonders if it’s because his words feel like a euphemism for the L word. 

Despite the onslaught of emotion you feel, your lips start to curl into a giddy smile just as Clark leans in to kiss you. His lips slot against yours, slow and sure and it’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your smile gets kissed away but the giddiness doesn’t fade.

His hands on your back pull you closer towards him and your thumbs press against his jawline. Your body feels like it’s starting to liquify in his arms as you melt against him. You pull back and Clark steals one more lingering kiss from you. It elicits another soft smile.

You don’t open your eyes right away, breathing in deep through your nose as you press your forehead against his. His thumbs rub circles against your back and his nose nudges yours. You blink your eyes open and lean back enough to look at him fully. 

You run a hand through the mess of curls on his head, eyes as soft as the edges of your smile. Clark’s looking at you like you hung the moon. The simplest of thoughts pops into your head. A flash of fear shocks your body. You push the feeling down and away, locking it up deep in the gooey center of your heart.

But you can’t lock away the thought that races around your brain like a news headline. 

You’re a thousand percent, without a doubt, in love with Clark Kent.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s an almost difficult realization for you in the coming days. The familiar dip in your stomach, a pull on your heart, like passing by an old friend in the grocery store. Things are safe with Clark, you’re safe with Clark. But it doesn’t quell the stutter of fear in the beat of your heart that’s been opening itself back to love.

You can’t help it but you do the best thing you know how. You pull away even though it’s twisting your heart into knots. A part of you hopes that he’ll break things off if you push hard enough. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.

Because what if you love him too much, too hard that he slips away? In your head, it’s better to withdraw now and first before he ever gets the chance to. Logically, you know it’s unlike Clark but you can’t help it. You’re not feeling very rational right now. Common sense has seemed to fly right out the window.

Clark feels utterly confused. You keep things about the same at work but the second you get home, he can feel you pulling away. You stop answering his calls. You don’t let him kiss you, barely let him hold your hand. 

He goes into fix-it mode, trying to retrace his steps and figure out if maybe he did something but he comes up short. He tries talking to you about it but you shrug it off, insisting everything is fine when he can clearly tell it’s not. 

He decides that maybe you just need a day or two to yourself and he acquiesces, giving you the space that he thinks you need. When he does, you think maybe he’s finally pulling away too and even though it makes you ache, you think it’s for the best.

But when space doesn’t work and you still won’t talk he knows something is really wrong. In his head, he makes a loose plan. He’ll get you to talk to him somehow, if anything to just get some kind of closure if you’ve decided this isn’t something you want to pursue with him anymore. The thought makes him ache but he has to know.

A couple weekends after dinner with his mom, you’re in your apartment staring at the wilted flowers on your kitchen table, wondering if you should maybe get rid of them. But that feels like getting rid of Clark somehow and you can’t bring yourself to do either of those things. 

There’s a knock on your door and your heart knows it’s him before you do. You open the door and there he stands. His nose is pink from the cold and there’s a sadness so heavy in his eyes it stabs at the tender bits of your heart. 

“We need to talk,” he says, and then at the last second, “please.”

You don’t say anything, just step aside to make room for him to come in. You close the door behind him with a click.

“What’s going on?” he asks as soon as you turn around. You fold your arms, hugging them to you like some kind of armor. 

“What do you mean?” you try to play a little dumb and Clark huffs. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him anything close to angry. 

“You know what I mean. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me about for weeks.” he sounds the slightest bit exasperated. “You won’t talk to me outside of work anymore. You won’t let me close enough to do much of anything. You’ve stopped returning my calls. It’s like you’ve completely pulled away.”

He sounds hurt more than anything. 

“Did I do something? What happened?” 

You close your eyes and sigh. “No Clark, you didn’t do anything. Nothing…happened.”

“Then why. Why are you pulling away?”

“Maybe we’re just better as friends!” you burst out, arms falling to your sides. “We were moving too fast. Maybe it’s just…easier if we just go back to being friends. Nothing more.”

“Don’t do that,” he says and you blink at him. Your eyebrows furrow. 

“What? I’m not-” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Your words have started leaving you both so fast your sentences almost overlap. “Clark-”

“You’re quitting before things get tough. You can’t do that.”

“What? I’m not..I’m not quitting. God, Clark I-” your voice starts to break. “I’m trying to protect myself. I’m terrified.”

Clark’s shoulders soften. “Terrified?”

“Yes,” you say and now the words won’t stop spilling out of you. “I’m scared to death of…of this. Of you! Of us! Of…of all of it! I’m scared.”

Clark looks like a kicked puppy again.

“Me? Us?” his voice sounds so small and your heart twists. “Why?” 

“Because I..” you’re almost panting. “Because I love you, Clark. I love you and it scares me because I never wanted to fall in love again. I never wanted to risk the pain of losing someone again. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of things ending just like they did with Ben three years ago.

And then I met you and I just knew if anyone would change my mind it would be you. The thought of being loved by you scared me and at the same time I was scared by how much I wanted that. And I tried not to but falling in love with you was the easiest thing for me to do.”

You’re not sure when you started crying or when Clark got close enough to be able to wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He looks pained at the sight of your tears but beneath that is a joy so vibrant it almost glows.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice is a soft melody in your ears. “I love you, too.”

It doesn’t sound as scary to you when he says it outloud. You sniffle, unable to fight the smile that spreads across your face. It’s teary and you’ve got a sudden worry that your nose is running. 

“You do? Even still?”

Clark lets out a soft laugh and nods, wiping away fresh tears that have fallen over your cheeks. “Yeah, honey, I do. Even still.”

“It’s an awful lot of work,” you say. Through a wet laugh, “I’m a mess, clearly.”

“No it’s not. Not for me. Not when it’s you.” 

The look in his eyes is so intense and serious, you’ve no choice but to believe him. Your heart soars. You sniffle again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders. Your fingers curl themselves into the fabric of the sweatshirt he’s wearing.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” you tease and it pulls a smile out of Clark. He presses his lips to yours, so tender and soft, it leaves you melting like that ice cream cone he bought you what seems like a lifetime ago.  

Love this go around feels familiar, but it’s different, better even in all the right ways. It’s like returning from a lifelong journey and sinking into a hug. 

It feels like coming home.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

as usual, tagging some people who might be interested (if not u can ignore) & those who asked hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @almightyellie @katsu28 @sanguineterrain @anonymouse1807 @superemobitch @manicandobsessive @clonesdserveb3tter @lalameors @celestialend @claudiwithachanceof @pessimisticmoon @clarkstwin @cupid4prez

[sflame15-blog]

Heyyy queen, okay so I like NEED some fluff where the reader is on her period and needs comforted and Clark tried really hard but doesn’t fully understand what to do and just the fluffiest fluffed up fluff you can write. PLEASEEEE! (I’m on my period rn and I need it🖐🏼😔)

Clark Kent x female reader

WC: 3,800 words approx.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Clark looked again at your empty desk. The chair was perfectly aligned under the table, as if you hadn’t been there in days. The pen you always left out of place was still in the same spot since the last time he saw you.

You hadn’t called him that morning… nor the previous one. Two days without hearing from you were consuming him inside.

Yesterday, when he passed by your apartment after patrolling, he had heard the beat of your heart from the street: strong, steady. He knew you were there, but he didn’t go up. You had told him you were fine, and he didn’t want to invade your space. However, today the absence weighed more.

He pulled out his phone.

Nothing.

Not a message. Not even an emoji.

He lifted his gaze toward Lois, hesitant. She, without looking at him, had already noticed his unease.

“What do you want?” she asked without taking her eyes off the screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she finished a paragraph.

“She hasn’t come,” he replied, pointing at your empty desk. “Do you know if she’s okay?”

Lois raised an eyebrow.

“Clark, you’re her boyfriend. You’re practically her other half… and you think I would know?”

He shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“So you don’t know,” Lois continued, after seeing his expression. “She’s in her apartment. She has… difficult days.”

Clark frowned.

“Difficult? What happened to her? Who did something to her?”

“Well, Clark…” Lois took a deep breath, searching for the words. “That thing… you know… what happens every month.”

Clark blinked.

“But… our four-month anniversary is on the twentieth and today is the twelfth…” he said, confused.

Lois stopped typing and looked at him with a mix of patience and weariness.

“No, Clark. She’s menstruating. She’s bleeding, she has cramps, she feels awful… and the last thing she wants is a man saying he understands how she feels. Believe me, nobody knows except us.”

He stayed silent, processing. Lois softened her tone.

“Sorry, I got carried away. It’s just that… on those days we feel bad. Really bad.”

“And can I bring her something?” he asked, leaning toward her.

“It depends on the person,” Lois replied. “But I’ve heard she’s very sensitive, cramps are unbearable for her. If I were you… I’d just wait a few days. She’ll come back.”

Clark watched her walk toward the elevator, but waiting wasn’t enough for him.

He couldn’t.

For Clark, you weren’t just his partner: you were his point of calm, his only light, more powerful than the sun that strengthened him.

When he returned to his desk, he turned on the monitor and began to search. He read medical articles, personal blogs, advice forums. He even logged into Facebook, the only social network he had, and dove into posts and comments. He took quick notes on a sheet of paper:

Painkillers.

Patches and warm compresses.

Fruits that reduce inflammation.

Chocolate and ice cream.

Relaxing teas.

Avoid citrus and sauces.

Sanitary pads.

Hot water bottle.

When his workday ended, he put everything in his briefcase and rushed out.

First stop: the pharmacy. He bought recommended pills, heating patches, and sanitary pads.

Second stop: the supermarket. He picked fresh fruits, your favorite chocolate, a liter of vanilla ice cream, a box of chamomile tea, a small cake with soft frosting. He walked past the aisle with lemons and sauces.

By the time he left, he was carrying several full bags. He walked toward your building with a firm step. People looked at him curiously—a tall, impeccable man in an office suit with so many unusual purchases for him—but Clark wasn’t distracted.

All he could think about was getting to you.

He knocked on the door twice, then a third time, softer, as if he feared bothering you.

“It’s me… Clark,” he said with that low voice he used when he wanted to calm you. He thought maybe you wouldn’t open, but you did.

The door opened slowly, revealing only part of your face. Your eyes were dull, tired, with that wet shine that wasn’t from joy. Your gaze avoided his, and an embarrassed expression appeared on your face.

“I don’t feel well, Clark…” you whispered, barely raising your voice.

“I know…” he replied, in a tone full of patience. “I just want to be with you. I won’t talk if you don’t want me to. We won’t do anything that bothers you. I promise.”

You lowered your head a little and opened the door just a bit more.

“It’s not that…” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s just that right now I don’t look like the girl you fell in love with.”

Clark looked at you closely. You were wearing worn-out bear slippers, white socks, and purple pajamas. The pants, made of soft fabric, had drawings of astronauts floating among stars, and the shirt showed little cartoon puppies of different breeds. Your hair was tied back carelessly, with bangs falling to the sides of your face.

He smiled. He didn’t understand your concern; to him, you were still beautiful, even like that.

He brought his hand to your cheek and caressed it softly. That’s when he noticed your eyes, swollen and red, didn’t shine with happiness but with sadness. You had been crying… and you hadn’t called him.

“Don’t push me away…” he murmured. He stepped forward, closing the door carefully, without letting go of the bags or the briefcase he carried in one hand. With the other, he held you as if you were the most fragile thing in the world. “I want to be with you always, even if you only use me as a pillow or want me to stay silent. I don’t want to be far from you. I need you… as much as I need the sun. I can’t think clearly when I don’t see you. You’re the person who fills my thoughts, and all I want is for you to let me stay… and I promise I will take care of you for the rest of your life.”

Your lips trembled and a pout formed before you could stop it. Tears began to fall again, and before you thought about it, you hugged him, hiding your face against his chest.

“Don’t say that…” you cried, your voice broken. “I missed you so much… I didn’t want you to see me like this. I’ve spent all day bleeding and crying… and now you come and say pretty things to me as if I deserved them.”

“You do deserve them,” he corrected without hesitation. He gently took you by the shoulders and guided you to the living room. “Sit down. I’ll arrange the things I brought.”

He placed the bags on the table and opened them. Inside were painkillers, a bottle of cold water, chocolates, ice cream, and a heating pad.

“Check the pills and tell me which ones help you the most with the pain,” he said, watching you carefully.

You nodded, wiping your cheeks with your pajama sleeve. You ate a little ice cream, tried a chocolate, and drank water to take the pill you chose. Clark stayed by your side, watching every movement to make sure you didn’t need anything else. Then you went to change for the fifth time that day, and when you came back, he had already prepared something in your room.

In the center of your bed he had placed a thick black blanket, perfectly spread out.

“The lady who sold it to me said nothing passes through it and that it’s very comfortable to sleep on,” he explained with a soft smile. “That way you won’t have to wash all the sheets tomorrow.”

You felt warmth in your chest from the gesture and lay down, letting him cover you with the sheet.

“Are you going to leave?” you asked in a trembling voice, as if you didn’t want to hear him say yes.

Clark looked at you without hesitation. “Whatever you tell me. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

You nodded silently. “Then I’ll stay,” he said, as if it were the simplest and most natural decision in the world.

He settled next to you, placed your hands on your belly, and covered the area with his own, transmitting constant warmth. Little by little, the pain began to ease. With his other hand, he caressed your arm while reaching to turn off both your phones so nothing would interrupt you. He moved closer, and you hugged him, hiding your face in his neck.

“I’m sorry for looking so… bad today,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Clark frowned and shook his head. “Bad? I think you looked beautiful in those pajamas. I could take a picture right now and frame it.” He said it so seriously that you let out a small laugh without moving away from him. His dimples appeared and his eyes sparkled. “I’d spend my whole life spoiling you… and it would be enough just to see you to feel fine.”

“You’re exaggerating,” you murmured, but your voice sounded calmer.

“I’m not. You’re my favorite person,” he answered, kissing your temple. “Do you want me to tell you something to distract you?”

“Yes, but something nice,” you said, closing your eyes.

“I’m going to tell you all the reasons why I love you…” he began, and you lifted your gaze to look at him. “One, because you always try even when you have no strength. Two, because your laugh is my favorite sound. Three, because even on difficult days like today, somehow you’re still the greatest light I’ve ever seen.”

You gave a soft tug on his shirt and whispered: “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he replied, brushing his lips against yours before leaving a kiss there. “Now sleep, I’ll stay here taking care of you.”

You felt his hand still on your belly, the constant warmth, his calm breathing, and the familiar scent that always gave you peace. You snuggled closer, and for the first time in two days, you fell into a deep, healing sleep.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

[sflame15-blog]

Second Option (one)

Summary: You are totally smitten with Clark, but he's too busy hung up on Lois to notice.

Pairing: Clark Kent X f!reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Clark started working at the Daily Planet, you were taken with him almost immediately. Despite his enormous size, he was as gentle as they come. He was kind, sweet, and polite. And a bit dorky sometimes.

You, on the other hand, were reserved. And you thought perhaps that was one of the reasons he never noticed you the way you noticed him.

Also, Clark had a huge crush on Lois. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up whenever she entered the room. How he seemed to hang on to her every word. Or how majority of the time his eyes would be on her in group settings. Although it seemed that Lois didn't share the same sentiments, you had no chance. Lois was beautiful, confident, and strong willed. You and her were polar opposites. You couldn't blame Clark for falling for her.

Nevertheless, your heart broke as you watched the man you love fall head over heels for another woman. So you buried yourself in your work to distract yourself from the aching feeling in your heart. Regardless, you couldn't help but notice him. His sheer size made it almost impossible. You found yourself noticing a lot of things about him. His favorite coffee, his favorite snacks, even his birthday.

One morning on your way to work, you had some time to kill, so you decided to visit your favorite candy store to stock up on your gummy bears' stash at work, which you somehow found yourself sharing with Jimmy. As you browsed the aisles, you came across a chocolate bar. For some weird reason, you remembered Clark talking about how his parents used to buy it for him on his birthday. And coincidentally, it was his birthday. Your hand hovered over the chocolate bar as you wondered if you should get it for him. But you decided against it, not wanting to invest yourself emotionally more than you already have. So you decided to leave the chocolate bar behind and go on your way.

A lot of coincidences seemed to follow you that day as you ran into Clark at the door of your workplace. You exchanged greetings as you walked together towards the elevator. You couldn't help but be nervous around him and he seemed to have noticed.

"Are you okay?" He voiced out his concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You answered, but there was a hint of uncertainty in your voice, even though you tried to keep it steady. Clark didn't seem like he fully believed you as his eyebrows remained high. So you decided to muster up whatever little courage you had left and speak up. "I just wanted to say..."

But a feminine voice interrupted you. "Hold the lift." Clark quickly stopped the elevator doors from closing, allowing Lois to get in.

Whatever courage you had at that moment dissipated. Clark, on the other hand, seemed to be very happy to see Lois, as always. He forgot all about you and struck up a conversation with Lois.

And, like usual, you blended into the background, quiet and forgotten. You walked behind Clark and Lois when you got off the elevator. You placed your bag on your desk when you reached it, and the jar of gummy bears you had bought, immediately catching Jimmy's attention, who rolled his chair over to your desk at the sight of the colourful sweet treats.

"Hiya," a huge grin on his face, and you rolled your eyes.

"No, Jimmy, you always finish my gummy bears. I told you to get your own. This is my secret stash."

"But I don't know where to buy them," he fake pouted.

You and him started bickering, and for a moment, you forgot all about Clark.

But at the end of the work day, you noticed Clark's countenance was a bit crestfallen as he got into the elevator with you. You figured it was because Lois had been away most of the day and she hadn't wished him a happy birthday. It was sad, considering how he went all out on her birthday a few months ago, buying her flowers and a gift. But somehow, she forgot his.

As the elevator descended you pulled out a chocolate bar from your bag and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Happy birthday," you said. And for the first time since morning, you saw Clark's face light up.

"Thank you," he took the chocolate and examined it with a nostalgic smile, "how did you know this was my favourite?" His forehead crinkled in curiosity.

"You and the boys are kind of loud. I overheard when you were sharing childhood stories one time," you looked at your feet a bit embarrassed that you were eavesdropping.

"Well, thank you," the dimple on his cheek was prominent.

"You're welcome," you swung from side to side, still unable to look him in the eyes, and just when you thought you couldn't embarrass yourself further, your stomach decided to demonstrate the cry of a lion cub.

You quickly grabbed it in hopes of silencing it but it was too late. Turning to Clark, he had an amused look on his face, his eyebrows raised and a lopsided smirk.

"I'm sorry," you huffed apologetically.

"Don't be," you could hear the chuckle in his voice, "would you like to grab something to eat?" He offered.

"I can't really say no now can I?"

"Not after the announcement made by your stomach," he grinned.

So you found yourself grabbing food from a truck a few blocks away from your office. You sat down at one of the tables and ate. You actually had a lot of fun as you talked and laughed. The chemistry between you was great.

Afterwards, Clark walked you home because it was already dark. When you were safely inside your apartment bulding, he went on his way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[sflame15-blog]

pretend until forever — clark kent

word count : 22.6k words pairing : clark kent x f!reader synopsis : you have a problem, and it involves showing up to your sister’s wedding with a fake fiancé to keep your family off your back. the plan is simple enough, except clark kent agrees to play the part, calm and infuriatingly perfect, and suddenly nothing feels fake at all. how long can you survive the day without your carefully built lie unraveling completely? content warnings : fake fiancé trope, fluff, angst, sexual tension, smut-adjacent scenes, public embarrassment, emotional spirals, family drama, mild language, messy feelings, teasing, romantic tension, workplace interactions, fake relationship scenarios author’s note : okay so yes, this one’s long, i know, but please take it as my silly little sorry gift because i’ll be taking a break for like two to three weeks with uni tests eating my soul, but also, because i genuinely love you lot, i ended up scribbling this whenever i could anyway. also, heads up, there are probably some grammatical errors because i’ve been learning more about american english, so it’s kind of a mix of british and american english throughout. also, some parts might be a bit confusing because i literally had no time to proofread properly, with everything else i’ve got going on, so i basically just sneaked it off as it was. anyway thank you for sticking around and seeing me through my chaotic mind, and see the comment below for the full author’s note if you’re curious for more rambles!!

masterlist

“Please, Jimmy, I am begging you!”

“I told you that I have a strict ‘no deals with the devil’ policy. NO.”

“You’re my only hope, Olsen, please!”

“I am not Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

You’re doomed, completely and stupidly doomed, not in a poetic sort of way, not in a funny way either, just in that sinking, slow, full-body ache sort of way where you already know the damage is done and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to un-say the words that came out of your mouth, not when your sister had called you before the sun had even risen and your voice was still heavy with sleep and your brain hadn’t caught up yet with the concept of reality or consequences.

All she said was something about table arrangements and final numbers for the caterer and how excited she was to finally meet the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for four years, and instead of stopping her, instead of correcting her gently or pretending the call had dropped or even saying something mildly coherent, you just said, “Of course,” and that was it, that was the beginning of your undoing.

Because now you’re engaged, and not just vaguely in a cute, Pinterest board kind of way, but fully, publicly, logistically engaged to a man who doesn’t exist, who has never existed, who you made up months ago to get your mum to stop setting you up with her friend’s nephew who’s a dentist and plays the trombone.

And now it’s too far gone to fix.

There’s a ring involved, a fictional proposal at a café, something you vaguely remember muttering about lavender lattes, and apparently he’s vegetarian now, because that somehow came up during brunch with your aunt last month, which means there’s a custom meal waiting for him at the reception and the sheer scale of the lie, the details, is making you feel slightly ill.

And yes, you know you did this to yourself, you know that nobody told you to keep going with the story or build him a backstory or describe his terrible driving and love of crossword puzzles, but you also know that it felt good at the time, it felt safe to be able to nod along when everyone else was talking about their partners and it felt good to have an answer for once instead of just a tight smile and another glass of wine.

You thought Jimmy would help; you thought if anyone would understand the desperation of the situation, the sheer absurdity of it, it would be him, and for a second you thought maybe he would say yes, maybe he’d pretend for a few hours, hold your hand during dinner, say something mildly charming during speeches, and let you get through the evening with your dignity barely intact.

But no! Jimmy Olsen, your last shred of hope, has looked you square in the eye and said absolutely not, and now you’re sitting at your desk with four days to go and not a single person you can reasonably ask to stand next to you in a suit and pretend to be in love with you for an entire night, not just in passing, but with the kind of history and weight that four years of fiction apparently carries.

And you know, deep down, that you should probably come clean, probably tell your family that you made the whole thing up and accept the embarrassment and pitying looks, but you also know how that’ll feel, how it’ll sound when your mum asks why you lied and when your sister gives you that smile that means she’s not surprised, just disappointed, and when your ex looks at you across the room like you’re still the same person you were when you let him walk away without fighting back.

You’re spiralling; you can feel it in the base of your skull, in your chest, in the weight of your hands where they’re curled too tightly around the edge of your desk, and you don’t know how to fix it, but you do know one thing for certain: you are not walking into that wedding alone.

You just need to figure out who’s walking in with you.

“Jimmy, please, I swear there’ll be food—”

“Look,” Jimmy let out a deep sigh, turning to you with an exasperated look, clearly frustrated with you asking him the same question for about twenty-three times now, “I would really love to help you, but not that kind of help…you know what I mean?”

“What exactly do you mean, Jimmy?”

He let out a groan, dragging his hands down his face like just speaking to you physically aged him, “You know what I exactly mean. I don’t do that. I am not a liar, and certainly not someone who’s good at it.”

“You literally fake-laughed through a conversation with my aunt about antique doorknobs last Christmas.”

“That was different, that was me trying to be polite while she showed me photos,” he pointed at you like that made some kind of moral distinction, “and I didn’t have to kiss anyone or pretend to be in a deeply committed relationship in front of multiple people.”

You blinked, “You wouldn’t even have to kiss me.”

“Oh, great, so you want me to pretend to be in love with you coldly, that sounds really convincing.”

“It’s not like anyone’s going to test us,” you snapped, “It’s not a hostage situation, I just need someone to show up in a nice suit and look like they’ve heard me snore before!”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes, “Do you snore?”

“Not the point, James!”

He crossed his arms, clearly done with entertaining the idea, even though you could see the part of him that was starting to feel guilty, the part of him that always looked a little bit like a kicked puppy when someone asked for help and he couldn’t give it, but also, unfortunately, the part of him that had enough self-preservation not to get dragged into your absolute car crash of a lie.

“I’m not doing it,” he said, firm this time, like he’d made peace with it, like he was trying to coach himself through the boundary in real time, “I’m not going to your sister’s wedding and pretending to be your long-term, deeply devoted fiancé. I’m not good under pressure, I have a very obvious tell when I lie, and your family terrifies me!”

You squinted at him, “What’s your tell?”

“I start talking in third person,” he said, dead serious, “and I sweat through my shirt.”

“So? Wear black.”

“Oh, my God, are you listening to yourself right now?!”

You slumped dramatically in your chair, letting your head fall back with a groan that felt like it came from your soul, “Do you have any idea how bad this is going to be? I told them we got engaged. Engaged, Jimmy. That’s not something you can backpedal from gracefully. There’s a ring involved. There was a café, and a latte, and I might’ve said he cried.”

Jimmy looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “You said what?”

“I don’t know why! I panicked! Mum looked so happy!”

“You are actually insane,” he said, pointing at you again, like saying it out loud would make it any less true, “and for the record, I still think you should just tell the truth and face the music like a normal person.”

You glared at him. “If you think I’m walking into a wedding alone with three exes in the guest list and a whole table of aunties who think I need to freeze my eggs, then you’ve clearly never known true fear!”

He opened his mouth, probably to make another point about morality or dignity or whatever other trait you’d long since abandoned, but then paused, squinting at you in that way he does when he’s trying to be delicate about something stupid, “Okay, but, if not me...then who?”

You stared at him, brain empty, mouth slightly open, the same low buzz of panic beginning to climb your spine again like static electricity, because you hadn’t actually gotten that far yet, hadn’t planned anything beyond “beg Jimmy until he caves.”

And the worst part is, he could see it.

“Oh, Christ,” he said again, voice full of dread, “you don’t have a backup plan, do you?”

“I didn’t think I’d need one,” you muttered, and even you heard how sad it sounded.

Jimmy sighed, already regretting asking, and shook his head like he was trying to physically shake himself free of your chaos. “You’re on your own, dude. I mean it.”

“On your own for what?” came Lois’s voice from behind you, curious and immediately too aware, and you didn’t even have time to flinch before she was rounding the corner of your desk with a coffee in one hand and that look on her face, the one that meant you’d been talking loud enough to be heard from Mars.

Jimmy blinked at her, looked at you, and then immediately bailed with a muttered, “Nothing. It’s nothing. Don’t get involved. I need to live.”

And then he was gone, the coward, vanishing into the newsroom like he hadn’t just abandoned you at your lowest.

Which left you sitting there, clearly distressed, clearly unravelling, and now with the added bonus of Lois Lane, a Pulitzer-winning journalist and very inconveniently perceptive human being, standing over you with narrowed eyes and that tilt of her head like she was already ten steps ahead of whatever story you were about to try and sell.

You tried to recover. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—Jimmy’s being dramatic. It’s really nothing.”

“Mm,” she said, noncommittal, sipping her coffee like she didn’t believe a single syllable of that. She sat on the edge of your desk, legs crossed, one eyebrow raised. “So what are you actually spiralling about?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, already regretting every decision that led to this exact moment. “It’s my sister’s wedding.”

“And…?”

“And,” you mumbled into your palms, “I might’ve told my family I’ve been dating someone for four years and that we’re now engaged, and that he’ll be coming with me to the wedding this Saturday, which is in four days, and also completely not true, because I made him up.”

Lois paused. “You made up a boyfriend who’s now your fiancé?”

“Yes.”

“Four years ago?”

“Yesssssssss.”

“And kept it going all this time.”

“I panicked, okay?!” you cried, finally looking up at her, your hands flailing a bit too dramatically for the office setting but at this point, who cared,

“My mum was giving me that face, and my other sister had just told me she was pregnant again, and everyone was being so smug and fulfilled with their real relationships and real lives and I just…said it. And then I had to keep saying it. I don’t even remember what lie I told about how we met. There was a café involved and I think he drinks oat milk.”

Lois blinked. “You’re unwell.”

“Thank you, Lois, very helpful!”

“Okay, but like, genuinely,” she said, shifting a bit on the desk, her tone softening just slightly in that way she sometimes let slip when she wasn’t in full reporter mode, “you should just tell them the truth.”

You let out a strangled, deeply unconvincing laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great. ‘Hey everyone, sorry, the love of my life I’ve been raving about for years doesn’t exist, I just invented him so you’d stop looking at me like I’m a broken microwave.’”

Lois sipped her coffee again. “You know your family will still love you, right? Like, yeah, they might be weird about it for five minutes, but they’re not going to exile you to the woods for being single.”

You frowned. “You don’t know my family. My cousin Monica live-tweeted her boyfriend proposing and now my entire family uses it as the standard for public affection. My sister’s second baby is already booked for a baptism before it’s even born. My mum bought a hat for this wedding, Lois. A hat. She doesn’t wear hats unless she’s going to cry in them.”

Lois snorted. “Okay, so your family’s insane.”

“Thank you!”

“But you’re still not actually solving the problem. You either tell the truth and deal with the fallout, or you find someone willing to be your fake fiancé, which, frankly, sounds like a logistical nightmare.”

“I tried that,” you said, slumping further into your chair like the embarrassment might kill you through posture alone, “Jimmy said no for like twenty-nine times.”

“Of course he did. The guy folds under pressure if someone just asks him what he wants for lunch. You’re telling me you trusted him with a full-on social deception at a family wedding?”

You groaned again. “He was my best shot.”

She looked at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed like she was scanning you for weaknesses, and then, in the most casual voice in the world, said, “What about, uh, Clark?”

Your heart stopped.

“No.”

Lois grinned. “Why not?”

“No,” you repeated, firm, terrified, already mentally spiralling into the void, “He’s—no. He’s too nice! He’d never agree. He’d probably short-circuit and start apologising to my mother for existing. And also, I barely talk to him. We talk about coffee and copy deadlines. That’s it!”

“Exactly,” she said, like that was a point in his favour, “He’s sweet and reliable. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t embarrass you. He might even be convincing.”

“Lois!”

“What?” She leaned in, voice low and smug. “You said you needed someone!”

You buried your face in your hands again, because if she said one more word, you might actually have a breakdown in the middle of the bullpen. And worst of all, you were already starting to picture it. 

And that was the problem. That was exactly the problem.

Because part of you didn’t hate the idea at all.

And that was far more dangerous than anything you'd invented so far.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

You knew you shouldn’t be doing this, you knew it from the moment Lois leaned in with that smug little glint in her eye and said his name like she was handing you a loaded gun, like she wanted to see if you’d actually pull the trigger, and you knew you shouldn’t have stood up, shouldn’t have taken a single step in this direction.

But you did, and now here you were, standing right in front of Clark Kent’s desk, heart racing in a way that felt both ridiculous and completely deserved, because there was no possible version of this where you came out the other side with your pride intact, and yet your mouth was already open and your voice was already forming syllables like you weren’t about to launch yourself headfirst into the most humiliating conversation of your life.

He looked up at you, smiling a little like he was happy to see you, even though you were very visibly deranged right now, and he just tilted his head a little and said, “Hey.”

And you panicked.

“Yes,” you said, immediately, before he’d even asked anything, and he blinked, confused but not alarmed, just blinking up at you with those stupid kind eyes like you weren’t seconds away from asking him to fully fake a relationship with you in front of your entire extended family.

Then he raised his eyebrows slightly, in a polite, concerned sort of way, like maybe you were short-circuiting, and said, “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” you said, lying through your teeth, too quickly, voice way too high, “fine, totally fine, I’m just—okay, so, uh, weird question, and I’m really, really sorry in advance, but are you doing anything this weekend?”

His brows pulled together in that thoughtful, in a way he did when he was trying to give a sincere answer to a weird question, and he said, slowly, “I think I’m free on Saturday... why?”

And that was when you knew you were too far gone to turn back.

“Uh,” you said, already wishing you were dead, “would you possibly, hypothetically, in a completely fictional and non-legally binding sort of way, want to get engaged?”

He blinked.

You then winced. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud than it did in my head.”

“Engaged,” he repeated as if he’d misheard.

“Yes,” you said, then immediately regretted it, “well—not engaged engaged, I’m not asking you to marry me, I’m asking if you’d pretend to marry me, or at least pretend that we’re going to get married, which is somehow worse, I know, but I swear I can explain—”

Clark was still just looking at you, blinking slowly like he was trying to figure out if this was a prank or a cry for help, and you would’ve felt bad if you weren’t already spiralling straight into the seventh layer of humiliation.

“My sister’s getting married,” you said, breathless now, already waving your hands like that would help slow your brain down, “and I may have told my entire family that I’ve been in a long-term relationship with a very real and definitely not made-up person, and that person may have also become my fiancé at some point, and I didn’t think it would ever come back to bite me, but now she’s getting married on Saturday, and I’ve been explicitly told to bring him, and they’re all expecting to meet him and coo over our engagement story and ask invasive questions about our future children!”

You paused, dragging in a deep breath like you were about to dive underwater, “and Jimmy said no, like very firmly no, and then Lois said your name, and now I’m here, and you can absolutely say no too, in fact you, uh, probably should, because this is crazy and embarrassing and possibly the worst thing I’ve ever said to another human being, and I am fully prepared to fake a concussion to get out of it if I have to—”

“Can I wear a tie?” Clark asked, suddenly, with that tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like this was actually funny to him.

You stared. “What?”

“Well, I feel like a fiancé should wear a tie,” he said, shrugging a little, like this was a completely rational conversation, “I’ve got one that makes me look like I know things about property taxes.”

“You already look like someone who reads real estate blogs on purpose?”

“I don’t,” he said, smiling fully now, “but it’s nice to know I could.”

You stared at him, still half-convinced your ears were lying to you. “You’re saying yes?”

He nodded, still way too calm. “Sure.”

“You don’t even know what kind of unhinged family you’re about to walk into.”

“I grew up on a farm,” he said, “I’ve seen some things.”

“This is not that,” you said, trying not to sound panicked again, “this is five generations of nosy women with group chats and opinions and a frankly dangerous amount of curiosity. Someone is going to ask you about our sex life before appetisers! This is an actual social war, Clark, and you’re agreeing to walk into it as my fake fiancé for the price of one piece of cake and a lot of emotional damage!”

Clark adjusted his glasses, still smiling in that mild, impossibly steady way that made your brain feel like it was glitching.

“Do I get to pick the cake flavour?” he asked.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands, “this is going to end in flames.”

He leaned in a little, voice lower now, amused but serious enough that it made your spine go weird.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make us very convincing.”

And you felt that line in your bones, because you were unwell in the worst way, because you had just asked Clark Kent to be your fiancé and somehow, impossibly, he had actually said yes.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Jesus Christ, you absolute idiot,” you hissed at yourself, elbow propped on the sink as you dragged the eyeliner across your lid for the sixth time and of course it smeared into a crooked little tail that had no business being there.

“Brilliant plan, really, fake-engage the most obvious man in the world, they’ll never suspect a thing,” you muttered, scrubbing at it again with the corner of a tissue until your skin stung.

You leaned back, squinted at your reflection, and nearly laughed because your eyes were already going red and watery like you’d been crying, which was just perfect, exactly the sort of look you wanted to bring home to your family when you announced that Clark Kent had miraculously agreed to marry you.

“They’re going to find out in five minutes, tops,” you said to the mirror, pointing at your own face like you were scolding a misbehaving child. “They know you, they know you can’t lie to save your life, they know you’ve never kept a boyfriend past a month, and you think you can walk in there with Clark bloody Kent and pull this off? You are insane.”

The eyeliner pen slipped out of your grip and clattered onto the counter and you wanted to throw it in the bin. You slammed your palms on either side of the sink, leaning forward until your forehead nearly touched the mirror, and whispered, “You’re going to die, you’re going to actually die when they start asking questions.”

Then louder, like that might help, “What were you thinking?!”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape, your hands wouldn’t stay steady long enough to finish one simple wing.

You grabbed the mascara instead, hands shaking, and muttered, “Fine, we’re just going to have lopsided eyes. Whatever. Clark said yes, somehow, impossibly, and now you’ve got to make it through dinner without collapsing.” 

And then, quieter, almost pleading, “Oh please, God, don’t let me sweat through this dress.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The doorbell went off and you nearly jumped out of your skin, the mascara wand slipping straight out of your hand and rolling into the sink like even your own things were sick of you.

You groaned, properly loud, because of course it was already happening, of course you’d run out of time, and you were still standing there staring at eyeliner wings that didn’t even belong to the same face. The left one was drooping, the right one was flying off into space. 

It was bad.

It rang again, longer this time, like whoever was outside already knew you were falling apart and wanted to make it worse. You looked at the clock. 6:41. Which had to be wrong, because there was no way morning was allowed to arrive this fast. But there it was, blinking at you, reminding you that you were officially out of time.

You muttered at yourself about being stupid, about how your family were going to bury you alive, and then you stomped down the hall in your robe like some gremlin dragged out of a hole, you always did, and then your stomach dropped out completely because it was Clark. 

Except it wasn’t Clark like normal, not with his crooked tie and hair that looked like the subway had bullied him. No. This Clark looked like he had been styled. His shirt was fitted properly, his sleeves rolled, his hair slick in a way that made you want to cry.

You opened the door and almost choked.

“Hi,” Clark said, easy, like he had not just wrecked your entire morning.

“What the hell are you wearing?” It fell out of you before you could stop it, because if you didn’t say something you were just going to stand there like an idiot.

He glanced down at himself and then backed up. “Clothes?”

You pointed at him, furious. “Do not. You look like some dream guy out of a film and it is offensive. You were supposed to show up looking like you.”

He blinked at you once instead, calm as ever. “Thanks? You look great.”

You nearly combusted. “Say that again and I will hit you. I mean it. I cannot deal with that right now.”

He almost said it again, you could see it, but then he softened and shrugged with that tiny smile that was somehow worse. “Alright. I will not say it again.”

“Good,” you muttered, arms crossed so tight you thought you might pass out. “Because this is already a disaster. My eyeliner is criminal, my hair is tragic, and then you have the nerve to turn up like that.”

He leaned against the doorframe, calm as ever, and said, “So, do I get to come in? Or are you just going to roast me from the hallway?”

You glanced at the clock again. 6:43. You sighed so loudly it rattled your chest. “Fine. Come in, but do not touch anything. And stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, grinning, stepping inside.

“Like that,” you snapped, slamming the door shut a little harder than necessary, because maybe the noise would drown out how fast your heart was going. “That thing where you look like you know something I don’t. Stop it.”

Clark glanced around your flat like he was taking mental notes, slow and polite, like he hadn’t just wandered into the lion’s den. He set his overnight bag by the sofa like he belonged there and then turned back to you with that maddening calm. “I don’t know anything,” he said.

You squinted at him, still clutching your robe closed. “Yes you do. You’re smug. It’s smug, that’s what it is.”

He raised his eyebrows, pretending innocence in a way that made you want to throw something. “Why do you think I’m smug?”

“I think you’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered, stalking back toward the bathroom because if you stood in front of him another second you’d combust. “And I don’t know why. You should be terrified. My family is going to eat you alive.”

Clark followed at a slower pace, leaning in the doorway as you picked the mascara back up like it might save your life. “I’m not really worried,” he said, and you nearly dropped the wand again because how was he like this, how was he so calm when you felt like your organs were about to start a mutiny?

“You should be,” you told him, catching your reflection and grimacing. “They will ask you questions. They will interrogate. They will want dates and names and embarrassing stories. Someone will ask about the proposal. Someone will ask about the honeymoon. Someone will ask about…” You waved the mascara at him. “Things.”

“Things,” he repeated, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, things,” you said, stabbing it back toward your lashes. “Personal things. They don’t know what boundaries are.”

He watched you for a moment, arms folded now, and then he said, easy as anything, “So you’ll tell me what they need to hear.”

You whirled on him. “Me?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, smiling like this was all so simple. “You made him up, didn’t you? You’ve already got the backstory. I’m just here to play the part.”

You stared at him, mascara still in your hand, and wanted to scream. “Oh, my God. You’re going to be useless.”

Clark laughed, actually laughed, and it was so warm and low that you forgot what you were about to say next. He pushed his glasses up his nose, still smiling, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep up.”

And you hated it, you hated how much you almost believed him.

By the time you’d shoved half your wardrobe into a suitcase and burnt your tongue on instant coffee, Clark was still just… there. Carrying your bag down the stairs without breaking a sweat. Opening the passenger door for you like it was normal. Sliding behind the wheel like he wasn’t about to impersonate your fictional fiancé in front of five generations of relatives who could smell fear a mile away.

The car was quiet for all of thirty seconds before you broke.

“They’re going to ask about the café,” you blurted, gripping your coffee cup like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. “The one where he proposed. I said it was by the river, I said there were lavender lattes, I said he got down on one knee and cried. They’re going to want details. They’re going to want to know the exact date. What the weather was like. What he said.”

Clark glanced at you, then back at the road, and said, “Alright. So what did he say?”

You blinked at him, throat tightening, because of course you had never thought that far. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking on it. “I just said he cried.”

Clark smiled a little, eyes on the traffic ahead. “Then I guess I’ll have to improvise.”

You nearly spilled your coffee. “Clark, no, do not improvise!”

“Why not?” he asked, all innocent.

“Because you’ll make it sound sincere and then I’ll die.”

He chuckled, soft and low, and you wanted to throw your coffee out the window.

“This isn’t funny,” you said, turning in your seat to glare at him. “We need to get our story straight. You can’t just stroll in there winging it.”

Clark kept his eyes on the road, maddeningly calm, hands loose on the wheel like you weren’t both heading toward disaster. “So we build it. Isn’t that what we do?”

“What?” you asked.

“Stories,” he said, glancing at you with the faintest smile. “We’ve both made a career out of getting the details right. Same principle, just personal. It’s not exactly breaking news, but it’s still a narrative. We just… write it.”

You gaped at him. “You’re actually suggesting we treat my fake fiancé like an article?”

He shrugged. “Why not? You’ve got the bones already. We fill in the rest. Motive, timeline, quotes, anecdotes. Keep it consistent. No contradictions.”

You groaned and slumped against the seat. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not enjoying it,” he said, but he was smiling, and you knew he absolutely was.

“Fine,” you muttered, shoving your empty coffee cup into the holder. “Timeline. Four years. We met at…” You stopped, wincing. “Gosh! I can’t even remember what I said anymore!”

Clark hummed thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Library?”

You shot him a look. “Do I look like the kind of person who meets people at libraries?”

“Alright,” he said, still calm. “Bar, then. You spilled a drink on me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a cliché.”

“You made up lavender lattes,” he reminded you. “We’re already past cliché.”

You shoved a hand through your hair, heart pounding. “Okay, fine, bar. I spilled a drink. It was rum and coke, not wine, because wine is too obvious.”

Clark nodded like he was taking notes in his head. “And I said—what? That you owed me a replacement?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, leaning into the lie before you could second-guess it. “And you hated me at first. You said I was rude and clumsy and distracting.”

He smirked at that, eyes still on the road. “Sounds about right.”

“Don’t,” you snapped, pointing at him. “You don’t get to enjoy this.”

“Noted,” he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched and you wanted to scream.

You slumped back again, muttering under your breath. “Proposal was last spring. Café by the river. Lavender latte. You cried. I don’t know why, but apparently you did. Honeymoon is booked for Italy, Tuscany maybe, I can’t remember which part I told them. Vegetarian, crosswords, terrible driver.”

Clark repeated it under his breath, like he was memorising lines. “Terrible driver?”

“Yes,” you said. “You almost hit a dog once and we argued for a week. My cousin remembers that. Don’t mess it up.”

He glanced at you again, amused. “You realise you’ve basically been running a four-year con, right?”

You groaned into your hands and dragged your palms down your face because of course this was happening, of course he was going to ruin everything by pointing out the one detail you had not thought through. 

“I know, do not remind me,” you muttered, muffled and pathetic, like you could somehow smother the entire problem with your own skin if you just pressed hard enough.

There was a silence, and it was the kind that sat heavy enough to make your ribs ache, the kind that made you look up because you could feel him staring at you.

Clark had that careful expression, the one he always got when he was about to drop something you were not going to like, and you felt your stomach twist before he even opened his mouth.

“What?” you snapped, sharper than you meant to, but he was still gripping the steering wheel.

He hesitated, the pause stretching long enough that you wanted to scream, and then he said, almost cautiously, “You don’t… have a ring, do you?”

Your entire chest caved in. You clutched your robe tighter out of pure reflex even though you had changed into actual clothes an hour ago, because suddenly you were naked, you were exposed, and your heart dropped so fast it made you dizzy. 

“Oh, my God. Oh, my actual God, Clark. I don’t!  I never bought one. They’re going to see it immediately, they’re going to stare at my empty finger and it’s over, it’s done, they’ll know I’ve been lying for four years and then I’ll have to fake my own death and disappear to the mountains because that is the only way out of this.”

“Hey,” he cut in, calm and steady like his voice alone might anchor you before you spun yourself into oblivion. “Breathe. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine,” you hissed, shoving your hand directly at him like evidence in a trial. “Look. Naked finger. Do you see this? They will see this from across the room, they will drag me into the kitchen, and then they’ll demand answers, and then its social execution. They will bury me alive in the garden!”

Clark pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile, which only made you want to throttle him, and then he let out a small, sheepish laugh. “Okay… so I might’ve thought of that.”

You blinked at him, wild, your voice climbing. “What do you mean, you thought of that?”

Instead of answering he flicked the indicator and pulled the car over, gravel crunching under the tyres, the sound loud enough that it scraped at your nerves. When you finally looked up the sea was spread out in front of you, pale and endless and stupidly beautiful, the kind of view you might have cried over if your brain wasn’t on fire.

“Clark,” you said slowly, suspicion crawling over you as he shifted in his seat, “what are you doing?”

He cleared his throat, awkward, his hand dipping into the inside pocket of his jacket, fumbling in a way that made your stomach drop further, and then he pulled out a small velvet box.

Your heart lurched so violently you actually gasped. “Oh my God. Is that—”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but you, his ears already going pink. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a ring.”

You stared at him, properly stared, your brain stuttering and blank. “You… you got me a ring?”

Clark finally met your eyes and for a second he looked so nervous you almost forgot how to breathe. “I figured it would come up. People notice rings. I didn’t want you to panic more than you already were.” He held the box out with both hands, hesitant, like he was afraid you’d shove it back into his chest. “This is… this is the one.”

Your fingers brushed his when you took it, your chest too tight, and your voice cracked. “This is a ring?”

His laugh was soft, embarrassed, so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. “Yeah. Kind of obvious, right?”

You opened it and the air left your lungs in one violent sweep.

It was beautiful, and not in the flashy gaudy way that would’ve been easier to shrug off, but in the kind of way that hurt to look at.

A gold band, simple but solid, with a diamond that caught the weak morning light and scattered it across the dashboard like it was mocking you. It looked old, and it looked like it had been waiting for years.

“Clark,” you whispered, throat burning, unable to stop staring, “I can’t wear this.”

He swallowed, his voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile. “It was my ma’s. Her mother gave it to her. She wanted me to have it. Said it was for when I met… you know. The one.”

Your head snapped up so fast it almost hurt, your eyes wide, panic spilling everywhere. “Clark, no, absolutely not. I cannot wear this. This isn’t a prop, this isn’t—this is family, Clark.”

He gave a tiny shrug but his jaw was locked tight, his whole body saying he meant it. “She’d want it used. Not left in a drawer.”

You shook your head, clutching the box like it was a live grenade, because this was insane, it was so far beyond the boundaries of your fake plan you could hardly process it. “Clark, this is wrong. We’re lying, we’re faking it, we’re—God—we’re tricking everyone, and you want me to do it wearing something that actually matters?”

His gaze held steady, nervous but immovable, like he was bracing himself to take the hit. “It means something if you let it. Otherwise, it’s just a ring.”

You wanted to tell him no, to shove it back into his hand and demand he find you something cheap and plastic, something that could never feel heavy in your palm. But your throat was thick, your eyes stung, and the diamond kept catching the light like it was laughing at you for ever thinking you could control this.

You sit there gripping the box so tightly it feels like your knuckles might split, like if you loosen your hold even slightly it might detonate right there between you, and he just sits steady the way he always does, like nothing in the world could shake him, and it only makes you feel worse, because you’re sitting here on the verge of combustion while Clark Kent looks like Clark Kent, calm and patient and maddening. 

The silence stretches and stretches until it feels like a weight pressing down on your ribs, so thin and fragile it could snap at any second, and you can’t take it anymore, your breath breaking out of you in a shudder, and all you manage is a single word, low and wrecked, “Fine.”

His shoulders drop in that instant, a subtle easing, relief softening the set of his jaw, and before you can swallow the word back or decide you’ve made a terrible mistake he reaches forward, so slow, so deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away even though you don’t, and his fingers brush yours, warm, steady, achingly gentle, and it’s ridiculous how that single touch is what undoes you more than anything. 

He takes the box from you, cradling it like it isn’t a bomb, like it’s nothing more than a box, and then, without a flicker of hesitation, he opens it. Pops it open like he’s just unwrapping something ordinary, not stepping with you into something that feels like walking into fire.

He slides the ring out, holding it between his fingers, turning it once, the smallest movement, and then he looks at you, properly looks at you, and your chest twists, your pulse stumbles, because there’s something in his gaze you can’t read, something heavy and intent, and it makes everything so much worse.

“Clark,” you breathe, your voice breaking with the panic already clawing up your throat.

He clears his throat, quiet, unhurried, but steady enough to make your stomach lurch. “Will you marry me?”

Your head jerks, eyes wide, your mouth open but empty, because what the hell, because it’s insane, because you know this is supposed to be fake and yet hearing it out loud like that is nothing you were ready for. “Why are you asking me like that?”

“Because,” he says, calm on the surface but a thread of something else tugging underneath, almost sheepish in the way he meets your stare, “you’ll have to get used to it. People are going to want the story. They’ll ask, over and over. And if I can’t even say the words to you, then how am I supposed to convince anyone else?”

The laugh that rips out of you is half-choked, almost hysterical, and you clutch at the seatbelt across your chest. “Gosh. You’re rehearsing? You’re actually rehearsing this? In a car by the sea, Clark? Are you serious?”

His lips twitch, the smallest crack in his composure, and he says it so simply it drives you mad. “Practice makes perfect.”

Your head falls back against the seat, and you’re laughing because there’s no other way to survive the absurdity of this, because he’s insane, he has to be. “You’re insane,” you tell him.

But he doesn’t look away and just holds the ring, like it’s not just part of a scheme, his gaze steady on yours, and when he says, “Will you?” 

It doesn’t sound like a joke, it doesn’t sound fake at all, in fact.

It should be easy, it should be light, it should be nothing more than a game you both agreed to play, but your throat is tight and your chest aches and you can barely force the words past the knot inside you. “Yes,” you laugh, except it’s wet at the edges, breaking against the tears you’re fighting, “yes, I’ll marry you, Clark Kent.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, something raw and unguarded that you can’t pin down before it’s gone, shuttered away so neatly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

And then he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that makes your heart cave in, slow and deliberate, like it belongs there, as if this isn’t fake at all.

The church was already spilling over by the time you pulled up, cars lining the road, people milling about in their best clothes, voices carrying in that bright early morning air, and your stomach dropped right through the floor because this was it, no more rehearsal, no more time to prepare.

Clark cut the engine, and for a second neither of you moved. You stared at the heavy wooden doors, the crowd of relatives and neighbours and people you barely knew but who all knew you, and your hand was already clammy before his even found it.

He reached across so simply, fingers brushing yours, and then he was holding on, steady, grounding, like he hadn’t just put a family heirloom on your finger minutes ago.

You wanted to pull away but you didn’t.

Walking up the path, hand in hand, you could feel the stares already, the whispers barely muted. Your aunt glanced down at your joined hands and her brows went up, sharp as anything, and you knew this was going to spread through the pews faster than the organ could get through the first hymn.

And then there was the sting, sudden and sour, when you saw your sister flanked by her best friends, all satin and flowers and cameras flashing, and not a spot for you amongst them. It should have hurt more. It didn’t. You weren’t here to be her bridesmaid, you were just here to stand and clap and smile when she said her vows, and that was fine. This was her day, not yours.

Except Clark’s thumb brushed your knuckles, light as a whisper, and it dragged you right back into the absurdity of it all, because while your sister was about to marry the love of her life, you were standing here pretending, your pulse hammering like you’d stolen someone else’s story.

Someone called your name, your cousin maybe, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the glint of the ring under the church lights, sharp and cruel, and all you could think was how in the hell you were supposed to carry this off when you already felt like the lie was carved into your skin.

Clark leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard. “Do I look okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, quiet, almost amused. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“Great,” you muttered, dragging yourself forward because there was no other option, the ushers were already funneling people inside like cattle and you couldn’t exactly dig your heels into the church steps and refuse to move. “Exactly the look I was going for.”

And of course, because the universe hated you, they were there, all of them, like they’d set up camp at the doorway purely to catch you. Your mum saw you first and her whole body jolted, hand flying to her chest like she’d just witnessed a miracle.

“Oh, he’s finally here!” she gasped, eyes bright as she turned that beam on Clark like she’d conjured him into existence through sheer force of will. “I was beginning to think you’d been keeping him hidden from us.”

“Mum,” you hissed, low, desperate, but it didn’t matter, she was already reaching for Clark’s hand, smoothing her hair like she was about to meet the Pope.

And then your brother, because obviously it had to be him, crossed his arms and gave Clark the slowest, most infuriating once-over, like he was appraising cattle. “So he’s actually real then? Thought maybe you’d rented him from the internet.”

Your hand flew out on instinct, smacking his arm hard enough to make him flinch. “You’re such an idiot.”

He grinned, rubbing the spot with exaggerated pain. “What? I’m just saying. We were starting to place bets. Months of ‘Boyfie said this’ and ‘Boyfie did that’ with no actual proof? Pfft suspicious.”

“Children,” your dad cut in, sharp enough that the word cracked through all the noise, that exact tone that used to send you lot scrambling when you were kids. “Behave. This is your sister’s wedding, not the playground.”

But of course your brother leaned in anyway, muttering, “She hit me first,” before ducking away with that smug grin that made you want to strangle him right there in front of God and everyone.

Meanwhile Clark, the traitor, menace, perfect bastard, just smiled all calm and polite, extending his hand like this wasn’t a firing squad. “Sir,” he said, warm, steady, with that faint drawl curling the edges, and your dad, your dad, who hadn’t smiled in weeks actually looked impressed.

“Oh, isn’t he charming,” your mum breathed, practically glowing, like Clark had just solved all her problems by existing. “What a lovely young man! I like him.”

You gawked. “You just met him.”

“That’s all it takes,” she said matter-of-factly, and then turned her entire focus back on Clark as if you weren’t standing there, as if you hadn’t just combusted into flames. “We’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, young man. She talks about you all the time. More than she realises.”

“Mum,” you snapped, heat crawling up your neck, but Clark was already glancing down at you with that infuriating glint, the one that meant he was eating this up, every humiliating second of it.

And because the devil works fast but your younger brother works faster, he leaned in on your other side, voice low but enough for Clark to hear. “He seems too good for you, sis.”

You spun, teeth bared. “Say that again and I’ll murder you in this church. I don’t care if God’s watching.”

Clark had the audacity to laugh, soft and low, disguising it like a cough, which only made you crush his hand tighter, knuckles white. He looked down at your grip, then back up at you, maddeningly calm, and murmured, “Easy there.”

Before you could even open your mouth to snap at him, there was another voice, cutting clean through the thick awkwardness, and there she was, your other sister, striding across the tiles, balancing her son on her hip as if the chunky little weight was nothing at all.

Her eyes swept over you first, then Clark, and the curve of her mouth shifted into that smile, the one that always meant trouble, the one that made your stomach sink because it was far too knowing already and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet.

“So this is him,” she said, her tone light and casual, almost airy, but her gaze sharp enough to make you bristle on instinct, like she was cataloguing everything about him now so she could interrogate you later over wine.

“Apparently,” you muttered under your breath, ready to roll your eyes skyward, but of course she didn’t even bother acknowledging you, adjusting her son higher against her shoulder before sticking her free hand out toward Clark. 

“I’m her sister. The normal one. Nice to finally meet you.”

Clark, bloody saint that he was, smiled with that soft politeness of his and shook her hand with the same steady warmth he’d used on your dad, which only made you want to groan, because of course he was going to charm her too, wasn’t he, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, your nephew suddenly lunged toward him with both grabby little hands, chubby fingers stretching, babbling complete nonsense like Clark was the most exciting person in the world, like he’d just spotted the sun and wanted to pocket it.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” you hissed, glaring at the child who only grinned wider, cheeks dimpling like he knew exactly what he was doing. “He doesn’t even do that with me.”

Your sister laughed, shifting the boy’s weight easily, bouncing him once on her hip before tilting her head toward Clark with that amused gleam in her eyes. “He’s a good judge of character. Kids always know.”

Clark chuckled softly, not helping matters in the slightest, and brushed a fingertip over the baby’s tiny fist when it latched around his thumb with surprising strength. “He’s a strong one,” he murmured, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight.

You could feel heat crawling up the back of your neck, the tips of your ears burning, because this was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. “Don’t encourage him,” you snapped, crossing your arms tighter across your chest like that would somehow shield you from the scene unfolding right in front of you.

“Why not?” Clark said simply, like he genuinely couldn’t understand the problem, like it was the most natural thing in the world to let a baby cling to him as if they’d been best friends for years. Your nephew squealed in sheer delight at his voice, tiny fingers tightening their hold, refusing to let go, drool collecting at the corner of his smile.

Your sister raised her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Looks like he likes him. Honestly, I was expecting… I don’t know. Someone rougher around the edges, maybe, but you’ve done well.”

“I didn’t ‘do well’,” you snapped again, your voice climbing louder than you meant it to. “I’m not shopping at a bloody market stall!”

Clark’s lips twitched, his whole expression shifting as if he was desperately trying not to laugh, which only made it worse. 

Your sister just rolled her eyes in that superior way she always had, switching your nephew onto her other arm as if to punctuate her point. “Whatever you say, but he’s definitely family-approved already, whether you like it or not.”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face, trying to cover the mortification burning across your skin, muttering through your palm, “I hate all of you.”

“Love you too, little sister,” she sang back without missing a beat, her heels clicking away as she disappeared down the hall, her son still babbling and giggling happily, his little hand stretched out toward Clark until they were both out of sight.

For a moment there was silence, the kind that pressed in on you, the kind that made your grip on Clark’s hand tighten without you even realising. He glanced down at you, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your knuckles, grounding in that soft way only he managed. “You okay?” he asked quietly, voice pitched just for you.

You tilted your head up at him, glaring through the flush on your cheeks. “Don’t start.”

The wedding begins slowly, almost shyly, like the air itself is holding its breath, the music soft at first and then swelling, filling every inch of the church with something grand and holy and terrifying, and it is the shift in the crowd that makes your skin prickle, the way voices drop, the way chairs scrape faintly before everyone rises at once, all heads turning toward the doors at the back. 

You turn too, though your stomach has been clenched tight for what feels like hours, your lungs pulling shallow air that does not seem to reach deep enough, because you already know what is waiting, you already know the weight of it before it even happens.

And then she appears. Your sister, your baby sister, framed in the doorway in a dress so impossibly white it almost blinds you, the fabric catching the light like it is spun out of something celestial, her hand looped carefully through your dad’s arm, her steps hesitant and trembling in a way that breaks you even before she is halfway down the aisle. 

Her face is soft and shaking, the kind of trembling that comes from joy too big to carry and fear too sharp to hide, and your dad looks so steady beside her, proud in a way that makes your throat close, his back straight and his jaw set like he is holding himself together for her sake.

The sight of them hits you harder than you thought it would, almost violently, like a hand pressing straight into the middle of your chest, because it is not just the image of your sister in a dress and your father walking her toward her future, it is the realisation of what this moment means, what it promises, and how far it feels from anything you could ever touch. 

You cannot stop the knot in your chest, that ugly twisting, the whisper that tells you this kind of fairytale is not meant for you. Not the dress, not the aisle, not the someone waiting at the end with eyes already wet because you exist, because loving you is enough to undo them. 

Not the story that makes entire rooms cry just from watching.

Your chest aches like it is hollow and your throat burns like you swallowed something sharp, and you hate yourself for it, for being so pathetic, for daring to feel grief in the middle of her joy, but it does not matter how much you tell yourself to stop, the sting behind your eyes rises anyway, hot and impatient and unforgiving in its timing.

And then Clark’s hands. They appear suddenly, folding around yours with such warmth and steadiness that it startles you, like you had forgotten you even had hands until he anchored them. His palms are firm, his fingers curling over yours with intention, as though he is tethering you, pulling you out of the spiral before you can vanish into it completely. 

You glance up at him, startled, and he is looking at you the way he always does, but sharper now, more piercing, that gentleness too much, that patience too unbearable when you are crumbling in silence beside him. 

His expression is open, impossibly kind, too soft for what this is supposed to be, and it only makes the ache worse because you know you do not deserve it.

You sniff hard, forcing your mouth into something that might pass as a smile, tight and fragile like cracked glass, nodding quickly as though you can tell him without words, I am fine, I am fine, do not make this worse, do not look at me like that. 

His thumb brushes against your knuckle once, slow and grounding, not insistent, just present, and it is enough, somehow, to keep your chest from splitting entirely open in the middle of the ceremony.

When you force your gaze back to the aisle, your sister is already halfway to the altar, her bouquet trembling in her hands the same way her lips tremble when she blinks too fast. 

And then she reaches him, her husband-to-be, standing there at the end of the aisle with his whole world written across his face, his expression undone in the most devastating way, his tears catching in the light, his mouth trembling open as if the sight of her is too much to contain. He is not composed, not stoic, not trying to hide how much he feels, and it cracks him wide open right in front of everyone.

Your dad takes her hand so carefully, almost reverently, and places it into his. The gesture is simple, tradition etched into every movement, but it lands inside you like a blow, the lump in your throat so sharp it forces you to swallow hard, your vision blurring just as the two hands meet, as her life folds into his. 

And all you can do is stand there, blinking against the burn, anchored by Clark’s grip and undone by everything else, watching your sister step into a story you are certain will never be yours.

The murmurs died down and then the officiant began, voice soft and steady, guiding them into the moment that was supposed to be sacred and contained and almost unbearably beautiful. You could feel the tension in the room stretching through you, every seat in the church suddenly pressing against your ribs as if the air itself were waiting. 

Your sister inhaled, her chest rising under the delicate fabric of her gown, her eyes locking on him, her hands trembling slightly even as they held onto his.

And then he spoke, his voice quiet at first, but every word carving through the church like it belonged there, like it could not be stopped. “I never thought I’d be standing here, marrying you, because I never thought anyone could make me feel like this, like I was home for the first time in my life, like everything else fell away when I looked at you.”

Your chest clenched immediately, instinctive and sharp, and your hand tightened around Clark’s without thinking, your knuckles whitening against his.

It was such a simple, human reaction, a tether to the world that didn’t feel like it was going to rip apart under the weight of this moment, because even though you knew it wasn’t about you, even though it was your sister’s day, hearing those words made everything inside you combust in ways you weren’t prepared to name.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark glance down at your hand, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes, a question, a warning, an acknowledgment, but you did not allow yourself to meet it. 

You had to keep your gaze forward, had to keep watching her, had to keep pretending that this distance, this air between you and the raw ache in your chest, could be managed. Your eyes stayed locked on your sister, on the way her lips parted in that tiny, unguarded smile that made everything else feel sharp and impossible.

Her husband’s words continued, each one carefully measured, filled with everything he had kept in his chest for years, and you felt the pulse of it, the way it settled deep under your skin, and you knew you were holding your breath, holding onto Clark because it was the only thing that made the ache bearable, the only thing that let you stand upright without collapsing entirely in front of all these people, because the world was collapsing inside your chest and this hand, warm and steady, was the only anchor you had.

You forced yourself to blink, to nod ever so slightly, just enough to convince the world you were present, just enough to convince yourself that you weren’t dissolving entirely, and even as you did, the words continued to land, quiet and devastating, a tide pulling at something you hadn’t wanted to admit was there, a part of you that had always wanted that kind of certainty, that kind of love, and yet you had never, and would never, have it. 

And still, the hand in yours squeezed just enough to say we’re here, we’re holding, we’re surviving, and for now, that was enough.

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, because suddenly the room felt too bright, the polished pews too shiny, the quiet sniffles too loud, and you were hyperaware of everyone’s eyes, even though they weren’t on you. You could feel Clark’s gaze lingering, steady but soft, like he was reading you without needing words, like he knew you were unraveling and he wasn’t going to let go.

Your sister’s voice wavered slightly as she replied, her vows trembling but full of that raw, unpolished honesty that made people lean in, made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit. And your hand squeezed Clark’s without thinking, your grip tightening as if holding onto him could somehow hold the world together.

You stole a glance at him from the corner of your eye, just a flicker, and he gave you that small, almost imperceptible nod, letting you know it was okay, that he was right there, that he had you. And then you had to look away, focus forward, because her words, beautiful, unguarded, full of that impossible hope, were searing right through you, and your chest felt too tight to breathe normally.

He spoke again, low but steady, recounting memories you knew only she could understand, and you felt that familiar ache flare up again, sharp and quick, because here she was, standing in the kind of love story you’d been convinced you’d never get to have, and yet you were tethered to it, through the hand in yours, through the warmth and calm of Clark’s presence.

The officiant’s voice cut in softly, directing them through the last pieces, and your sister’s hand slid into his completely, her fingers lacing through his, and for the briefest moment, your chest unclenched slightly, not because it was easy but because it was complete.

The moment was absolute, and while the world spun around you, the tightness in your stomach, the fluttering of your pulse, it was almost bearable because his hand was there, grounding you, reminding you that you were still tethered, still whole, still managing to exist in this impossible, perfect chaos.

And then, as they spoke their final words, promising themselves to each other, the whole room seemed to exhale, and your shoulders finally loosened just a fraction, your grip on Clark easing, but not letting go, because even in the midst of their story, even while your own chest ached, you realised that holding onto this small, solid connection was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing keeping you from tumbling entirely into the kind of longing you’d spent years burying.

After the wedding, the reception was chaos and glitter and flowers and everyone trying too hard to be polite while quietly evaluating every single detail as though the entire day depended on them, and you could feel the tension and excitement vibrating in the air like static electricity, your heels pinching at the wrong places, your dress slightly itchy in all the wrong ways, and Clark’s hand never leaving yours as you navigated the sea of relatives and distant acquaintances you mostly pretended to remember.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked, leaning close so his breath brushed your ear, calm and steady in a way that almost made you forget you were still about to combust from sheer social panic.

“I need water,” you muttered, dragging him toward the drinks table, your voice low enough so no one could hear, though somehow everyone probably did anyway, because you were you, and subtlety had never been your strong suit.

He handed you a glass, watching you with those ridiculous eyes that seemed far too focused, far too kind, and you took it like it was a lifeline. “Thanks,” you said, and immediately felt like an idiot for the dryness in your throat, because of course your voice had gone all shaky again.

“People are staring,” he said quietly, nodding toward the crowd that was definitely noticing the two of you, which only made your stomach twist further because yes, they were looking, and yes, it felt like everyone could read every thought and panic bubbling under your skin.

“I can feel them,” you hissed under your breath, glancing around, and then muttering, “They know, they all know, they can smell the lie on me, I can feel it in the air.”

Clark chuckled softly, a sound that made your chest tighten in an entirely different way, and he squeezed your hand. “They’re just looking,” he said, calm as anything, and you nearly rolled your eyes. “It’s a reception, not an interrogation.”

“Sure,” you muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm, “except everyone here is judging every breath I take, and I have to smile and nod like a normal human being while my eyeliner is sweating and my shoes are stabbing my feet.”

He leaned closer again, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing fine,” he said, quiet but firm, and you could feel the weight of his certainty like a grounding force, and it was almost enough to make you believe it for half a second before your cousin’s laughter nearby reminded you that you were still very much on display.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked suddenly, tilting his head toward the band, and you froze, because of course, yes, dancing. That was an excellent idea, entirely going to be a disaster. 

“I can’t dance,” you said immediately, panic rising in your chest, and Clark tilted his head, patient but amused, and you had to explain, because apparently that was necessary, “I mean, I literally cannot dance. I trip over flat surfaces, and if you think I’m going to sway gently and gracefully like some romantic movie character, you are dreaming. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Clark’s lips twitched, that little amused lift at the corner, but he didn’t say anything, just waited, which made you continue, spiraling faster, “And yes, I’ve thought about it, okay, I’ve tried to fake it in the privacy of my room, spinning around like a human windmill, but it never works. I always end up dizzy, tangled in my own arms, muttering nonsense, and frankly, it’s better for everyone if I just stay put, sway awkwardly in a corner, or pretend I’m just really into observing the décor. That’s the safest option.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, exhaling sharply. “So don’t ask me to dance. I cannot, I will not, and this is not negotiable. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m just nervous, but this is not nerves – ”

You hadn’t even finished your tirade about your catastrophic dancing skills when Clark’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the room, that faintly mischievous glint in them making your stomach sink. 

“Someone’s coming,” he murmured, just low enough that you could hear, and before you could ask who, your eyes went wide and you knew immediately. 

Your nosy aunts. The ones who could smell a lie from a mile away and whose sole purpose in life seemed to be monitoring everyone’s social behaviour with surgical precision.

You froze for a second, panic threatening to take over, and then your brain, working at full chaotic speed, fired off a plan. You set your glass down a little too firmly, grabbing Clark’s hand with a grip that was both desperate and decisive, and yanked him toward the centre of the dance floor. 

“Oh babe, come on, let’s dance!” you called out, loud enough for your aunts to hear, forcing a fake giggle that sounded far too shrill for comfort, and immediately cursed yourself internally because now you were fully committed and there was no turning back.

Clark’s eyebrows rose, but that familiar soft smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t protest. Instead, he slid his hand into yours and led you toward the first slow song of the evening, the band swelling in that way that made every bride, groom, and their unfortunate guests look like they were part of some cinematic moment you had no right to be in.

As soon as you were on the floor, you realized just how unprepared you were. You tried to sway gently like people in films did, but your knees went stiff, your feet refused to cooperate, and every attempt to move in sync with the music ended in what could only be described as flailing. You were convinced that if someone filmed this, it would be used as evidence against you in some future court of humiliation.

Clark, sensing your rising panic, didn’t let go. He kept his hand on your waist, guiding you with a patience that was infuriatingly perfect, murmuring, “Hey, it’s fine, just follow me, look at me, don’t think about anything else.” 

His voice was calm, a soft anchor in the storm of your nerves, and you tried to focus on it, though your limbs still insisted on moving like they had a vendetta against you.

You laughed nervously, half-groaning at your own lack of coordination, and he tilted his head, still patient, guiding your steps, “There, see? You’re doing fine, just trust me.”

“Fine?” you echoed, eyes wide as you nearly tripped over your own feet, “Fine is catastrophic, I am a danger to everyone on this floor.”

He chuckled, tugging you slightly closer so you wouldn’t fall, “No, you’re doing fine. Just don’t stop moving and don’t think, just follow my lead.”

And somehow, impossibly, it started working. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but enough that you weren’t dragging anyone into disaster. Your arms were still stiff, your steps awkward, and you were acutely aware of your aunts’ sharp eyes from the sidelines, but Clark’s presence grounded you. 

His hands were steady on your waist, guiding your turns, soft murmurs in your ear making you relax just enough to stop panicking, and every small movement you managed to pull off felt like a tiny victory.

You kept your voice loud enough for the nosy aunts to hear, “Oh babe, you’re amazing at this, I don’t know how I got so lucky!” forcing another fake giggle, and Clark laughed quietly, eyes glinting with amusement, holding you steady, making you feel like maybe, just maybe, this disastrous dance could somehow pass.

You stumbled slightly, foot catching his, and your breath hitched, but he didn’t let go. 

He adjusted your hold, murmuring, “It’s okay, you’re fine, really,” and somehow, despite every instinct screaming that you were about to collapse, you found a rhythm, messy and imperfect, but real, anchored by him, and for the first time since you’d set foot on the floor, you allowed yourself to forget the crowd, forget your aunts, and just follow.

You blinked up at him, breath still shaky, and whispered, “Are they gone?”

Clark’s lips curved into that maddeningly calm smile, and he shook his head just slightly. “They’re watching,” he murmured, low and steady. 

Your stomach lurched and you opened your mouth to say something, some panicked protest about public humiliation or the sheer absurdity of it all, but before a word could escape, his hand on your waist shifted, and he swayed you gently against him. Just a little, a teasing, impossibly smooth motion that made your chest tighten and your pulse spike in ways that were far too loud in your own ears.

The music then slowed, the band easing into a soft, lingering song that made the room shrink to just the two of you, the laughter and clinking glasses fading into the background. His other hand found yours, holding it lightly but with enough pressure to steady you, and you realized that even with a dozen eyes on you from somewhere out there, none of it mattered.

You wanted to protest, to pull away, but every instinct that normally screamed disaster in social situations was muffled under the sheer weight of how close he was, how careful and deliberate his touch was. 

Your cheek brushed against his shoulder when you turned slightly, and you caught the faint scent of him, clean and familiar, like this was home and you weren’t allowed to panic.

“Clark,” you whispered, voice tight, “this is… too close.”

He tilted his head, that little smirk curling the corner of his mouth, but didn’t let go, didn’t break the sway. “It’s fine,” he said, soft, almost tender. “Just follow me.”

And so you did, more because you had no choice than any kind of skill, letting him guide you, the gentle rhythm of his movements anchoring you to the moment. Your heart hammered, loud enough that you could feel it against his chest, and every so often your eyes flicked to the edge of the crowd, half-expecting to catch your aunts with smug expressions, but somehow you didn’t care.

The song stretched on, slow and sweet, and for a few moments you let yourself sink entirely into it, into him, into the absurdity of standing on a polished floor, swaying poorly to a song that somehow felt like it was written just for the two of you. Your fingers squeezed his hand reflexively, your grip tight, and when he murmured a quiet, “Relax,” it was enough to make your chest unclench just a little.

Then your eyes met his, and suddenly the rest of the room disappeared entirely. The soft glow of the chandeliers, the distant chatter and laughter, the clinking of glasses, none of it existed. 

Just him, just you, and the space between your faces shrinking impossibly fast. 

Your gaze flicked involuntarily, catching the curve of his lips, imagining the way they would feel against yours, and heat surged through you in a way that made your palms sweat even as they clung to his.

He held your gaze, steady and calm, but there was something in his eyes now, something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist and your breath hitch in ways you hadn’t expected. You had to fight not to tilt your head closer, not to close the distance that your body was already craving, because the tension was thick, palpable, and dizzying, pressing in from all sides.

Every sway, every tiny step, felt electric. The faint brush of his chest against yours, the way his thumb traced little circles on your hand, it all pulled you closer, made your heart hammer like it was trying to escape your ribs. 

You caught yourself staring again at his lips, daring not to breathe too loudly, because God, the thought of what would happen if you just leaned in, if you let it happen even for a heartbeat, made your pulse spike until you could barely think.

You weren’t sure if he noticed, or if he did and was just as tortured, but the way his eyes lingered on yours, the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, it was enough to make the world tilt dangerously, wonderfully, and terribly. 

You wanted to step back, to remind yourself of reason and the absurdity of being caught in the middle of a wedding reception, but your body refused, glued to him, and the moment stretched impossibly, deliciously long, suspended between what was allowed and what neither of you could stop wanting.

You both finally eased away from the polished floor, the music fading behind you as you sank into your chairs at the head table with the rest of your sister’s family, your dress still warm from the frantic movement and your pulse stubbornly racing. 

Clark’s hands found yours again on the table, folding over them the same way he had when he’d anchored you on the dance floor, and for a moment the noise around you; the laughter, the clinking of cutlery, the faint chatter of other guests blurred into a soft hum that didn’t reach you.

You glanced at him, another tight-lipped smile curling reluctantly at your own lips, the kind that said I’m surviving, barely, and he returned it with that soft, patient expression that made everything else fall away, like he was deliberately slowing the world just so you could breathe. 

Your fingers squeezed his in answer, tentative, a silent acknowledgment that somehow, despite the ridiculousness of all this, you weren’t completely alone in it.

The maid of honour wrapped up her speech, applause rippling through the hall, and you watched the bride smile, her eyes gleaming, her cheeks flushed, and you tried not to flinch at the way the happy chaos pressed against your chest, the reminder that this was her day, that you were here only as part of the backdrop, and still, with Clark there, warm and steady and impossibly close, it didn’t feel entirely like a stage you were forced onto.

He tilted his head toward you, soft enough that only you noticed, and murmured, “You okay?”

You blinked at him, trying to play it off, letting a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding slip out. “Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than usual, not entirely believable even to yourself, and gave him a tighter smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Clark just nodded, thumb brushing along your knuckles once, slow and grounding, and you realised you didn’t have to answer because he could read the tension anyway, and somehow that was enough to keep the world from collapsing around you for just a little longer.

The applause from the maid of honour’s speech was still settling when the microphone shifted to your father. He cleared his throat and began, voice steady and deliberate, carrying easily across the hall.

He started with your sister, telling stories that painted her in all the right lights, stories that made the crowd laugh, murmur, lean in, the kind that made your chest tighten because the pride and warmth in his voice was impossible to ignore. 

He spoke about her childhood, scraped knees she’d worn like badges, late nights full of whispered secrets, the stubborn streak that had got her into trouble more times than he could count, and the small victories that had shaped her into the person everyone now admired. 

He talked about the friends she’d chosen, the way she had grown, the moments she had fought for herself, and you felt each word pressing into your chest like a weight you weren’t ready to carry.

He slowed, careful with his pauses, choosing words that made you notice his glance wander around the room, until it finally rested on you. “And oh, our other daughter there,” he said, and the pause stretched long enough to make your stomach lurch, “she’s getting married too.”

Your heart stopped, panic tightening in your chest. Eyes turned, murmurs ran across the crowd, and your hands immediately found his, gripping, holding like it was the only lifeline in the room. Your pulse jumped, but he didn’t move.

His thumb traced circles across the back of your hand, soft, steady, and the warmth of him there stopped the world from tipping over entirely.

Your father’s voice continued, now directed at him, the stranger to your family until today, the one you’d been keeping at arm’s length but who now occupied the centre of everyone’s gaze. “I haven’t had the chance to meet you properly until today,” your dad said, a little hesitant, “but I can see she’s found someone who respects her, who cares for her in the ways that matter. You’ve already made an impression, and I am grateful for that. I am grateful that she has someone steady by her side, someone she can count on, someone I can trust to stand with her through life’s moments. Welcome to the family, Clark.”

He pressed closer, just a little, leaning down to brush his lips softly against your temple, and your chest both sank and seized. The intimacy of it, the weight of everyone’s attention, the fact that you were standing here pretending through every approving glance, pressed into you like fire. 

You clutched his hand tighter, the heat rising behind your eyes, and for the first time all night you let yourself notice how absurd it felt, how real it looked, and how much you hated the lie you were living even as your father’s words kept echoing in your ears.

The reception had settled into its usual rhythm by then, laughter bouncing off the walls, glasses clinking, people shifting in and out of conversation. You had been planted at your seat by your mum, who insisted on filming everything, and you were holding your drink like it was a lifeline, trying to blend into the chaos. She kept nudging the phone in front of your face. “Smile, darling, everyone will want to see this later,” she said brightly, like your life was a highlight reel. You groaned into your hand, muttering that no one would want to see your panicked, frozen expression, but she ignored you entirely, adjusting the camera so you could be seen in full, upright terror.

Clark had positioned himself beside your father, leaning casually against the chair back, one hand resting lightly on the table, his posture loose, amused, like he wasn’t a part of this social storm at all. Every so often, his gaze found you, that faint smile tugging at his lips, and you returned a glare sharp enough to send sparks, which he met with nothing but a calm shrug, and the weight in your chest tightened a little because somehow that look made you feel like the entire room had dissolved down to just the two of you.

Then the energy shifted. Your sister raised her bouquet high, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with nerves and joy, and called out, “Alright ladies, get ready!”

The circle of single women stiffened, bouncing on their toes, hands poised, whispering to one another, eyes flicking between each other and the flower held aloft.

Your mum leaned over, practically poking you in the side. “Go on, love, catch it, don’t be shy,” she said loudly enough for half the room to hear. You groaned, rolling your eyes, muttering that this wasn’t some desperate teenage ritual, but she ignored you completely, already filming every twitch of your expression.

Clark leaned closer, voice low and steady in your ear. “It’s just a flower,” he said, calm as anything, like the world wasn’t spinning a mile a minute around you. You shot him a glare sharp enough to sting, muttering that he clearly didn’t understand the stakes.

He just raised his hands innocently, giving a small shrug, and murmured, “Alright, I’ll stand here and make sure no one throws anything worse at you,” as if that made everything better.

Your sister swung the bouquet back, and the world slowed. You could hear the collective intake of breath from the circle of women, feel the tension stretching across the room like it had weight.

Everyone leaned forward, eyes wide, arms out, the air thick with anticipation. You froze in the middle of it, your mind screaming that you could move, that you should move, but your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot.

And then it happened. The bouquet sailed through the air, not to the side, not to someone else, but straight at you.

Time stretched impossibly as it arced toward your hands. You blinked, frozen, and then instinctively, fingers closing around it. Your chest hammered so violently you could feel it in your throat. 

Your mum was behind the camera, shrieking, “She’s got it! She’s got it!” and you could hear the chaos of laughter and cheers, the whooping and the shuffling of feet, but all of it was muffled, distant, because your brain was registering nothing but the bouquet and the weight of it in your hands.

Clark’s eyes found yours immediately. That same calm amusement lingered in them, soft but infuriating, like he knew exactly what was happening inside your head, and you glared at him, willing him to look away, but he just shrugged, tiny smile playing at his lips, as if he was silently saying, “Well, congratulations.” 

Your fingers tightened around the stems as if holding it harder would ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.

You forced a smile for your mum’s phone, the edges tight and trembling, because your mind was already spiraling, imagining the whispered comments, the eyes following you, the absurdity of standing there with the bouquet in your hands as if it had been meant for you all along. 

And Clark, still leaning slightly against your father, still calm and amused, gave you that look, the one soft, fond look that made your stomach twist, like he actually saw you in the middle of all this chaos, like none of it mattered except for you, and somehow, just for a second, it grounded you, even though your chest was still on fire, and your brain was still screaming that none of this was real.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The room had thinned out considerably by the time you even noticed, the bride and groom long gone in their shiny getaway car, and most of the guests either lingering with plates of leftover cake or helping stack chairs and sweep up confetti. You were still standing near the edge of the dance floor, staring down at the bouquet in your hands like it held all the answers to some impossible puzzle, your fingers curling around the stems, trying not to crush them.

Clark came up behind you quietly, his footsteps soft against the polished floor, and before you could even turn he was there, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

“You look like you’re solving the world’s problems with that thing,” he said gently, his voice low so no one else could hear, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You didn’t look up at first, just muttered, “I’m trying to figure out how this ended up in my hands instead of floating off into the abyss where it belongs.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and knelt slightly so he was level with you, tilting his head. “You’re meant to catch it,” he said, and for a moment the simple statement hung in the air, too quiet to be noticed by anyone else, but heavy enough that your chest tightened.

“I didn’t ask for it,” you whispered, and finally let your eyes meet his. There was that same calm, unshakable look in his gaze, the one that somehow made you feel safe even when your brain was still screaming at you that everything was wrong.

“You didn’t ask for a lot of things,” he said softly, fingers brushing against yours before he took the bouquet gently from your hands, holding it between the two of you. “But you got them anyway.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intimacy of it, the closeness of him, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too long. “Clark…”

He smiled, that faint, fond curl of lips that made you forget to breathe properly. “Hey. It’s just a bunch of flowers,” he said lightly, but there was a weight under it, a meaning he didn’t have to say aloud.

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping, shaky but genuine. “Yeah, just a bunch of flowers. And yet somehow it feels like… like more than that right now.”

He tilted his head, watching you carefully, patient and steady, like he could hold the world in place if he just focused hard enough. “It’s only what you let it be,” he said softly. “Or maybe… it’s only as big as you let it feel.”

You blinked at him, breath catching, because that sounded so simple and yet it made your chest ache all over again. He gave a small, knowing smile, and then, before you could even process it, he took your hand and said, “Come with me.”

“Now?” you asked, voice a little breathless, half from surprise and half from the lingering adrenaline of the wedding.

“Yes, now,” he said, patient, but there was a spark in his eyes, the kind that made it impossible to refuse him.

You let him lead you out of the hall, weaving past stacks of chairs and the last of the confetti-covered tables, until you reached a small path that curved up toward the back of the property. You didn’t even notice how steep the climb was, just followed him because he was right there, and something in the quiet insistence of him made your legs move without protest.

Eventually he stopped, and you realised he had found a bench tucked just off the path, hidden slightly by a row of tall bushes. You hadn’t even noticed it from the reception side. He gestured toward it, and you sank onto it reluctantly, still holding his hand, still trying not to let the tension in your shoulders betray how much your heart was hammering.

The view hit you before you could even speak. The city stretched out below, lights flickering in colours that seemed impossible, reflected in the water of the river that cut through the middle. The night air was cool, but not cold, and the silence around you was so complete it pressed against your eardrums. Somewhere far below, a car horn sounded, faint, distant, reminding you that the world still existed beyond this quiet bubble.

Clark settled beside you, just close enough that your arms brushed. You didn’t move, didn’t need to. You both sat there for a long moment, simply watching the city, letting the weight of it all sink in. Finally, he broke the silence, voice quiet, careful, as though speaking too loud would shatter the calm.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

You nodded, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him yet. “Yeah,” you whispered, letting your gaze drift to the city lights instead.

Another long pause, then he let out a soft chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re overthinking again,” he said.

“I’m not,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into a small, guilty smile.

He laughed again, soft and easy, and it was contagious. You felt the tension in your chest loosen just a little.

“You go first,” he said suddenly, nudging you gently with his shoulder, “say what’s on your mind.”

You took a deep breath, letting your fingers tighten around his. For a long moment you just stared down at your hands, gathering courage, before finally letting your voice spill out, soft, sincere, almost trembling.

“I… I just… I don’t even know where to start,” you said, blinking rapidly as you swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m so grateful for you. For everything. For just… being here, for all of it. Even when it’s ridiculous or hard or completely impossible, you somehow make it… easier. And I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane, but I’m… I’m just really grateful.”

Clark’s hand squeezed yours, a quiet anchor. He didn’t interrupt, just let you talk, and that made it easier to keep going. “I-I don’t say it enough,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “but I notice. All the little things. And I hate that I can’t tell you all the time without it being a mess, but… thank you, Clark.”

He shook his head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fingertip. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, almost dismissively, but the warmth in his eyes told you he meant it differently. “You don’t have to overthink it. You don’t have to do anything but be you.”

There was a pause, heavy in the quiet night. Then his voice cut in again, tentative, careful. “So… what happens now?”

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift. “What do you mean?” you asked, voice tight, unsure.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and there was that faint tilt of his head that always made your chest clench. “I mean, uh, after tonight? After all of this? What happens to us?”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your ears. The city stretched out below, all lights and colour, but somehow it felt smaller, impossibly intimate, like it was just you two up here, suspended. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your hands tightening around his, “I guess… we just keep going. We just… exist, together or apart or somewhere in between. I don’t know how it works.”

Clark’s thumb brushed along the back of your hand, slow and steady. “That doesn’t feel like an answer,” he said, quiet, almost hurt in the gentlest way. “I mean… I know tonight isn’t real. I know it’s all a game, a show. But for me… I don’t want to just stop at tonight.”

He leaned a little closer, still holding your hand, and a suggestion slipped out before you could even stop him. “We could… just keep doing this. Just us. See where it goes.”

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard, and your fingers twitched in his. “Wait. What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Clark’s expression shifted for a fraction of a second, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then he shook his head, as if deciding better of it. “Oh, never mind,” he said lightly, brushing it off too quickly, though you caught the hesitation in his eyes.

You frowned at him, still holding onto his hand. “Never mind?” you echoed, tone sharper than intended, curiosity and frustration mingling. “You can’t just say that and leave it there.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also uncertainty. “It sounded silly, maybe. I just… I don’t know how to explain it right now.”

“Well, try!” you snapped gently, exasperated, but not angry, just flustered, because you didn’t like the way his words had made your heart flip over. “I’m confused enough already, you don’t have to disappear halfway through the explanation.”

Clark blinked at you, that calm, unreadable look still plastered on his face, and for a moment you thought he might actually get flustered, which made your chest tighten even more. “I didn’t disappear,” he said finally, voice soft, careful, but there was a teasing edge there that made you grit your teeth. “I just tried to not make it more awkward than it already is.”

You huffed, glaring at him, though there was no real heat in it, just that mix of exasperation and something tighter, something that always crawled up your spine when he looked at you like that. “Awkward? Clark, you’re the one who throws ideas at me like we’re already a real thing when we’re standing on a hilltop pretending at a wedding. I’m the one who’s supposed to know how to react.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching, eyes scanning yours like he was trying to measure exactly how much of your frustration was real and how much was performative. “And what do you want me to do? Wait until you figure it out?” His voice was calm, but you could hear the faint edge of something impatient under it.

“I don’t know! Yes! I don’t know anything!” you shot back, hands tightening slightly in his. “You just say things like ‘oh, we could try’ and then vanish before I can even figure out if you mean it or if you’re just messing with me.”

He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that made your ears warm and your chest ache in all the wrong ways, and shook his head. “I’m not messing with you,” he said, almost insistently. “I mean it, I just… didn’t know how to put it into words without sounding like a fool.”

“Well, congratulations,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and trying not to let your voice shake, “you sound like a fool anyway.”

Clark’s smile softened, those familiar, gentle eyes locking on yours in a way that made your heart do the thing where it lurches and forgets rhythm. “Yeah, probably,” he admitted quietly, and then leaned just slightly closer, fingers brushing yours again, “but at least it’s honest.”

You blinked, letting out a shaky breath, and muttered, “I can’t believe we’re standing here, pretending I have a boyfriend, pretending I’m engaged. All this… this whole fake thing I made up, it’s ridiculous. I should just tell them the truth, wipe the slate clean and admit it’s all a lie.”

Clark’s fingers brushed lightly against yours again, calm and grounding. “It’s not a lie if it makes things easier for you,” he said softly. “And maybe… maybe it’s not just for them. Maybe it’s for us, in a way, even if it’s messy.”

You let out a laugh that was too choked to be pure, and then it turned into a few tears breaking through. You sniffled, trying to push them back, but the laughter and crying mixed and you could feel your shoulders shaking. Clark immediately froze. “Oh no I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You hiccupped a little laugh through the tears. “You’re ruining my make-up,” you said, half-teasing, half-smiling. Clark’s lips twitched into a grin. “Good,” he said softly. “Tears over make-up seem… fair.” You laughed again, a little louder this time, the tension of the day loosening in your chest.

For a long moment, you both just stopped, his hands still cradling your face, and you looked up at him, finding yourself smiling even through the remnants of tears. He smiled down at you, quiet and gentle, and for a second it was just the two of you.

“How come we never talk like this at work?” you asked softly, tilting your head. “I mean, really talk. Like we’re… I don’t know, human.”

Clark chuckled quietly. “I guess we never made the time,” he said, voice low. “Or maybe we were too focused on all the chaos and deadlines and pretending everything was normal.”

You shook your head, smirking through the lingering tears. “We should have hung out sooner. Like, seriously, months ago, maybe even last year.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, still holding your hands. “We should have. Maybe we’d have avoided some… complications.”

You laughed softly, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Complications? Oh, you mean like fake weddings and ruined make-up?”

Clark laughed, warm and quiet. “Exactly like that. But maybe it’s better this way. Because now… now we actually get to talk. And not just about work, not just about deadlines.”

You smiled, letting the warmth of the night settle around you, watching the city lights glitter below, thinking that maybe, just maybe, some things had a way of working out even if they took their sweet time. “Yeah,” you said, soft. “We should have met earlier.”

“Next time,” Clark said, leaning his forehead lightly against yours, “we won’t wait.”

Clark’s forehead stayed lightly against yours for a few seconds, warm and steady, and you could feel the faint rise and fall of his breath. When he pulled back just enough to look at you, the city lights framed his face like it was its own little stage, his eyes soft, almost glimmering, like he was about to admit something daring but didn’t need words. “You know,” he said, quiet, hesitant, like he was testing the waters, “I like your eyes.”

You blinked, caught off guard, trying to process if he was serious or just teasing. “What? You want to write a poem about it?”

He shrugged, a little awkward, muttering under his breath, “Maybe I did…”

You frowned, squinting at him. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but the corner of his mouth twitched in that infuriating way that told you he was definitely hiding a grin. “Stop teasing me.”

You shook your head, a mix of disbelief and amusement twisting your lips into a crooked smile. “I’m not teasing you. Just saying, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Clark’s hands stayed on your face, warm and steady, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. He nodded, soft and patient, his smile unwavering, and it made your chest tighten in a way that was dangerous and familiar all at once. 

You let out a little laugh, the sound soft, like you were trying to ground yourself. “Tonight has been… insane. Fake everything. Fake engagement, fake family impressions, fake dancing…”

Your words barely left your mouth before a voice cut sharply from behind, heavy with disbelief. 

“Fake?”

You and Clark immediately turned, your heads snapping toward the sound, and your stomach flipped like someone had punched it. Your eyes locked on the figure standing just a few metres away, and your breath hitched.

Jake. 

Your ex.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Well, well, well,” Jake said, smirking as he took a step forward, hands shoved casually into his pockets. “Look at this. Didn’t think I’d actually see you playing house. And with him, of all people.” 

His eyes flicked to Clark, lingering far too long, sharp and mocking, and then back to you. “Thought you were smarter than this.”

You froze, gripping Clark’s hands a little tighter, trying to ignore the heat rising in your chest, the way your stomach twisted. He leaned against the doorway, that grin still plastered on like he’d rehearsed this, like he lived for this kind of discomfort.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Jake continued, voice low but cutting, “making everyone think your life was perfect when really…well, we all know how that ends, don’t we?” He laughed, short and cruel, and it made your teeth clench.

“Fuck off, Jake,” you spat, voice sharp and low, but trembling anyway because, of course, he always knew exactly how to get under your skin. Your hands tightened around Clark’s without even thinking, knuckles going white, but he didn’t say a word, just stayed there, letting you handle this.

Jake’s grin widened, sharp and smug, like he was feeding on your reaction. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said, voice mocking, slow, dragging the words out. “You always get so serious. It’s hilarious. Look at you, all fire and fury, still pretending you’ve got it together.” He leaned slightly closer, too close, smirk still in place, eyes glinting like he was daring you to do more than yell.

“You’ve really done well for yourself, haven’t you?” he continued, like he hadn’t just crossed every line. “New boyfriend, fancy clothes, smiling like nothing ever went wrong. It must be exhausting keeping up the act, no?”

Your jaw tightened and your teeth ground together. “You’re a complete asshole, you know that?” you snapped, voice rising now despite yourself, heat crawling up your neck. “Honestly, how do you live with yourself?”

Jake chuckled, low and cruel, eyes flicking to Clark like he was testing boundaries. “Living? Nah, I manage just fine. But you, sweetheart, you’re still as predictable as ever. All fire and fury, exactly how I remember.”

You took a step toward him, chest heaving, ready to launch into a tirade, but Clark’s hand on yours was firm, grounding, stopping you from lunging. His silence was infuriating in its own way, but somehow it made you feel a little safer, like a line was being held even as Jake tried to push everything over it.

Jake’s smirk didn’t waver. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that,” he said, leaning back slightly but still far too smug for anyone’s comfort. “It suits you, makes this little performance of yours even more entertaining.”

Clark finally stepped forward, one hand half-raised, calm but firm. “Jake, I think you should just leave us alone,” he said, voice polite, but carrying a weight that made you hope it would stick.

Jake tilted his head, the smirk never leaving his face, like he was genuinely amused. “Leave?” he echoed, voice slow, teasing. “Why would I leave when I basically own this place? I mean, come on, this is entertaining.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “You’re an absolute nightmare,” you snapped, voice sharp and low, trying not to let anyone else hear the edge. “Just go, now.”

He laughed, short and cruel, before his eyes flicked between you and Clark. “Yeah, I will, eventually,” he said, smiling at you first like you were part of the joke, and then at Clark, sharp and calculating. “But first, let’s set the record straight. I’m the boyfriend, right? Six years.”

You cut him off immediately, voice rising, disbelief cracking through it. “Ex, Jake. I said ex.”

He shrugged, still grinning, like it didn’t matter at all. “Ex, sure, whatever you want to call it. Doesn’t change the fact that I knew, you know, everything you’ve been doing. All these little acts, all this performance. Must be hilarious to see you squirm while everyone believes it. Imagine if your family found out. Imagine the embarrassment, and the sheer horror of it all.”

Clark’s hand tightened on yours slightly, and he spoke, calm but firm, voice low. “It’s not fake. None of this, me, us, it isn’t–”

Jake cut him off with a sharp laugh, leaning just slightly closer, eyes glinting. “No need to deny anything. I can see it all perfectly well. The handholding, the looks, the smile you try to hide. Don’t bother. It’s all screaming ‘performance’. Don’t tell me otherwise.”

Jake’s smirk didn’t falter, almost like he was savoring the moment. “And imagine what would happen if your family actually found out,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “The truth. That everything you’ve been showing them, all those smiles, the ‘perfect’ life, it’s all been made up. Just think about the fallout. The shock. The shame.”

You couldn’t stop it anymore. “You don’t get to do that!” you shouted, voice raw, catching on the edge of tears, and before you could even think, they were sliding down your cheeks, burning and warm.

“You have no idea what you’ve done! How much you’ve messed with everything; my life, this night, everything, and you just stand there smiling like it’s funny!”

Jake’s grin didn’t falter, that infuriating, smug smile, like he was tasting victory.

“You think this is a joke?” you yelled, finger shaking, pointing straight at him, trying to puncture the smugness, trying to make him feel a fraction of what you were feeling. “You think it’s funny to ruin everything for me, for everyone, just to make yourself feel clever?”

He leaned forward, closer, eyes glinting, like he wanted to push whatever line you had left.

Clark didn’t even hesitate. His hands were on your shoulders before you knew it,  pressing you slightly behind him like a shield, his height and presence immediately asserting itself over the small, smug figure in front of him. 

His eyes didn’t leave Jake’s for a second, and when he spoke, his voice was low, calm, but it carried a weight that made it impossible to ignore. “Enough,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. 

“You have no right to come in here and try to tear her apart, not tonight, not ever. She doesn’t need your approval, your judgement, or your interference. You step away, or I will make sure you regret it.”

Jake’s grin faltered, just slightly, the sharp amusement in his eyes dimming under Clark’s quiet intensity. Clark’s fingers tightened slightly on your shoulders, just enough that you felt grounded and safe, and he didn’t let go.

“Do you understand me?” he asked, voice steady but hard, and the cold edge was unmistakable now.

You pressed closer to him, chest still racing, as Jake opened his mouth, but Clark didn’t give him the chance. “Go on,” Clark said, more softly now, not breaking eye contact, “get out. Leave, because she’s not yours, she’s never been yours, and you’re not going to ruin her night or her life.”

Jake let out a sharp huff, the sound more like a sneer than actual exasperation, and his eyes flicked to Clark with a mocking tilt. “Oh, I see,” he said, low and venomous, “this is your little hero routine, isn’t it? Protecting her like some knight in shining armour.”

Your stomach twisted as his gaze shifted back to you, and then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping so only you could hear. “Enjoy tonight,” he said, “because next time, everyone’s going to know. Every little thing, all of it. They’re going to see exactly what you’ve been hiding.”

Your eyes went wide, your pulse spiking, and you could feel your hands clench involuntarily. Clark’s fingers stayed firm on your shoulders, grounding you, and you could feel the tension radiating off him as he held his stare on Jake, unblinking.

Jake straightened back up, smirk curling again, and with one last glance that promised chaos in the future, he turned and walked away, leaving a cold emptiness in his wake, the echo of his threat lingering between you and Clark.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

After everything, after Jake had stormed off and the echoes of his voice were still crawling in your head, you ended up in the hotel room they’d set aside for the wedding chaos, your dress wrinkled and soaked with your own tears, your chest heaving like it might split open.

Clark didn’t even hesitate, he just came close and wrapped his arms around you and you collapsed into him, face pressed to his chest, shoulders shaking, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch at the wet, didn’t even say a word, he just let you cry, let the sobs spill out like they had been piling up for years and years and finally had somewhere safe to go.

You thought about Jake while you cried, about every year he’d spent making your life a calculation, a trap, how he had smoothed himself into every corner of your world like he belonged there and somehow you’d let him, and the way he had whispered that smug little warning tonight, the way he’d claimed he knew, how he had smiled when you got angry and scared, like it was a game he’d already won.

And it wasn’t just tonight, it was everything he’d taken from you, every little piece of confidence, every friend he’d pushed away, every time you second-guessed yourself because of him, and it all hit at once and you let yourself fall apart into Clark’s chest because he was real, and right, and steady, and you could breathe, barely, but you could.

He rubbed your back slowly and patiently, thumb brushing your shoulder like he knew where the knots were without asking, and you whispered, almost strangled, “He ruined everything…”

“Not tonight,” Clark said, low and soft, voice shaking slightly like he was holding it together for both of you, and it was like a lifeline, because suddenly your brain could stop spinning, your chest could stop splintering, because right here, right now, you were safe, and he was keeping it that way.

You let the tears keep coming anyway, because there was still so much to get out, so much poison to wash off, and Clark just stayed there, holding you, steadying you, letting you fall apart and somehow making it okay, somehow making it feel like maybe, for the first time in forever, you could actually breathe without looking over your shoulder.

You then hiccuped into his chest, shaking like you were made of glass, and for a second it felt like the panic might swallow you whole, the tightness in your lungs clawing its way up and you couldn’t even think straight, couldn’t even make the words come out right. 

Clark’s arms didn’t tighten more as he just held you, and somehow that made it just a little less sharp, the edges of your panic softening enough that you could breathe.

“Why are you so afraid to tell them the truth?” he asked gently, fingers brushing through your hair like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world to care about you, like he didn’t even know how much it should be shocking, like it was just…obvious.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and it was all panic, all shame and adrenaline, all the weight of your life pressing down on you at once. “Because… because I feel like I’m… I’m always the last one,” you started, voice trembling, “the last one to graduate, the last one to do anything right, like I’m just… I don’t know… a footnote in everyone else’s story. Like I have to prove that I even matter at all, and if I just—if I just live my life, they’ll forget I’m here.” 

You choked on the last words, eyes stinging, chest tight, and you didn’t even try to make it sound neat, didn’t even try to hide the spiral of shame and fear and exhaustion.

Clark’s hands stayed over yours, warm and steady, and he didn’t try to talk over you, didn’t try to smooth it out or say some perfect line that would erase it. Instead, his voice was low and patient, careful, like he was leaning into the edges of your panic without trying to sweep them away. 

“I get it,” he said softly, eyes locked on yours. “I get how it feels to be last, to feel like you have to scream to be noticed, to prove you exist in the spaces everyone else fills. And I don’t… I don’t want to tell you it’s not true, because I know it feels real, but I need you to hear this. You’re not invisible. You’re not a footnote. You matter, even when it feels like the world is forgetting.”

Clark’s thumb brushed along your cheek, carefully, and then he pulled a clean handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed gently at the streaks of tears. “See,” he said after a moment, voice soft but teasing, “now you’re just a little bit glamorous. Weddings bring out the inner celebrity, apparently. You’ve got the dramatic tears down perfectly.”

You blinked at him, caught between wanting to scowl and laughing, and then the corners of your mouth cracked as a snort escaped. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction, your laugh shaky but genuine.

Clark’s grin widened, soft and warm, eyes twinkling as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I know,” he said lightly, nudging your shoulder gently with his. “I’ve been practicing. Someone’s got to keep you laughing when the world decides to suck, right?”

You shook your head, still smiling despite yourself, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the panic seemed to retreat just a little, leaving you with that weird mixture of relief and warmth that only he could manage.

You wiped at the last remnants of tears, sniffling, and Clark just let you do it, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek now and then, tracing gentle circles like he was memorising you.

“You know,” he said, voice quiet but teasing, “it’s weird, isn’t it? That we’ve been at the same office for three years, and I basically only know you from emails, meetings, and the weather report.”

You blinked at him, smirking through the lingering dampness on your cheeks. “Yeah, hilarious. Three years of water-cooler nods and barely a sentence beyond deadlines and project updates, and now we’re… here. This.” You gestured vaguely at the room, at yourselves, the messy, loud, complicated aftermath of the wedding.

Clark chuckled, eyes softening as he leaned in just slightly, holding your face gently between his hands, fingers against your jawline. “I know. And to think our first real conversation, not as colleagues obviously, started with me awkwardly holding your hand in a fake engagement at your sister’s wedding. Three years in the making, and somehow… that’s how I got to know you.”

You laughed, small and incredulous, shaking your head. “It’s absurd. Absolutely absurd.”

He smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yeah, and also kind of perfect, in a weird way. We basically spent three years in parallel universes at work, and then one day, we get a whole lifetime crammed into a single afternoon.”

The smirk lingered on his face, but his eyes softened, and you could feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air between you had changed temperature. He held your gaze, patient, watching, and it wasn’t teasing anymore.

“You know,” he began, almost hesitant, “I’ve noticed things about you. Little things, the way you frown when you’re concentrating, the way you laugh when you’re trying not to, the way your eyes…they sort of do this thing when you’re trying not to feel something, and I’ve been noticing for years without saying anything, just…keeping it to myself.”

You blinked, heart thudding, because he was looking at you like he’d seen right through all of it, all the masks and the facades, and somehow it felt terrifying and safe at the same time.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make it weird, or mess things up, or… I don’t know. But after today, I think it’s ridiculous to wait. You’re, uh, er, you’re impossible to ignore. And I mean that in the best way, ha.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words refused to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, all background noise and chaos fading until it was just the two of you, and you could feel the weight of everything unspoken pressing against your ribs.

He shifted slightly closer, hands still holding your face, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, and you caught yourself leaning in, just slightly, drawn in by the intensity in his gaze. “I don’t expect anything,” he added quickly, as if reading your mind. “I just… wanted you to know what I’ve been thinking, what I’ve been feeling, because it’s been there a long time, and I can’t not say it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing, and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, trying to process, trying to find words that didn’t exist, feeling like the entire universe had contracted to this one, impossible, heart-stopping truth.

You blinked again, trying to make sense of it, your chest tightening so much it felt like you couldn’t breathe, and then he laughed softly.

“I know,” he said, smirking lightly now, “this is probably a lot. And you’re probably thinking, wow, three years of barely talking about anything besides deadlines and the weather, and now he’s telling me he’s been watching me the whole time. Ridiculous, right?”

You let out a strangled laugh, more from shock than anything else, and your hands instinctively found his, gripping tightly like an anchor. “Ridiculous doesn’t even cover it,” you muttered, voice trembling, but a little laugh escaped anyway, shaky but real.

He tilted his head, that familiar mix of amusement and gentleness in his expression. “Yeah, but also… true. I mean it. You’re remarkable, even when you don’t realise it. And not in some generic, office-comment kind of way. I mean you, exactly as you are, with everything you try to hide or shove down or pretend isn’t there. That’s the part I can’t ignore.”

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck, and for a moment all the panic and the guilt from earlier faded just a little, replaced by this dizzying, nerve-shredding awareness that he’d been noticing, paying attention, and now he wasn’t looking away.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “Clark…”

He shook his head gently, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Don’t say anything yet. Just… let me finish,” he murmured. “I wanted you to know because you deserve to hear it. And because I… I’ve been stupid keeping it to myself.”

You blinked, heart hammering so fast it was almost painful, trying to find words but your throat had gone completely dry. “Clark…” you breathed, voice trembling, barely a whisper.

He gave a tiny, almost shy smile, still holding your face gently. “I know,” he said softly. “I just needed you to hear it. No expectations, no pressure, just… me being honest.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse spiking, and somehow the words tumbled out anyway. “It’s… it’s a lot,” you admitted, voice catching. “After today, after everything… I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Then don’t do anything,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer. “Just… let it sit. Let it feel like it should feel. Nothing else matters right now.”

Your chest tightened as your eyes met, and then his gaze drifted lower for a heartbeat, to your lips, before flicking back up to your eyes. You could feel it too, the pull, the tension stretching between you so thin it hurt, that dangerous, delicious kind of tightness.

You licked your lips without thinking, suddenly aware of how close he was, aware of the heat of him, the warmth in his hands, the way he smelled like everything safe and wrong at the same time. “Clark…” you whispered again, breath shaky.

He didn’t answer, just leaned a little closer, and your lips almost touched, that teasing, electric moment where everything else dropped away, and then, finally, you couldn’t hold back. You closed the gap, pressing into him, hands clutching at his jacket as his lips met yours, soft and tentative at first, testing, tasting, and then urgent, all the frustration, the panic, the years of unspoken thoughts spilling into that desperate, messy, perfect kiss.

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, heart racing, chest pressed against his, and he deepened the kiss, hands sliding from your face down to your waist, holding you close, grounding you, and still the world outside ceased to exist, nothing but the heat, the movement, and the impossible feeling of finally, finally being noticed completely.

Your hands traced the lines of his back, memorising the feel of him through his suit, fingers threading through the fabric, tugging him just slightly closer, trying to absorb him like he could somehow fill all the empty spaces you’d been carrying. He moved with you, matching your grip, one hand cupping your face while the other stayed firm on your waist, and the friction of his palms against your body sent sparks of heat crawling along your skin.

Every small shift of him was enough to make your knees weak, every brush of his thumb across your cheek or along your jaw leaving you dizzy, your chest tight and fluttering all at once. Your lips moved against his, following the rhythm he set, slow and questioning at first, then more insistent, more certain, like he was finally allowing himself to take what he’d been feeling silently for so long.

Even the way he held you; the tilt of his head, the small press of his body into yours made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

Your fingers wandered slightly to the lapel of his jacket, gripping the fabric, while his hands traced small, careful patterns over your sides, over your lower back, keeping you tethered even as everything else in the room fell away, leaving only the heat of him, the soft press of lips, and the impossible, intoxicating certainty that for once, you were being seen fully, completely, undeniably.

The kiss pulled back just slightly, just enough for you to breathe, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in sync, and your hands lingered on his chest, palms splayed, memorising the feel of him, while his thumb brushed gently over your knuckle as if to say, silently, I’ve got you. 

You pressed against him, hands tangling in his hair, gripping like you might never let go, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, and he moaned softly into your mouth, sliding his hands lower, fingers tracing the curve of your back, down to the edge of your dress, making your breath hitch in a way that felt like it had been waiting for this forever.

Your lips moved desperately against his, each kiss sharp and needy, and the warmth of him pressed into you made your knees weak, made the air around you feel thick, almost impossible to breathe, and yet you didn’t want to pull away.

His hands didn’t stop, roaming carefully but with intent, teasing the sides of you through fabric, tracing shapes that made your chest ache and your stomach twist.

Every brush of his fingers made your body tighten, made you shiver against him, and when you dared to move your hands down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt, it was like discovering a part of yourself you’d been holding back without even knowing it.

“Gosh,” he murmured against your lips, voice low, rough, and it made your pulse spike, “you’re insane.”

“Maybe,” you gasped, your words barely coherent, “but I need you, Clark.”

He groaned, a sound that went straight through your bones, and shifted slightly so your body pressed fully against his, his lips ghosting down your jaw, your neck, every touch leaving a spark that you couldn’t contain. Your hands roamed with reckless abandon, clutching him, marking him like he was yours in that moment.

And then his voice, low and rough, broke through the haze. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” It wasn’t a demand, it wasn’t a test, it was just Clark, steady even with his mouth still brushing your skin, his breath hot and his body trembling against yours, but waiting.

You shook your head too fast, desperate, your words spilling out almost in a rush. “Don’t stop, please, Clark, I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all he needed. His hands slid lower, palms spanning the back of your thighs, and with a firm, careful grip he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, the fabric of your dress riding higher as he pressed you gently against the wall.

You gasped, fingers tugging at his hair, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound you made, one hand cupping your jaw to steady you while the other held you secure like you weighed nothing.

The heat of him pressed between your legs through layers of fabric, enough to make you whine into his mouth, and he groaned in response, moving his hips just slightly, a tease, a warning, and it sent fire shooting straight through you.

“You feel unreal,” he muttered, his forehead dropping to yours, his voice breaking, like he was losing control but still clinging to it for you.

Your nails scraped down his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, and you managed a broken laugh, shaky and overwhelmed. “You’re overdressed,” you whispered, and he chuckled, soft and breathless, but he didn’t waste time, tugging at his jacket, his tie, letting them fall somewhere you didn’t care about because his mouth was on you again, kissing you like he needed you to breathe.

And then his hand slid between your thighs, gentle first, just a palm pressed over you through the fabric, a test, a question. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, and whispered, “Can I?”

“Yes,” you gasped, already trembling, already arching toward him. “Yes, Clark, please.”

He groaned again, softer this time, as though he was breaking apart, and pushed the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your bare skin, trailing up slowly, deliberately, until his hand found you, and the sound you made was muffled only because his mouth was on yours again.

The world narrowed to that as his hands, his lips, the way he murmured your name like it was holy, like it was everything, grounding you even as your body burned and your mind screamed that this was too much, too fast and real, and yet you wanted more, more, more.

His hands were everywhere now, sliding up and down your sides, brushing over skin that burned under his touch, and you pressed into him harder, your lips parting as you gasped against his mouth. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look down at you, and his voice was low, rough with need. “I-I don’t have protection.”

You froze for a second, chest heaving, and then a laugh tumbled out of you, breathless and shaky. “I don’t care,” you whispered, eyes dark and wild. “I’ll take the risk.”

Clark’s lips twitched, almost a grin, but his eyes stayed soft, searching yours, and he murmured, “Then I’ll take it too.” His hands tightened on your waist, and the way he looked at you made the world outside the hotel room disappear completely.

You leaned up, pressing your forehead to his, panting, and kissed him again, slower this time, tasting him, memorizing him, letting the heat between you stretch and thrum like a live wire. His hands moved carefully, but firm, keeping you grounded, holding you like you might float away otherwise.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him down to your mouth, and he groaned into the kiss, tilting his head so he could press his body fully against yours. Every movement, every brush of his skin over yours, was deliberate, making you shiver and whine softly into him, needing, needing him like it was urgent and necessary.

He pressed his forehead against yours again, voice ragged, whispering, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you breathed, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes wild with lust and something that felt dangerously like trust. “Clark, I’m sure. Fuck, don’t stop.”

He groaned softly, letting his hands travel lower, over your thighs, over every curve, gripping you tight, and you responded, wrapping your legs around him instinctively. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing, sucking just enough to make your knees weaken, and you gripped his shoulders, fingers digging in as if holding him tighter would make it better, make it last longer, make it real.

“You’re insane,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick, shaking with the same fire you felt, and you laughed breathlessly, hitting his chest, “I know, and I don’t care.”

He smiled against you, teeth brushing your jaw, eyes dark and focused. “Good, because neither do I.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

After everything, after the fire of it, after the chaos of skin and breath and whispered names, you finally settled. You laid your head against his bare chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, each pulse a reminder that he was real, that he was here, and that somehow, after all the ridiculousness of the day, you were finally allowed this moment. 

His arm circled you, pulling you closer until you could feel every curve of his body, every line, every warmth, and it was blissful in a way that made you think maybe the world outside could wait for a while.

You lifted your gaze to look at him, hair splayed over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, and he smiled down at you, soft, gentle, eyes crinkling the way they always did when he found something worth seeing. “You’re ridiculously cute like this,” he murmured, voice low and husky, and you laughed softly, just a whisper against his skin.

“You know,” you said, fingers tracing idly along the ridges of his chest, still feeling the heat from him and from the memory of everything you’d just done, “I think I could get used to this. Just lying here, doing nothing except…this.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and pressed his lips to the top of your head. “I could too,” he admitted, thumb brushing over your hair, “I could get used to hearing your heartbeat against me, your soft little laughs, the way you look at me like you’re trying to memorize me.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching, and you murmured, “I’ve never felt… I don’t know… like I belong somewhere. But with you, it feels…like maybe I do.”

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face, catching every tiny expression, every flicker of emotion, and whispered, “You belong with me. Always.”

You could feel the weight of it, the sincerity, the quiet kind of gravity in his words, and you let yourself relax further, pressing closer. “You’re insane,” you said softly, laughter still trembling in your voice, “and maybe a little ridiculous, but I like it. I like you, Clark Kent.”

He grinned, brushing his nose against yours, playful now but tender, “And I like you too, endlessly, like this is how it should have always been, if only the universe had let us.”

Silence fell then, but it wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t tense. It was soft and warm, filled with the sound of your breaths mingling, the occasional chuckle, and the quiet thrum of Clark’s heartbeat beneath your ear. 

You traced lazy circles on his chest, and he murmured little things back, confessions about silly things he loved about you, the way your hair curled when it fell into your eyes, how your laugh got stuck halfway through your throat sometimes, how your hands always seemed to find his even when you didn’t mean them to.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, you let yourself breathe fully, just be there, tangled in him, the night quiet around you except for the soft rustle of sheets and the warmth that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with him.

“You know,” Clark said finally, voice soft, teasing, “if we’d actually talked like this at work for the past three years, we’d be way ahead of everyone else. We’d be unstoppable.”

You laughed, resting your cheek against him, “Yeah, it’s kind of hilarious, isn’t it? Three years of deadlines and weather small talk, and one day later, we’re here, all finally caught up at once.”

He kissed your temple lightly, hands still around you, and whispered, “Better late than never. Besides, I like how it all happened. The timing is, I don’t know, perfect?”

“Yeah,” you smiled into him, letting your fingers weave into his hair, and whispered, “Perfect in a completely ridiculous way.”

Clark laughed softly, and you both stayed there, tangled, warm, quiet, letting the aftershocks of the night settle around you, knowing that outside, the world could wait, but here, together, was exactly where you belonged.

Everything else could wait. The truth, the explanations, the staring at faces that might not understand, all of it could wait. None of it mattered right now, not with his arms around you, not with your head pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall like it was holding you together when everything else felt like it might fall apart. 

What couldn’t wait was this, the warmth and the softness and the way he looked at you like you were everything, the way you laughed even though your chest felt too full and your heart too fast. 

Pretending until forever had been a joke, a lie, a trap you built to survive, and now it didn’t have to be anything but real. You let yourself lean in, let yourself breathe it all in, let yourself be messy and chaotic and entirely visible, and he held you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment too. 

Everything else could wait, but this feeling, this reckless, quiet, insane kind of perfect, it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t, and you didn’t want it to.

It had been pretend until forever and somehow it was the only truth you needed.

[sflame15-blog]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦

Your washing machine breaks, and Clark Kent—perfect, helpful, devastatingly kind Clark Kent—immediately offers his. The same Clark you've been pathetically avoiding because being around him hurts too much when you're this gone for him. But it's late, it's raining, and he's being so characteristically sweet about it that you can't say no. What could go wrong?

Your washing machine is dead. Not 'making a funny noise' dead, but utterly, stone-cold silent. You’d pressed the power button three times, a desperate little prayer on your lips, before accepting your fate. A mountain of laundry sat mockingly in its basket.

You’re staring into the abyss of your empty detergent bottle (another problem) when your phone buzzes on the counter.

Clark: Heard a suspicious amount of cursing coming from your apartment. Everything good?

Your fingers hover over the screen. It’s mortifying. You should just not answer. All your efforts to distance yourself from him, to slowly ease his warmth out of your life, will be for naught if he gets even the slightest sense of you needing help. Clark Kent doesn’t ignore cries for help. Clark Kent swoops in, with his gentle smile and strong, broad shoulders.

Clark Kent makes it hard for girls like you to get over him.

But if you don't answer, he’ll probably show up at your door to investigate, which would be much, much worse.

You: My washing machine has passed on to the great appliance store in the sky.

His reply is almost instantaneous. A small bubble with three dots appears and disappears before the message lands, and you hold your breath.

Clark: Oh no! Problem solved. My machine is your machine. Come on over whenever.

Shit.

You: Thanks, but it’s OK! I’ll just hit the laundromat. It’s late and I don’t want to bother you.

You’ve already put on your jacket and are hunting for your keys, a grim determination setting in. The walk will be cold. It will be annoying. But it will be blessedly, wonderfully Clark-free, so it’s a small sacrifice in the long run. Your thumb hesitates over the power switch on the machine. Might as well give it another shot. You jab the button with your index finger.

The phone screen in your hand lights up with his name.

He's speaking before you've finished getting the phone to your ear. "You don't honestly think I'm letting you go out at 11pm in the freezing rain to sit at some laundromat by yourself, do you?"

"I..." What were you going to say again? He's turning the concerned voice on and your stomach is flipping. "It’s not raining that much." It is. You can hear the distinct tink-tink-tink of water hitting your windowpane.

"Okay. It’s not freezing rain. But it’s still late. And that laundromat is… not the best. Lois was just telling me about an article she’s editing about how many streetlights are out on that block."

Lois.

The name lands like a small, smooth stone dropped into your stomach. Of course. Lois. Beautiful, brilliant Lois who makes Clark laugh in ways that light up his entire face, who writes the front-page articles and has the world at her fingertips. Who Clark is undoubtedly, irrefutably in love with, if you had to guess. Maybe they’re even together now. You've been so busy avoiding him that you wouldn't even know.

"I’m not gonna be able to focus on my work if I’m worried about you," he continues, blissfully unaware of the small, quiet devastation he just caused. He’s weaponized his own kindness, and it’s ruthlessly effective. "Please?"

You lean your forehead against the cool surface of your dead washing machine. He could convince the moon to come crashing down into Earth with just one well-placed "please", you think.

"You working on something?" you've moved on to stalling for time.

"Don't change the subject. Grab your laundry and get over here before I come drag you myself."

You're a goner. "Clark."

His laugh is bright and warm and reminds you of a lot of what you miss about him. "Come on," he coaxes, and the gentle, cajoling tone is going to make your heart leap straight out of your throat and into his hands. "I’ll order us some pizza. Or have you eaten already?"

"Don't get me pizza," you protest. "You need to work."

"I need to take a break anyway. I’ve been staring at this screen too long. I’ll be braindead if I don’t take a break soon."

"Then have a break. You don’t have to share it with me. I don't want to impose."

"Alright," he says, and you hear the telltale squeak of his desk chair as he gets to his feet. "Then I'm coming over and dragging you and your laundry across the hall."

"Clark!"

"Y/N!"

You laugh despite yourself, despite the way your stomach hurts. He's too good, too much, too kind. You can't keep up. "Okay, okay," you say, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm on my way."

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

"Come in," he calls before you can knock. Of course he heard you coming.

You push the door open to find him tidying up the living room, shoving papers into neat stacks and fluffing couch cushions. He looks up when you enter, hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.

"Sorry about the mess," he says, though his apartment is immaculate as always. "I wasn't expecting company."

He's wearing his flannel pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, glasses on. You'd have a hard time figuring out whether this or the suit is worse on your heart. 

"You don't have to clean for me, Clark. It's just laundry."

"I know, but..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I wanted things to be nice. It's been a while since you've been over."

You feel a stab of guilt at that. You can't explain why you haven't been over in so long. You can't say, I have a ridiculous crush on you and need to save whatever is left of my dignity by keeping some distance between us.

So, you say, "Oh... yeah." Like an idiot.

"I missed seeing your face around."

"Did you?"

It's out before you can take it back. Clark freezes, then turns to look at you.

"Of course I did." There’s something like hurt behind his glasses. "Why would you say that?"

"No... I didn't mean..." you stammer. You want to go hide in a closet somewhere. "That sounded weird. I'm sorry. Just forget it."

Clark is still studying you with that puzzled, concerned look, but he eventually lets out a little huff of a laugh. "I’ll never understand how you don’t realize how much people like you around."

"Maybe I'm just fishing for compliments," you say in an attempt to play it off.

"Mm," he hums, taking your laundry basket with such ease one would think it was full of cotton balls instead of two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. "Well, you're welcome to fish here anytime."

You follow him to the tiny (immaculately clean) laundry nook. It's not a room so much as a closet off the kitchen, with much less space than you need for a successful Clark Kent avoidance technique. If he stays to chat, you'll be standing no more than an arms' length apart at best, and you're not sure how that’s going to work for the duration of a full cycle.

"Have you eaten?" Clark asks again. He's leaning against the doorframe of the laundry nook, watching you with an easy sort of patience as you start to load the machine. The space feels impossibly small; you have to keep reminding your lungs how to do their job.

"Yeah," you lie, your voice tight as you untangle one of your t-shirts from a pair of jeans and pray that you didn't throw anything too embarrassing into this basket. "I ate."

"Liar. I can hear your stomach from here."

You freeze, utterly mortified. He’s just joking. Probably. "You cannot."

"I can," he insists, a grin spreading across his face that makes your stomach do a nervous little flip. "It’s telling me very sad stories about an empty fridge." He pushes off the doorframe, taking a single, deliberate step into the nook. The fluorescent bulb above flickers once, as if startled. He fills the space completely, blocking the light from the kitchen.

Your hands are suddenly clumsy. You become hyper-aware of the contents of your basket—the worn-out state of your favorite pajamas and, god forbid, your underwear. You try to discreetly bury a pair of frankly embarrassing floral underwear beneath a towel while he leans over your shoulder.

He’s reaching up, his body twisting around you to open a small cupboard above your head. The soft cotton of his t-shirt presses against your shoulder blade as he stretches, and a warm cloud of something clean—laundry soap and fresh air and just him—envelops you. You hold your breath, your universe shrinking to the inches between you, the faint scent of his shampoo, and the solid wall of his chest at your back.

He pulls back just as you think you might pass out, holding out a bottle of detergent. He’s completely, devastatingly oblivious to the five-alarm fire he just started in your nervous system, it seems. His expression is open, friendly, his gaze searching your face. You'd like to curl up inside the washing machine with your laundry and go on a spin cycle right now.

"Laundry detergent for your thoughts?" he asks, offering you the bottle like he hasn’t just driven every rational thought from your head.

You look down at the bottle, trying to remember how words work. "My thoughts are boring."

"That’s impossible." He unscrews the cap for you before passing it into your hands.

You take it, but he doesn't move back. You can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes behind his glasses.

You turn back to the washer, desperate for something to do with your hands and a way to escape his gaze, but your mind has gone completely, utterly blank. What comes after adding detergent? Cold wash? Warm wash? What exactly are you supposed to do with your arms, your legs, your shoulders? How do people even stand normally?

"Let me get that," he says, gently, quietly. His hand brushes yours as he takes the bottle, and he’s pouring the soap in, setting the bottle aside, twisting a dial. The washer rumbles to life, filling with water, and it feels like the air in the tiny nook is being sucked out through the pipes. He closes the lid and turns to look at you. He's so tall you have to tilt your head up to see his face properly.

"There," he says softly, like he's accomplished something monumental instead of just starting a load of laundry. "All set."

You nod, acutely aware that you should probably leave the nook now, give him space to escape back to his work. But your feet seem rooted to the spot, and Clark doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move either.

"So," he says, leaning back against the dryer, arms crossed. The position makes his t-shirt pull slightly across his chest, but at least now he's a full arms' length away from you. "What's really going on with you lately?"

Your heart stutters. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. The avoiding me thing. The way you practically sprint in the opposite direction when you see me in the hallway."

"I don't sprint."

"You do a very fast walk," he says with a small smile. "It's actually pretty impressive. I didn't know you could move that quickly."

Despite everything, you find yourself fighting back a laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm also right." He tilts his head and looks at you for a long moment, like if he focuses hard enough, he can figure out what's going on inside your head without you having to say it out loud. It's an unsettling feeling, as if he might somehow peel back all the layers of your walls and see your pathetic little crush sitting at the core.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks.

Your heart sinks. "No, Clark, you haven't done anything wrong. Jesus." You run a hand over your face, letting out a sigh. "That's not—you're just—"

He's just perfect. He's kind and patient, he helps an elderly woman carry groceries back to her apartment every Thursday night. How do you tell someone like that that it feels like dying every time he mentions the coworker he's clearly in love with?

"We're good," you finish weakly. "You don't have anything to worry about."

He gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You just hate being around me?"

"Oh, yes. I hate you. Absolutely despise you," you joke.

"Hmm."

"Repulsed," you're holding back a laugh now. "Completely repulsed by your very—"

Clark takes another step forward, and whatever words were in your mouth evaporate. The laughter fizzles, turns less playful and more nervous as he invades your personal space like he's been doing your thoughts, 24/7, for maybe a solid year.

Playful Clark is almost worse than kind Clark. Kind Clark can fill your stomach with butterflies, sure. Kind Clark will stay on your mind, will fuel daydreams of late mornings and gentle hands, but you've built up a tolerance. Playful Clark—bold Clark—might actually shatter the very carefully maintained equilibrium you've worked so hard to create around your relationship with him.

"...face," you manage to squeak. He's much too close and much too comfortable, taller than you've ever really allowed yourself to consider.

What a terrifyingly wonderful feeling. If he leaned down, if you got on tiptoes...

"Clark," you say. The word is a weak warning.

He doesn't move, but his eyes flicker down to your lips and back up. You can feel the blush creeping over your cheeks. "What?"

"Clark."

He's smiling. "Y/N."

You can barely hear your own voice over the roar of your blood in your ears. "Are you just... gonna stand here?"

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. "I don't know. I'm enjoying the view."

"Clark."

His smile widens. "It's not my fault. You're cute when you're flustered."

"Stop. I'm not flustered."

He leans in a fraction closer. "So, I could get closer?"

He knows. He absolutely knows. And you know that he knows, and he's playing chicken. "Clark," you whisper, a final warning. If he gets any closer...

"Y/N." He mimics the tone of your voice. He's trying to tease, but he can't keep the soft, warm edges from creeping into it, the gentle affection he can never hide.

Clark Kent wants to kiss you, you think, distantly, as his nose brushes yours. As a big hand reaches up and cradles the back of your head.

"Is this okay?" he asks, breath fanning over your lips. And god, if that isn't just about the death of you.

The air has solidified, turned to glass, and it's lodged in your chest. "Clark."

"Can I?" His fingertips are warm against the base of your neck. The contact sends electricity racing up and down your spine. "I'm tired of waiting for you to catch on."

"Me catch on?! My biggest problem is that you, Clark Kent, you are the most—"

He's kissing you. He's laughing against your lips as he's kissing you, and your mind has been reduced to a collection of sparks going off in a vast expanse of darkness.

"You're so oblivious," he's saying, his lips moving against yours. "You're the most oblivious person on the planet. I swear."

"I'm oblivious? You're—"

But he's kissing you again—this time more insistent, less patient, a little bit needy and a whole lot of something you can't name, but you want to drown in. Any argument you might have made melts under his touch, vanishes like dew on a sunny morning and leaves nothing but this in its wake.

"I hope your machine is dead for good," he murmurs against your lips.

Your answer gets lost somewhere in the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands.

At least, the Clark Kent problem is solved.

[sflame15-blog]

How do you think Krypto would be with little baby leia??

Best friends (and second cousins) 🐶

Dad!Clark Kent x Female!Reader

Summary: Krypto and Leia are the best of friends.

more kent family adventures here!

When you brought baby Leia home from the hospital, the house had never felt so full. Of noise, yes—Leia was vocal about her needs, even at a few days old—but also of love. Clark had barely let her out of his arms since you'd arrived home. Every coo, every hiccup, every sleepy sigh had him utterly enchanted.

But today… he was pacing.

Because today was the day.

“Krypto,” he said sternly, facing the fluffy-eared white dog who sat, tail wagging, near the back door. “Okay, buddy, now remember what we talked about.”

Krypto blinked.

“I said gently,” Clark repeated. “You’re not allowed to zoom. No zoomies. And no licking her face. Or jumping on her. Or rolling. Or flying through the house.”

Krypto let out a short, low whuff, tail thumping. He was vibrating with excitement.

You sat on the couch with Leia in your arms, watching Clark conduct his pre-introduction speech like a nervous dad before prom. “Clark,” you said gently, “he’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” Clark sighed, glancing nervously at the baby. “It’s just—he’s strong, and rambunctious, and Leia is… tiny. She’s not even the size of his head.”

You smiled, kissing the top of Leia’s soft little one. “He was so good with me when I was pregnant. He’s a good boy.”

Krypto’s ears perked up at “good boy.” He stood at attention like he was reporting for active duty.

Clark finally blew out a slow breath. “Okay. Moment of truth.”

You adjusted Leia in your arms as Clark opened the back door.

Krypto padded inside slowly, unusually calm. He came right up to the couch where you and Leia sat and… stopped. His nose twitched.

Leia stirred softly in your arms.

And then?

Krypto leaned in and sniffed.

You held your breath.

He sniffed her blanket. Her tiny socks. Then he sniffed her face and gave the smallest, gentlest little nuzzle against her soft cheek. Leia blinked her sleepy eyes and gurgled, waving one of her tiny fists.

Krypto whined.

Clark blinked. “Wait—was that—?”

“I think he remembers her,” you said, stunned. “From when I was pregnant. He used to sleep with his head on my belly all the time.”

Krypto whined again, tail wagging slower now, his big brown eyes full of absolute awe. Then—he laid down. Right at your feet. Head resting near Leia, as if he were volunteering for guard duty.

You looked at Clark. “Well. I think we have a winner.”

“Or a bodyguard,” Clark said, kneeling beside them both, his big hand petting Krypto’s head. “He’s completely smitten.”

You giggled. “Just like you.”

A few hours later, you padded into the living room to find the house unusually quiet.

Clark was upstairs grabbing laundry, but you couldn’t find Krypto or Leia—until you peeked over the edge of the couch.

There they were.

Leia, swaddled like a burrito, fast asleep on the living room floor on a folded blanket. And right next to her?

Krypto, lying on his side, curved protectively around her.

His paw was lightly resting against her little foot, like he was holding onto her.

Her tiny fingers were tangled in the fluff of his tail.

And both of them? Dead asleep. Snoring in harmony.

You pressed a hand to your heart, utterly overwhelmed by the sight. You quickly snapped a picture (or seven) on your phone and whispered up the stairs, “Clark!”

He came jogging down, looked at the scene—and melted.

“I was so worried,” he whispered, voice cracking as he slid an arm around your waist.

“He’s her brother now. Although, technically, since you and Kara are cousins, they're second cousins,” you said quietly. “She’s got a superdog for life.”

Krypto just let out a sleepy huff, curling tighter around his new love.

Best friends. Day one.

-

At six months old, Leia was hitting her stride.

She could roll both ways, babble nonsense like it was a full-time job, sit up with a little help (or a lot of determination), and was ready to chomp on everything in sight.

But most importantly?

She had discovered that her absolute favorite thing in the world was Krypto.

No toy. No mobile. No colorful rattle, no crinkly book, no pacifier. Not even Daddy’s goofy singing came close to the sheer joy she got from watching that fluffy dog fly around the living room or flop dramatically onto the rug.

Today was no exception.

Clark sat cross-legged on the living room floor while you lounged on the couch, sipping your drink and smiling as Krypto gently nudged a plush ball toward Leia, who was seated on a big round cushion. She squealed with delight, clapping her hands as she reached for it.

“Gentle,” Clark warned Krypto. “She’s tiny, remember?”

Krypto gave him an unimpressed look that clearly said, I know how to play with my baby, thank you.

Leia smacked the ball with her palm and then erupted into the loudest giggle as it wobbled away. Krypto immediately picked it up with his teeth and dropped it gently back into her lap. Leia shrieked again, delighted, then clutched at his ear.

Krypto tolerated the grab like a saint. Not even a flinch.

Clark chuckled. “He’s gonna let her ride him like a horse when she’s older, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely, and fly her away from here,” you said, smiling into your mug. “I’m pretty sure she already thinks he’s a living stuffed animal.”

Krypto floated a few inches off the ground, rolled onto his back, four paws in the air, as Leia leaned forward with the uncoordinated grace of a six-month-old and squished both of her tiny hands into his belly fur. Krypto immediately started doing the “happy growly grumble” sound—deep, content, and rumbly—and Leia’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.

She laughed so hard she fell over sideways.

Clark immediately moved to prop her back up, but Krypto beat him to it, gently nudging her back upright with his snout. Leia blinked at him and then kissed his nose. (It was more like a drooly mouth-smack, but still. It counted.)

You nearly teared up. “Did you see that? She kissed him!”

“She loves him so much,” Clark said, clearly melting. “I don’t think she’s laughed this much all week.”

Leia suddenly leaned forward and gave Krypto’s ear a full baby raspberry, followed by another belly laugh. Krypto’s tail thumped like a drumline.

“She’s using him like a sensory toy,” you whispered.

“She’s using him like a jungle gym,” Clark muttered in awe. “And he loves it.”

At some point, Leia flopped onto her tummy and reached forward to drape herself dramatically across Krypto’s side like she was a Disney princess fainting into a field of fur. Krypto didn’t move. Just raised his head, looked at Clark as if to say, this is my life now, and settled back down.

By the time Leia’s eyes started to droop, she was curled up right against Krypto’s chest, one fist still clutching a chunk of fur. He tucked his head around her protectively, tail giving one last lazy wag before falling still.

You tiptoed closer to sit beside Clark, watching your baby and superdog nap in a warm pile of love.

“She’s gonna grow up thinking all dogs are like him,” you whispered.

“She’s gonna grow up thinking her best friend is invincible,” Clark replied, eyes soft. “And honestly… she wouldn’t be wrong.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “They’re so lucky to have each other.”

-

It had been a peaceful morning. Birds chirping. Coffee brewing. Leia cooing from her bouncer in the living room. You were on the couch in your robe, flipping through a book.

“Morning,” Clark said, smiling as he leaned down to kiss you, then dropped a softer one to Leia’s forehead. “Smells like coffee. And my two favorite girls.”

Leia gurgled.

Then, the thunderous gallop of Kryptonian paws on hardwood.

Krypto rounded the corner like a missile and launched himself at Clark with the full force of a superdog who absolutely did not care about personal space or physics.

“NOPE—KRYPTO—WAIT—”

WHAM.

Clark went down like a tree in the forest, flat on his back with a dramatic “OOF!” as Krypto landed directly on top of him and started licking his face with unrelenting enthusiasm.

“Oh my god,” you cackled. “He tackled you like a linebacker.”

“I just walked in the door—Krypto, stop! I already showered—”

SLURP.

“He is committing a full assault,” you snorted. Leia was squealing with laughter beside you, her tiny hands flapping like she was cheering him on.

Clark wrestled Krypto back off him. “He’s a menace. That’s what he is.”

Krypto paused for one dignified second… then booped Clark’s face with his snout again for good measure.

“And yet,” you said sweetly, reaching out to pat Krypto’s side, “with us—he’s a perfect angel.”

At your touch, Krypto immediately abandoned Clark like yesterday’s news. He trotted over to the couch, tail wagging gently, and rested his chin on your knee with a soft, humble little whine.

“Ohhh, see? He just wants snuggles,” you cooed, stroking his head.

Leia leaned over and grabbed his ear with a giggle. Krypto didn’t even blink.

Clark, still lying on the floor in the ruins of his dignity, stared. “He literally just used me as a trampoline. How come you get cuddle mode and I get cannonball mode?”

Leia, as if on cue, blew a spit bubble and laughed at him.

You smirked. “He’s just got priorities, babe.”

“He threw me across the room yesterday when I said ‘no more treats.’”

“That’s because you were being unreasonable.”

Clark scoffed. Leia shoved her whole hand into Krypto’s mouth and he just wagged his tail like she’d given him a gift.

Clark narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re all in this together.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I’m the victim.”

“Of Krypto’s love.”

Clark muttered something under his breath, finally getting up and brushing off his sweatpants. Krypto, of course, followed him lovingly… then leapt up and body-checked him into the hallway wall.

THUD.

“OH COME ON—”

Leia lost her mind laughing. Krypto trotted back to her proudly, head high.

You reached down and scratched behind his ear. “Good boy.”

Clark pointed a finger at all three of you. “I know what this is. You’ve replaced me.”

You just smiled, letting Leia chew on your knuckle while Krypto curled up at your feet like a noble protector.

Clark sighed and rubbed the back of his head.

“I can literally bench press a train,” he muttered, “but this dog is bullying me for his two favorite girls.”

From his place on the floor, Krypto sneezed loudly.

Clark glared. “Oh, real mature.”

[sflame15-blog]

heartbeat

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: you make Clark's heart beat faster < 3

Word count: 2.2+

Warnings: fluff, idiots being in love

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first time Clark asked you out, it was in the most un-Clark-like way possible.

Not the usual quiet charm he was known for. Not a well-rehearsed plan or a charming line delivered with that soft, blue-eyed confidence.

No.

It was a panicked, typo-ridden text sent from behind a stack of grocery bags while he was halfway through rescuing a kitten from a rain gutter.

Literally.

He’d seen you earlier that day—just in passing, outside the café you liked. You were laughing at something your friend had said, clutching a half-melted iced coffee, hair catching the sunlight in a way that made Clark blink a little too long. And in that moment, his brain had just… short-circuited.

He’d liked you for weeks. Possibly longer. Possibly since the first time you’d smiled at him in the newsroom and said his name like it meant something. You had this way of leaning in when you listened, like every word mattered, and it made Clark—who was used to being heard, but not always seen—feel like he was standing in sunlight, even on cloudy days.

But he hadn’t said anything. Because how was he supposed to? How did someone like him ask someone like you out without sounding like a weirdo? Or worse, without scaring you off?

He told himself he’d wait for the right moment.

The right moment never came.

Instead, he found himself standing outside a bodega at 7:13 PM with two bags of groceries balanced in one hand, a struggling orange tabby under his other arm, and an absurd amount of adrenaline in his veins. The kitten had been stuck in a drain. Easy save. But while he was floating her down onto the sidewalk behind a dumpster—carefully making sure no one could see—the thought hit him again:

You. Your laugh. Your eyes. That look you gave him this morning.

And then, completely unprompted, his fingers opened his phone. He wasn’t even thinking. It was like his thumbs had mutinied.

The message he typed (and almost deleted six times) read:

hey! this is clark (kent, from work lol). ok this is random and probably weird BUT i’ve been meaning to ask you out and i kept chickening out so here it is. me. asking. you. out. coffee? not weird coffee. normal coffee. unless you like weird coffee then i can—what am i saying. anyway, let me know :)

He stared at it. Too long. Every part of his brain screamed to throw his phone in the gutter with the cat hair.

And then the kitten meowed, claws digging into his jacket, groceries slipping.

Clark hit send.

Immediately regretted it.

“Oh god,” he muttered, shifting the cat. “I just sent a gremlin message to the most beautiful person I’ve ever met while holding a box of Frosted Flakes and a stray animal.”

His face was on fire. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

What made it worse—infinitely worse—was that he could hear yours too. Not in that moment, of course. But on normal days, when you were around him. Your heart always sounded warm, like a steady hum beneath your voice. And now, all he could think about was how fast yours would beat when you read his message. Would it flutter? Or would it flatline in secondhand embarrassment?

He nearly turned around and flew to the moon.

And then his phone buzzed.

hi clark kent from work :) i was wondering when you were going to ask. coffee sounds great. weird coffee preferred.

Clark’s knees almost gave out right there on the sidewalk.

And now, twenty-five days later—not that Clark was counting or anything—here you were. Curled into the broad warmth of his chest, his flannel shirt bunched slightly under your cheek, a half-finished bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and Pretty Woman playing its DVD menu on loop for the third time.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep. Just that it felt right—your hand resting lazily over his heartbeat, your legs tangled somewhere under the shared throw blanket, his thumb gently brushing circles into your back. Like your body decided this was the safest place on earth and clocked out early.

Clark stirred before you did.

He blinked up at the ceiling, the echo of animated music looping in the background, and immediately became aware of three things:

You were still asleep on his chest. His arm had gone numb. He didn’t want to move even a millimeter of you.

Because God—seeing you like this, sleeping so soundly, so close, so soft against him—it made something ache in the back of his throat. You weren’t just beautiful. You were luminous. Your lashes brushed your cheek. Your lips were parted just slightly. And even your breathing, rhythmic and slow, had a quiet elegance to it.

He felt like he shouldn’t be allowed to witness it.

“Not fair,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “You make gravity feel like it’s pulling toward you.”

He paused, cringing slightly at his own corny line. But you didn’t stir. Just shifted slightly, pressing your nose into the crook of his neck with a sleepy sigh.

Clark swallowed hard.

And then—because Clark was Clark—his heart betrayed him.

Beep. Buzz.

“Elevated heart rate detected.”

The robotic voice of his smartwatch whispered like a megaphone in the stillness, shrill and traitorous.

Clark’s eyes widened in horror.

No. No no no.

He moved too quickly, instinct overriding logic—his upper body tensed, trying to sit up—a mistake. A massive mistake. Because you stirred instantly, murmuring something incoherent as you shifted sleepily against him. Your hand slid down his chest, your cheek nestled closer.

Clark froze, mid-motion, his entire being stiff with panic, like a deer caught in the world’s coziest headlights.

His hand scrambled down to his wrist, fingers fumbling over the tiny touchscreen like he was trying to defuse a bomb with mittens on.

Buzz.

“Elevated heart rate—”

“No,” he hissed under his breath, swiping and tapping with increasing desperation. “Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

And that’s when your eyes fluttered open.

Still soft with sleep, half-lidded and glazed with dream haze, you blinked up at him, voice low and gravelly with just-woken rasp.

“…Clark?”

He froze mid-button-press, wrist still hovering in the air, guilt radiating off him like heat from a fire.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly, his voice rising half an octave like he’d just been caught sneaking cookies before dinner. His smile was crooked, apologetic. Adorable.

You blinked again, then turned your face into his chest slightly, frowning in confusion as the last remnants of sleep cleared. “Was that your watch? Did it just... talk?”

Clark groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch cushion. “Yes. Unfortunately. It’s one of those fancy health tracker things. Monitors my heartbeat, sends me passive-aggressive updates. You know. Very cutting-edge, very humiliating.”

Your eyebrows knit, amused. “Why is it yelling at you?”

Clark glanced down at the offending device and scowled at it like it had personally betrayed him, which, to be fair—it had. “Because apparently my heart’s decided to throw a rave without asking permission.”

You smiled, one side of your mouth curling upward in that lazy, fond way that made his stomach flip. “Were you… running in your dreams?”

He laughed once—awkward and breathy. Rubbed the back of his neck with the hand not currently being held hostage by your entire body. “No, I—” He paused, caught between pride and panic. “I woke up. And, um.” Another pause. A helpless little shrug.

“I looked at you.”

You blinked at him, still too sleepy to process.

“And I guess,” he added with a quiet, self-conscious laugh, “that was enough to freak out my very expensive piece of wearable tech.”

There was a pause.

You stared at him, processing.

And then, squinting slightly, you said, deadpan: “Are you saying I’m so pretty I gave Superman a heart condition?”

Clark groaned like he was begging the ceiling to smite him. “Please don’t make it worse.”

“No, wait—this is gold.” You pushed yourself up just slightly, bracing your elbows on his chest, your face alight with mischief. “You woke up, saw me drooling on your shirt, and your heart rate spiked?”

“There was no drooling,” he said immediately, like he’d been prepped for that specific accusation. “I would’ve noticed.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“I have enhanced vision. I’d know.”

That made you snort.

“And anyway,” he went on, quieter now, the humor still there but gentled at the edges, “you looked… incredible.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. The shift was subtle, but real.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Clark glanced away, a faint flush climbing up the curve of his neck. He was open now in that rare, completely unguarded way he only got when he forgot to be careful. When the mask slipped—not the glasses, not the press badge, but the quiet emotional armor he wore when he was afraid of wanting too much.

“I mean it,” he said. “You looked so peaceful. And beautiful. And… I just thought, wow. I get to be the one who gets moments like this with her.”

He laughed softly, half in disbelief, half in awe. “And I guess my heart took that a little literally.”

You stared at him, the air catching quietly in your chest.

Your voice was smaller when you said, “You’re serious?”

Clark turned to face you again, his expression warm and honest, his eyes holding something so tender it made your stomach flutter and twist all at once.

“Yeah,” he said, simply. “I’m serious.”

And maybe it was the 2AM silence, or the flannel warmth under your fingertips, or the stupid DVD menu still looping behind you like a lullaby—but you didn’t tease. You didn’t joke. You didn’t throw back some clever reply to deflect how vulnerable that made you feel.

You just looked at him. Eyes wide. A little glassy. Full of something you weren’t quite ready to name out loud, but felt all the way down to your fingertips.

“…You’re kind of a sap,” you whispered.

“I warned you on our second date,” he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I told you I get emotionally attached to coffee mugs. This was inevitable.”

You laughed under your breath, tucking your chin toward his chest again to hide the way your cheeks were burning. “You’re ridiculous.”

Clark dipped his head and kissed the top of yours—slow, quiet, reverent.

“You like ridiculous.”

“Unfortunately,” you mumbled into his shirt, “I really do.”

Then came the silence again. But not the empty kind. Not awkward. Not strained.

It was full.

Full of the things you were both starting to feel but hadn’t quite said yet. Full of trust being layered into the cracks of quiet moments like this. Full of his arm curling more securely around you, like your body belonged there, like he was holding onto something sacred.

And then—so softly, you almost didn’t hear yourself speak:

“Say it again.”

Clark blinked, looking down at you. “Say what?”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, voice hushed. “That you woke up… and looked at me. And thought I was beautiful.”

He stared at you for a moment. Just stared. And then something in his expression shifted, softened, like someone unfolding a secret with gentle hands.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

You bit your lip, exhaling slow.

“My heart rate’s up too, you know,” you said quietly, not even pretending to joke anymore.

He smiled—smaller this time, but impossibly fond. “I can tell.”

You blinked. “…How?”

He hesitated.

“Clark,” you said, suspicious now.

He scratched the back of his head, a sheepish little wince already forming. “Okay, so… slight confession.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What.”

“I can, uh. I can hear heartbeats.”

You stared.

“Like… generally. All the time. From across the city, sometimes. It’s a Kryptonian senses thing. I try not to listen in—it’s like tuning out background noise, but…”

He paused. Then looked at you, earnest.

“Yours is… loud. Not in a bad way! Just—distinct. Like it stands out. Like it’s in harmony with mine.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

“Wait—So you've listened to my heartbeat before?”

“Not on purpose!” he said quickly, panicking a little. “I swear! I don’t go around eavesdropping on people’s cardiovascular activity. It’s just—yours is different. It’s… I notice it. Even when I’m not trying to.”

You were silent for a long moment.

Then you cracked.

You let out a laugh that was so full and bright it made Clark smile just watching you.

“Clark Kent,” you said between laughs, “are you romancing me using super hearing?”

“…Is it working?” he asked, hopeful.

You groaned and dropped your head to his chest again, cheeks burning.

“Obviously.”

Clark beamed. He pulled the blanket back over you both, tucking it snug around your shoulders, letting the weight of it settle like punctuation over the moment.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. Not because there wasn’t more to say—but because silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of meaning. Full of breath and closeness and the kind of softness that made your whole body feel like it had exhaled.

His heart was still racing.

So was yours.

Beep. Buzz.

“Elevated—”

“I swear to God—” Clark growled, slamming the dismiss button.

You laughed into his chest, and this time, he didn’t mind the sound of his heart pounding at all.

[sflame15-blog]

Just Clark 𐙚 Clark Kent

clark kent x fem!reader

Summary: You live in the same building as Clark Kent. You think he’s sweet but awkward, he carries your bags, helps you build things, fixes issues in your apartment. You joke he’s “like a superhero” for doing the chores your ex never did, and he panics and runs off

Warnings/Themes: mention of bad past relationship (nothing serious just like weaponized incompetence), bad communicator clark, bad communication in general, crying, awkward clark, clumsy cursed reader no mention of race, good at cooking/baking reader, no use of y/n, half proofread, if you notice fuck-ups no u didn't

Words: 8.2k

You’d just moved to Metropolis, still reeling from the messy implosion of your last relationship. Needing something new; and the day you moved into Apartment 4B, Clark Kent was there. Not as some official welcome wagon, just... there. You were wrestling a very heavy, probably over-packed, box of kitchenware up the cramped stairwell. The elevator had a handwritten 'under maintenance' sign— so you had to make the four story trip by foot, when a shadow fell over you.

"Need a hand with that?" he asked, his voice mild, almost timid. Sweat stinging your eyes as you looked up to see a glasses-clad man with dark hair falling perpetually over his brow, his tall figure absolutely towering you. 

You grunted, hoisting the box higher, and nodding frantically. "Please, God, yes."

He took it from you as if it weighed nothing, a small, polite smile on his face. He carried it the rest of the way, and then the next ten boxes, and then helped you assemble your rickety IKEA bedframe— "so you definitely have somewhere to sleep tonight.", all without asking for anything in return. He just seemed… happy to help. Told you his name, and where he was if you needed him again, then just... left like he hadn't even been there at all.

One sweltering afternoon, only one week after the first encounter, you were struggling to assemble a truly monstrous wardrobe (last time you try to get something nice for yourself, with how much work it was taking). You’d spent a fat three hours wrestling with indecipherable diagrams, and runaway screws, and the thing was still just a pile of glorified wood chips.

Sweat was plastering your hair to your forehead, and frustration was a hot knot in your stomach. You were about to admit defeat and call a professional when there was a gentle knock on your door.

It was Clark, holding a small casserole dish. "I had extra lasagna, thought you might like some after your move-in efforts," he said, already scanning your apartment, his gaze landing on the chaotic heap of wooden planks. "Oh, gosh. Looks like you're having some trouble there."

Clark set the lasagna down on your kitchen counter, the warm, savory smell instantly making your stomach rumble. “Trouble” was an understatement.

“It’s… a work in progress,” you mumbled, pushing a stray hair out of your eyes.

He gave a soft, understanding nod. “Looks like it. Mind if I…?” He gestured vaguely at the pile of wood, a polite question in his eyes.

You scoff, falling back onto your floor in frustration as you waves both hands dismissively, rolling your eyes. Heat creeping up your neck in frustration— not towards Clark. You just hated being seen as helpless, especially by a man, after your ex had always made you feel like you were.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, though your tone clearly indicated the opposite. “I can… I’ll wrestle it eventually. Or something."

Clark didn't lecture, didn't patronize. He just offered a gentle, knowing smile. 

“Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can make all the difference, though. And a little extra muscle never hurts, does it?” He knelt beside the instruction manual, you watched, exhausted and feeling defeated, as his eyes quickly scanned the diagrams. He hummed quietly, a low, thoughtful sound. Then, without a word, he began to work.

He didn't seem to struggle, he didn't swear or grunt. And within what felt like minutes, not hours, the bones of the wardrobe began to emerge from the chaos. He worked with a quiet concentration, occasionally humming a low, tuneless melody to himself. You just sat dumbfounded on the floor, occasionally handing Clark a screw or reading an instruction out for him, feeling pretty useless.

Within a mere half-hour, the sinister pile of rubble that threatened to haunt you was standing tall and proud, a testament to... well, to Clark. He straightened up, wiping a smudge from his glasses. "There we go," he said, a faint, pleased flush on his cheeks. "Looks sturdy."

“Clark,” you breathed, staring at the finished product, then at him. He was wiping a little sawdust from his glasses, a faint flush on his cheeks. “How… how did you do that so fast?”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound, and shrugged humbly. “Oh, you know. Good instructions, and a little teamwork. You were a great help."

You knew he was being kind, incredibly kind, but you still felt goosebumps rise on your arm.

Before you can really thank him, or offer him some water, or to sit. He's picked up the empty box it came in, filling it with all the plastic packaging and packing material. “I’ll just take these down for you.” 

you can't even really protest, a weak, "Clark-" leaves with a sigh. But he was gone, leaving you with a perfectly built wardrobe and a warm, lasagna sat on your kitchen counter.

It became a quiet routine, an unspoken agreement that you had neither expected or requested— but wasn't unwelcome. You’d be struggling with an overflowing laundry basket down to the basement machines, and there he’d be, a polite cough and a gentle, “Need a hand with that?” before he’d somehow manage to carry it with one hand while holding the door open with the other. You’d find your groceries, especially those heavier bags of sugar or bulk-buy pasta, suddenly lighter as he’d appear by your side in the lobby, often with an “Oh, heading up? I’ll just grab that,” before you could even protest.

You’d settled into your new life, and Clark Kent was undeniably a part of that comfortable rhythm. He was the kind of neighbour everyone wanted but few ever had. He never asked for coffee, never lingered for small talk that felt forced. His kindness was earnest and unassuming. He worked at the Daily Planet— a journalist, you knew, you'd seen his article's and even read a few.

You started looking forward to seeing him, even. Like a warm cup of coffee on a cold morning. He was the antithesis of your ex, who had considered taking the garbage to the curb a Herculean task, and who expected a cookie, parade, medal, hoedown, just for helping, all while finding a way to subtly belittle your own efforts.

Clark just did. He folded your laundry one time when you’d left it in the communal dryer for too long, just leaving it neatly folded on your doormat. He once noticed your lightbulb flickering in the hallway fixture and, the next day, there was a new bulb and a note taped to it, “Fixed it for you! :) – CK.”

One evening, you were attempting to make dinner when a wallet draining gurgle erupted from your kitchen sink, followed by a torrent of brown, foul-smelling water backing up and spilling onto the wood floor. You stared at it in disgust, your half-chopped vegetables suddenly feeling a lot less appetizing. After a frantic, futile attempt with a plunger, and a quick, angry call to your landlord that went straight to voicemail, you slumped against the counter, defeated.

As you set your cell down angrily on the kitchen table, there's a faint knock at your door. Clark. He must have heard the gurgling, or maybe your frustrated groan.

“Everything alright in there?” He asked, his voice muffled through the wood.

You groaned, pushing yourself off the counter and trudging to the door. Pulling it open, you gesture back at the disaster zone that was your kitchen, a tired groan leaving your mouth. Murky water was still bubbling from the sink and pooling on the floor, the smell permeating the entire space.

“Clark! Oh my god, no. My sink just… exploded. And the landlord isn’t answering. I think I’m going to cry.” You admit, your eyes large and panicked as you let him in.

He looked at the scene, his brow furrowed with concern. His eyes moving from your distressed face to the overflowing sink, and then, without a word, he stepped inside.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. Taking the sleeves of his plaid shirt and rolling them to his elbows, revealing forearms that, surprisingly, had a lean strength to them, despite his general awkwardness.

“Let’s take a look.”

He walked towards the sink, not a hint of disgust on his face, even as he peered into the murky water. “Do you have a bucket? And maybe some old towels?”

You nodded, retrieving a bucket from under the sink and a stack of old t-shirts you used for rags. He worked with the same quiet efficiency as he had with the wardrobe. He listened to the pipes, tapped at them, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a large wrench and a snake. 

He didn’t make a mess, somehow managing to disconnect and clear a section of pipe without drenching himself or the floor in more filth, directing the flow into the bucket you held, which he’d insisted you only lightly support while he did the heavy lifting. The stench was still there, but diminishing as he cleared the blockage.

His brow was furrowed— just ever so slightly, a look of mild concentration, then there was a distinct whoosh as the water drained, gurgling and bubbling on its way down the pipe. He reconnected everything, wiped down the area with a towel, and then, completely unprompted, started cleaning up the spilled water on your floor. This was at least something you could help with, lowering your body as you assist in sopping up the liquid.

"Clark, you're always saving my day," you sighed, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. "My ex couldn't even load the dishwasher without a hassle."

He gave a small, humble nod, a faint flush rising on his cheeks at the praise. He never quite knew what to do with compliments, often just offering a shy, modest smile in return. “Just glad I could help,” he murmured.

You looked at the shining sink (pipes intact), the clean floor, and then back at him. He was already halfway turned, stealthily on his way back to his own apartment, he'd fulfilled his neighbourly duty. But even though the immediate disaster was over, a different feeling settled over you. He’d helped you out of a literal mess, dealt with something truly disgusting, and hadn’t so much as batted an eye. He deserved more than just a thank you. 

“Clark, wait,” you protest, making a gentle move for him, a hand landing on his arm. 

“You can’t just go. You… you literally just cleaned up my putrid plumbing. And you were about to drain your wallet on dinner ingredients before all this happened.” 

You gestured vaguely at the chopping board where your half-prepped vegetables lay. “Would you… would you mind staying for dinner? It’s the least I can do. I was making… well, I was trying to make pasta primavera, but I can easily switch to something else, if you prefer.”

He froze immediately at your touch— gentle as it was, he turned. His eyes widening in surprise, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Oh, you really don’t have to,” he stammered, his voice a little higher than usual. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I, uh, I was just heading back myself. Got… got some… articles to write.” He gestured vaguely towards his apartment door.

“Clark, you just saved my kitchen from a brown, watery apocalypse. You’ve earned dinner. And honestly,” you added, a genuine smile forming,

“I’d actually enjoy the company. My apartment feels awfully quiet sometimes.”

The hand that had gone to his arm was still there, a gentle anchor. He swallowed, eyes darting from your face to the half-chopped vegetables, then to his own apartment door He seemed to grapple with some unseen internal debate, his usual humble demeanor warring with the simple human desire for company, or perhaps, just not wanting to appear rude by outright refusing your sincere invitation.

He hesitated for another moment, then a small, true smile touched his lips. “Pasta primavera… sounds lovely,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but with a new note of quiet acceptance. “Thank you. That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

"Oh great!" you breathed, turning back to the kitchen with renewed energy. “Make yourself comfortable. Is there anything you can’t eat? Any allergies?”

“Oh, no, I eat… everything,” he said quickly, you just nodded, already rummaging for a clean pot.

"Feel free to sit wherever you'd like." you tell him, gesturing out at all the furniture in the dining and living room. 

He nodded, still a little stiffly, and settled onto one of your kitchen chairs, perching on the edge as if ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Your attention back on your cutting board and dealing with the unchopped half of the veggies. It was a comfortable silence, surprisingly so for someone you only usually encountered in brief, helpful bursts.

The thud-thud-thud of your knife on the vegetables filled the silence. Clark stayed still on the edge of the kitchen chair, hands clasped loosely in front of him, watching you with a kind of intensity that would've been almost unnerving, if it wasn't so genuinely kind.

“You know, you don’t have to just sit there like a statue, Clark,” you teased gently, turning back to segment a bell pepper. 

“You’re welcome to relax, maybe grab a book— i can get you a drink, or put on some music, what do you like?”

He blinked, as if startled from a deep thought. 

“Oh! No, no, I’m fine,” he said, straightening a fraction. 

“It’s… captivating. Watching you cook.” His admits, earnest and sincere, remained fixed on your movements. “You’ve got a good… rhythm.”

Your knife paused for a second, a puzzled type of smile on your lips; your back is still turned to him, and your head cocks to the side subtly. What? Captivating? you gave an internal scoff, was he sure about that? his words had sounded so genuine, pure, full of a type of appreciation you had never been shown before.

you hummed, finishing the pepper off and moving on without turning to face him. "Most people find cooking to be pretty mundane." 

He flushed immediately, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks. 

"No, no, I mean it!" he insisted, his voice earnest.

It was truly endearing, the way he found a simple appreciation for all aspects of things. You sliced some zucchini, and began mincing garlic; when the cutting was complete, you started boiling water for the pasta, then sautéing the aromatics. The smell of olive oil heating in a pan began to waft through the kitchen, mingling with the fresh scent of bell peppers and herbs.

“Smells amazing,” breathed from behind you, his voice barely above a whisper. It was an involuntary reaction, almost like a sigh of contentment.

You glanced over your shoulder, a smile on your lips. Noticing he was still perched on the edge of the chair, but his posture seemed to have softened a fraction. His eyes, were still fixed on your movements with that curious, focused intensity.

"Do you need any help?" he offered immediately, eyes snapping up to yours. He shifts in his seat, like he wants to stand up.

You shook your head right away, you didn't want him doing anymore than he had, it felt unfair to a point. that this was the first time you're able to repay him for all the tasks he has either assisted with— or outright done for you. It would feel incredibly wrong to ask him to help with more, at this point.

You shook your head, turning back around and gesturing vaguely with your wooden spoon. 

"Oh no, you've helped so much tonight." You insist. "I'm just going to finish the vegetables, then set the table while the pasta cooks."

He seemed to perk up at though, when he heard an unfinished task on your hands.

“I can do that!” He declared, nodding happily. He left from his spot with surprising speed, a blur, almost, you just blinked and he was just… standing there. Making his way to the drawers and cupboards, like he already knows their contents, pulling out the dishes and placing them at the table neatly.

“All set,” he announced, turning back to you, hands clasped in front of him again, a picture of humble satisfaction.

“Perfect,” you said, looking at the pot. The water was at a rolling boil, and you carefully dropped the pasta in. 

“Just a few minutes for the pasta, then we’re good to go.”

He settled back into the chair, this time a little less stiffly, watching the pot intently as if his gaze alone could make the water boil faster. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of the dinner you're cooking. It was a homey scent, it had completely washed out the murky drain smell.

You drained the pasta, tossed it with the sauce, and then brought the steaming bowl to the table, along with a sprinkle of fresh parsley and a bowl of grated Parmesan. as you carried them to the table, Clark immediately jumped up to pull out your chair for you, like a true gentleman.

“Thank you, Clark,” you murmured, genuinely touched by the small gesture. It wasn't often someone took time to be so gentlemanly to you, never really in the comfort of your own home.

He mumbled a quick, “Of course,” as he settled into his own seat. Clark’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the colorful pasta. He picked up his fork, hesitated for a moment, then took a bite. His careful chewing gave way to an expression of bliss.

“This is… incredible,” he murmured after a moment, looking up to you in appreciation. “I really like it!”

You smiled at him brightly, he could see your eyes light up before you respond. 

“Thanks! It’s hard to mess up good ingredients.” You took a bite yourself, enjoying the fruits of your labor. He was right, it tasted delightful, especially after the disaster you had gone through just prior. The awkward silence from before had shifted into a comfortable quiet, accompanied by the clinking of forks and the occasional appreciative hum from Clark.

You watched him as he ate— not on purpose, you were just a little mesmerized. He consumed his food with an almost quiet reverence, not fast, but steadily, enjoying each mouthful. 

It occurred to you then, seeing him sitting at you kitchen table, eating with you, that this was the longest you’d ever really talked to Clark, or rather, existed in the same room with him without needing help with something, or an emergency happening. Usually, he was swooping in, fixing something, then politely excusing himself. This was different. This felt… normal. And nice.

He finished his first helping with quiet efficiency, then looked up at you, a hesitant question in his eyes. “This is really good. Is there… more?”

You nodded happily at him, chuckling. “Of course there’s more, Clark. Plenty for seconds, and probably lunch tomorrow. Help yourself.” you insist, nudging the serving bowl in his direction.

Clark’s face lit up, a sweet, boyish smile spreading across it. He reached for the bowl eagerly, spooning a generous second helping onto his plate.

"Thank you!" he says softly, digging into this portion with the same quiet enjoyment as the first.

You stood up while he finished eating, taking your dishes to your newly unclogged sink, leaning down into a cupboard to get a Tupperware to put the leftovers in. You heard the gentle clinking of his fork on the ceramic plate for a few more moments, then silence. 

When you straightened up with the container, you saw that Clark had completely scraped his plate clean, again. He looked up at you with a faint flush on his cheeks, as if he was caught in the act.

“That was… truly wonderful,” he said, his voice a little softer than usual, filled with genuine gratitude. He even patted his stomach discreetly. 

“Thank you, really.”

You can't help the giggle that escapes you, you couldn't really describe the type of happiness Clark made you feel with one word; not only did you just feel so safe and taken care of when he was around, but his boyish tendencies had a type of purity to it. an inherent goodness.

you brought the container over to the serving bowl, with at least enough for a couple more meals in it; and scooped it inside. setting it down to let the steam out before you close it. your hands come down for Clark's empty plate, bringing it to join yours in the sink.

"Glad you think so. It’s comforting food, I think.”

Clark’s eyes, still wide and earnest, followed all your movements. When you took his plate, he stood up. “Let me help with that!” he offered immediately, reaching for the remaining serving bowl and the Parmesan.

You chuckled again, shaking your head gently. “No, no, Clark. Please. You’ve done more than enough tonight. Consider this a, well, a thank you dinner,” you said, nudging the serving bowl subtly away from his reach with your hip as you turned to the sink. 

“You rescued my evening, quite literally. Let me take care of the rest.”

He stopped mid-action, his hand hovering for a moment, then hesitantly lowered it. 

“Oh. Okay,” he said, sounding the slightest bit resigned, but still understanding. He watched as you quickly rinsed the plates and stacked them in the sink, then sealed the Tupperware of leftovers.

"Here!" you eld the plastic container out to him, still slightly warm to the touch. You wanted him to take the leftovers, not only to repay the lasagna from when you'd first moved in; but to repay for everything, all his kind acts that he didn't really allow you to reward or praise.

"please take it, you loved it so much."

He looks like he wants to say no, his tall frame towered over you no matter how small or meek he was able to make himself appear, hesitant and nervous. his eyes flick up to the ceiling, his face concentrating on something before he sighs softly and nods.

He took the container from you with both hands, cradling it almost carefully. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, his soft gaze holds your eyes as he gives a smile and a nod to you. 

“You’re very thoughtful.”

that night broke down a barrier. the one between friendly neighbour, and good friend.

You found yourself making excuses to extend your conversations in the hallway, lingering at your door just a little longer, hoping to catch him coming or going.

He still did the little things, but now Clark finally stopped pulling Irish goodbyes after. Instead, when he helped bring your groceries in, he stays for coffee when you offer— opening up about his job and the people there. He’d sheepishly admit to Perry White’s booming presence making him nervous, or marvel at Lois’s uncanny ability to sniff out a story; and how he wishes he could be that good.

But you read his articles (all, not just some now) and he was good, so many times you tried to explain this to him; how his pieces weren’t just well-researched, but infused with a real sort of empathy and humanity that others often missed. How he didn’t just report on the tragedies like a struggling family, but found their hope, their beauty. That he didn’t just list statistics, but he made you feel the injustice, the triumph– whatever the story demanded.

He’d just blush, run a hand through his messy dark hair, mumbling something about "just doing his job," But you knew better. It wasn't solely his work ethic (although that was a force of itself); it was his heart.

You share your baking with him, brining a plate of cookies or brownies over on your way by. Every time he seemed slightly startled at the idea of being given things, before his face softened into a genuine smile. "For me? You're too good to me."

He’d say it with such earnestness, as if a simple plate of chocolate chip cookies was the greatest treasure.

Sometimes, when the evening light softened the city into shades of bruised purple and gold, he'd knock on your door, a carton of Chinese takeout in hand, mumbling something about "a long day" and "not wanting to eat alone." 

You’d clear a space on your small coffee table, and he’d settle in, shoulders visibly relaxing as he recounted the day's events at the Planet, or sometimes, surprisingly, mused about the quiet life in Smallville. You'd learned he was adopted, and how his Ma and Pa raised him to be so kind, how he does a lot of what he does because of them. 

One particularly rough week, after a project at work went sideways and you felt utterly deflated, he knocked. This time, there was no takeout, just a hesitant smile and a small, slightly squashed bouquet of daisies. 

"I, uh… I overheard you on the phone earlier," he mumbled, his cheeks tinged pink. "Sounded like you had a tough day. Ma always said flowers help."

Your ex had never bought you flowers, never even picked up a cool rock or a pretty weed for you. 'why would i?  flowers just wilt and die.'

You felt a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the chill of the AC. You took the flowers, heart aching in a good way. 

"Thanks, Clark," you managed, your voice a little thick.

you'd never in you life been met with such a sheer force of positivity. And not ever in a toxic way— Clark was just genuinely good. a driving force in his work, in the building, in your life. 

It wasn’t just the flowers. It was the way he remembered your favorite brand of coffee when he went to the store, just in case you were low. it was the way he’d offer to take out your overflowing recycling bin, when his own was barely full. It was the way his whole face lit up when you laughed at one of his slightly corny jokes, a sound that seemed to chase away any shadows in the room.

You started to notice the subtle changes in yourself. You used to think so cynically, in your day-to-day life, at work, when any inconvenience befell you. But that shield began to soften. You found yourself smiling more, genuinely. The thought of Clark, of his unwavering kindness, was like a quiet hum of reassurance in the background of your days. He wasn't just doing things for you; he was showing you, through his simple existence, that genuine goodness wasn't a myth. It was real, and it lived just down the hall.

Today had been a long day, and you were looking forward to a relaxing evening with Clark. You’d invited him over for dinner, hoping to unwind with someone who was always easy to be around. things were even easier when you ran into him in the lobby of the building, groceries for the meal in hand. You saw Clark's face light up as he sees you, waving immediately and walking towards you, already relieving you of your bags and offering to head up together.

It WAS a nice walk up, but your face immediately fell as you step into your apartment with him. a grimace replacing the giggle that had just been on your lips as you immediately notice the eyesore of dishes, piled up in the sink from the past few nights of meals.

"Oh—jesus, sorry about this," you said, gesturing towards the mess. "Let me just get rid of it right now real quick—."

But Clark, being Clark, just smiled, setting the groceries down on the counter. "Don't worry about it. I'll just wash them up real quick."

You started to protest, but he was already filling the sink with soapy water. You watched as he carefully scrubbed each dish, his movements precise and efficient. It was like watching a dance, and you found yourself mesmerized by the way he moved.

As he rinsed off the last dish, you found yourself blurting out, "You're like a superhero, you know that?"

He froze, the dish in his hand dripping water onto the counter. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his gaze. But then it was gone, replaced by the same gentle smile you'd come to know so well.

you must've said something wrong, but what?

"Oh," he mumbled, his voice a little lower, a little less steady than usual. "

No, no, just... just a regular guy. You know. Farmers are... resourceful." He gave a nervous chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well, uh, I should, uh, get back. Got a... a thing. To do. Paperwork."

You're absolutely perplexed, he was leaving, because of something you'd said. You want to protest, your mouth opens to say something, but you're too clueless as to what could possibly be wrong, and he's already moving— fast.

He puts the plate down, and makes his way past you, towards the door; not quite bumping into the frame, but moving with a hurried, almost clumsy urgency that felt more like an escape than a polite exit. He vanished down the hall, leaving your door ajar, the familiar click of his own apartment door a moment later.

Clark let his apartment slam shut behind him, rushing inside in pure panic. He hurried to his couch, sitting down with a thud, his mind racing through the evening’s events. His thoughts tangled together like a mess of unraveled string. his chest feels tight, he feels hot and flustered— he definitely lost his cool back there, if you hadn't been hinting at something with your comment, you must be suspicious of something NOW.

It must've been that time he set the table, moving too fast, of when he had caught five apples falling from the top of your grocery bag without so much as stumbling, that must've tipped you off, and the comment was you way of letting him know you knew.

or, he was being silly. it was just a lighthearted joke, and you had no idea before he had rushed away from you with his tail between his legs.

He hated this. did you know? didn't you know?

Clark wouldn't lie to you.  And technically, he hadn't. You had never even mentioned superman before tonight, so he felt safe never bringing it up; being just Clark, your neighbour.

He liked being just Clark with you. He loved it, in fact. The easy conversations over the laundry machines, how you’d wave from your doorway when he came home from work, the comfortable silences when you were just in each other's presence. He enjoyed the simplicity of helping you, seeing your grateful smile, hearing your lighthearted jokes. It felt... normal. It made HIM feel normal.

With you, he wasn't Metropolis's hero, or an alien, or the last son of Krypton. He was just… Clark. the perpetually helpful, sweet-but-awkward guy from the apartment across the hall. And you treated him that way, so, the thought of losing that, of your perception of him changing from 'sweet, awkward Clark' to 'Clark, who is also Superman,' made his stomach churn.

"Superhero." The word echoed in his mind. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the heat still radiating from his cheeks. He’d noticed the shift in your easy smile, the way your brows had furrowed in confusion as he stumbled over an excuse, all but sprinting from your apartment.

He must have looked like a complete idiot, a mess who couldn’t even handle a compliment.

This was not how he handled difficult situations. He was supposed to be the one who kept a cool head under pressure, the one who faced down villains and disasters and saved lives every day under extreme pressure and scrutiny. But a simple, off-hand joke from his neighbor had turned him into a overthinking, panicked, mess.

He knew you. He knew you were kind, discerning, intelligent. He noticed the softness in how you treated others, a thing he admired a lot. He knew how good you were, so it made him feel...bad. guilty. he should trust you, he knows he could, that you'd never tell, or do anything to jeopardize his secret.

But he was just scared, so scared. what if you looked at him differently? Would you still joke with him? Would you still offer him dinner? Or would he become ‘Superman’ to you, even in the quiet confines of their building?

He threw himself back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his empty, quiet, apartment amplifying the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.

What were you thinking right now? Were you piecing it all together? were you going back through old Superman interviews, and realizing that only Clark Kent had ever conducted them? were you upset that he hadn't told you? you wouldn't be mad, but he would be crushed if you felt betrayed.

He swallowed hard, fidgeting with his hands in frustration. He couldn't just pretend it didn't happen. He couldn't avoid you forever. The apartment building was too small, your connection had grown too strong. He owed you an explanation, he owed you the truth. He just needed to figure out how.

He slept on it— not well, tossing and turning and hardly really sleeping. Thinking of when he would see you next, and what he would say, what you would say. He knew he couldn't avoid you forever. This apartment building wasn't THAT big, he still had a job, a city to protect. He also didn't want to avoid you, your company was nice and he had grown used to your presence, spending time together in his off hours. He didn't want that to end.

In the morning he made coffee, the warm scent of it blanketing the entire apartment, but doing little to comfort him and the feeling crawling around in his stomach. He paced his apartment, the decision solidifying in his mind. He would tell you. Today. He just needed the right moment.

Before he left for work, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring himself down. his icy blue eyes boring into every divot and curve of his skin, scrutinizing, he furrows his brow and stands up straighter, he took a deep, confident breath, the kind he usually saved for dealing with city-wide threats

"I-I am...superman." he says out loud, as if you were in front of him. 

he scoffs and shakes his head in annoyance, that didn't come out right. Good Lord, why was this so hard? it was just...you. His neighbour— his friend, one of the people he trusted most, wanted to be around most. it should come easier to him, but as he stares at himself, repeating different variations of "I'm Superman..." out loud, all of them falling flat, sounding wrong. He squinted at his reflection, this wasn't going to work. 

He turned away from the mirror, it was time for work anyways. he grabs his briefcase and listens closely, when he hears no movement from your apartment, he moves; rushing out as quickly and quietly as possible, by the time you'd be able to hear him out there, he would be already two flights down the stairs. his heart beating frantic in his ears, loud enough to give him a headache.

He wanted to tell you. He just didn't know how.

You hadn't seen Clark in a week.

It was like he was using the same sixth sense he had possessed to swoop in and fix any problem you had, to now avoid you. The hallways were quiet when he would usually be coming and going from work, he was never by the mailboxes or in the laundry room. 

his helpfulness never stopped though, he took out the garbage bag you'd left outside of the door in the ten minutes it took you to finish your show and go to deal with it yourself. he brought your mail up twice. but it was like he was a ghost, never seen or heard by you. his goodness still seeped into your life, invisible, but you could feel it.

Something had obviously changed that night, when you'd made that joke. That's all it was, a joke. you, perhaps, naively, had thought 'oh wow! Clark is strong and handy, and always there to help me. like a superhero!' because, well, that's how you felt about him. he had saved your day countless times with his smile, with this eagerness to help.

You considered knocking on his door. You thought about it, again and again. You were his neighbor, his friend— whatever THIS was. Things felt awkward, a regression maybe, but it didn’t seem like something that should be swept under the rug. The way he had rushed out of your apartment without any explanation, the way his eyes had lingered on you before he made a quick, panicked exit... it all felt wrong.

The thought of a regression stung. You truly appreciated Clark’s steady presence, his quiet strength, the way his mild awkwardness only made him even more endearing. Now, the hallway felt emptier, the silence from across the hall heavier. It was like something was missing, he was missing.

It couldn't be that Clark was offended somehow, or that didn't like metahumans. Clark loved all life, big or small, powerful or weak, young or old; he valued everything all the same. so why has he reacted so suddenly to your words?

You knew you'd messed up, but you couldn’t for the life of you figure out how. "Superhero." You mumbled the word to yourself, testing it, trying to find the hidden meaning that had sent him into a tailspin. It was a compliment, true and simple. He was YOUR superhero. He always seemed to appear exactly when you needed him, always went above and beyond, always with that earnest, gentle expression that both charmed and amused you.

Unless… unless he thought you were mocking him? But that made no sense. Your tone had been genuinely appreciative. You had no reason to mock Clark. You genuinely liked him. More than liked, probably.

"Superhero," you muttered to yourself, leaning against your door, listening to the lack of sound from his apartment. "What was I even thinking?"

Whatever it was, he must be mad, you think. You'd never seen Clark truly mad, but you figured this must be it. This silence, this absence. It had to be his anger.

A week. A whole week. This was ridiculous. Your patience, usually long-suffering, was wearing thin. You missed him. What was he doing right now? How was he doing at work? Was he alright? these were all things clawing away at your head when you're supposed to be sleeping.

this was enough, it was hurting. more than you could've ever expected to, tugging at your heartstrings and stinging in your eyes. you felt fractured, and the idea that you had somehow hurt the kindest person you'd ever known made it even worse.

You had to do something, say something. even if he was angry, even if he didn't want to say anything back.

Taking a deep breath, you walked to your door, your heart thrumming a nervous cadence against your ribs as you cross the hall. You paused, just for a second, then reached out and rapped gently on Clark’s apartment door.

One knock. Then two. You waited, expecting the quick, quiet click of the lock, perhaps the rustle of him moving inside. But there was nothing. You knocked again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Clark?" you tried weakly through the door, sighing gently as your hand falls to its side.

"Clark, i don't know if you're home. if you are though," you take a breath and clear your throat, you'd never felt so nervous when talking to him before, you don't know why this is happening now of all times.

"I just wanna say I'm really sorry..." you wanna beat yourself up for the way your voice audibly wavers, the tears that are big and fresh threatening to spill. you didn't normally cry over things, you usually shut down a bit, built defenses. but you felt so sad and pathetic begging at his door, you just wanted your friend back. 

"I really didn't mean to make you mad at me, I'm sorry—"

The click of the lock, soft but distinct, made you jolt away from his door. You stopped, and you watched, anxious, as the door slowly swung inward.

There he was. Clark.

He definitely didn't look mad.

His curly hair was usually a little messy, but right now it was completely disheveled. His glasses sat askew on his face, his eyes were still kind and soft when you looked into them, but you saw he had just the slightest bags under them, he looked worn out.

His gaze met yours, and the look in his eyes instantly dissolved any remaining self-pity you had. The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

"Oh, Clark," you whimpered, your voice pathetic.

He winced, his brow furrowing deeper. "No! No, no, no, don't cry," he stammered, his own voice sounding rough, unused. He took a hesitant step forward, as if afraid to approach you, his hands hover awkwardly at his sides. 

"Please don't cry. I'm not mad. I promise. Not at all."

Clark ran a hand through his already wild hair, his glasses still crooked. He looked genuinely pained, his eyes darting away from yours for a moment before settling back on your face, he hated that you were crying— because of HIM. He stepped fully out of the doorway, his hand reaching out tentatively, then dropping, was he allowed to touch you?

“Clark,” you choked out again, the single word the only thing you're able to conjure up; a plea, a question, an apology all rolled into one. Your chin trembled, and another tear slipped free. 

Clark looked genuinely lost, a far cry from the composed, if slightly clumsy, reporter you usually knew. His eyes, usually so clear and honest, were clouded with a mix of distress and something else you couldn't quite decipher. He was beside himself.

"I... I never meant to make you cry," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.

He took another step, this time, his hand didn’t retreat. Slowly, and very gently, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall further. The touch was feather-light, barely there, yet it sent a jolt through you, a warmth spreading from that small point of contact. Then, his thumb moved again, wiping away another tear. You leaned into the touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it offered.

"Please. I'm so sorry." His skin was warm against yours, and for the first time in a week, you felt a fragile sense of peace settle over you.

“Why did you leave? And you've been avoiding me? I thought… I thought you were mad. I thought I’d done something wrong.” you sniffle, your eyes are glassy and wide as you look up at Clark for answers.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, a quiet, repetitive motion that was incredibly soothing. He took a heavy breath, his eyes darting away for a brief moment, then back to you. he shakes his head, lips pursing slightly at the suggestion.

“I wasn’t mad,” he repeats, his voice low and strained. “Never mad. How could I ever be mad at you? You’re… you’re the kindest person I know.” He paused, searching for the words.

"I—" Clark paused again, clearly struggling to put the right words together. He took a shaky breath, rubbing his temples for a moment before meeting your eyes again, his face a mixture of uncertainty and guilt. 

"I never meant to make things weird between us. I thought... I thought I could handle it. But I can't. I’ve been lying to you."

Lying? Clark? those two words just didn't make sense put together like that. you feel your brow knit together and your mouth opens with a question hanging silent on your tongue. 

"Clark, what are you talking about? You haven't lied to me." You shook your head, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of his words.

He winced, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips, then to the hand still gently caressing your cheek. 

“You called me a superhero,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And... you were right. More right than you knew.” 

When your expression goes blank, somehow even more confused than before, he speaks again. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“I am a superhero. Not just your superhero, but... a superhero. The one you hear about on the news. The one that flies. The one from Krypton.”

You stared at him, your mouth slightly agape, the tears on your cheeks drying cold. The warmth of his thumb on your skin was the only real thing, a tether to the moment, because everything else was tilting.

Superman. Clark Kent. Your awkward, sweet, kind neighbor. It was impossible. It was… undeniably obvious, now that its been pointed out.

The way he always seemed to know when you needed help, appearing just as your groceries threatened to spill, or when your pipes burst. Not physically clumsy, no, but his social awkwardness, his carefulness not to draw attention to himself.

"You... you're..." Your voice was a barely audible whisper, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on his face.

Clark's face betrayed all his vulnerability, his gaze searching yours, absolutely terrified of your reaction. His hand, still on your cheek, trembled. He was bracing for anything– anger, disgust, fear, rejection.

"I know it's a lot," he mumbled, his voice softer now, laced with a raw honesty that pierced through the initial shock. "I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I just... I didn't know how. I didn't want to lose what we have."

He was scared? not just of you knowing his secret, but how you'd react to him— all of him. You had been so consumed by thinking he was mad, by your own hurt, that you hadn't considered any of this. He was scared you wouldn't like him anymore, that the ordinary, sweet neighbor you cherished would be overshadowed by the extraordinary hero.

But he was still Clark. Always had been. The heroics simply solidified the quiet strength and unwavering kindness you already knew. it made so much sense, if anyone was going to be superman, it would be him— and it was.

A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips, a shaky, tear-laced sound.

“You’re still Clark,” you murmured, your gaze unwavering. 

“The Clark who helps me with groceries, who fixed my sink, who listened to me ramble about my bad days.” A small, genuine laugh escaped you, a sound of pure affection.

“The Clark who’s like… a superhero. just, even more so now, I guess.”

“You’re not… mad?” he asked, a hint of wonder in his voice.

“Mad?” you scoff, leaning a little closer.

“Clark, I’ve been worried sick for a week that you were mad at me. I thought I’d said something wrong. I thought I’d lost you.” Your voice softened, your gaze dropping to his arms, then back up.

“I missed you, Clark. Terribly.”

You saw the moment his fear finally receded, replaced by a glimmer of hope. His thumb, which had resumed its gentle stroking, paused. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there, a question in the depths of his blue eyes.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, an eager, excited rhythm. You had wanted this, in some unspoken way, for so long. You leaned in, just slightly, inviting him.

His other hand rose, cupping your jaw, his fingers brushing against your hair. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, standing in the quiet hallway of your apartment building, the weight of a universe-shattering secret hanging between you, yet feeling lighter than air.

And then, he brought himself in close. His lips were hesitant at first, pressing softly against yours. It wasn't a demanding kiss, it felt like the first taste of oxygen after a long week of holding your breath. It was soft, sweet, full of unspoken apologies and a blossoming hope.

When he pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed for a moment as if savoring the feeling. When they opened, they were alight with utter adoration, like you were the only thing to exist in this moment.

“I… I’ve wanted to do that,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

This was Clark. And he was everything you had ever hoped for, and so much more. The superhero, yes, but also the man who worried about his laundry, who looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and who, right now, was finally letting himself be fully seen.

“So,” you whispered, your voice thick with anticipation, your heart pounding excitedly from the aftermath of his kiss.

“does this mean dinner is back on the table?”

Clark’s lips curved into a soft, relieved smile, the kind made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The adoration in his gaze deepened, and he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your forehead.

“Dinner is definitely back on the table,” he murmured, his voice laced with pure fondness. “And every meal after that, if you’ll have me.”

my first fic that's not a joc character, mom im scared. hope u like tho <3

[sflame15-blog]

Just Clark 𐙚 Clark Kent

clark kent x fem!reader

Summary: You live in the same building as Clark Kent. You think he’s sweet but awkward, he carries your bags, helps you build things, fixes issues in your apartment. You joke he’s “like a superhero” for doing the chores your ex never did, and he panics and runs off

Warnings/Themes: mention of bad past relationship (nothing serious just like weaponized incompetence), bad communicator clark, bad communication in general, crying, awkward clark, clumsy cursed reader no mention of race, good at cooking/baking reader, no use of y/n, half proofread, if you notice fuck-ups no u didn't, wrote in like three days so messy concept but I needed it

Words: 8.2k

You’d just moved to Metropolis, still reeling from the messy implosion of your last relationship. Needing something new; and the day you moved into Apartment 4B, Clark Kent was there. Not as some official welcome wagon, just... there. You were wrestling a very heavy, probably over-packed, box of kitchenware up the cramped stairwell. The elevator had a handwritten 'under maintenance' sign— so you had to make the four story trip by foot, when a shadow fell over you.

"Need a hand with that?" he asked, his voice mild, almost timid. Sweat stinging your eyes as you looked up to see a glasses-clad man with dark hair falling perpetually over his brow, his tall figure absolutely towering you. 

You grunted, hoisting the box higher, and nodding frantically. "Please, God, yes."

He took it from you as if it weighed nothing, a small, polite smile on his face. He carried it the rest of the way, and then the next ten boxes, and then helped you assemble your rickety IKEA bedframe— "so you definitely have somewhere to sleep tonight.", all without asking for anything in return. He just seemed… happy to help. Told you his name, and where he was if you needed him again, then just... left like he hadn't even been there at all.

One sweltering afternoon, only one week after the first encounter, you were struggling to assemble a truly monstrous wardrobe (last time you try to get something nice for yourself, with how much work it was taking). You’d spent a fat three hours wrestling with indecipherable diagrams, and runaway screws, and the thing was still just a pile of glorified wood chips.

Sweat was plastering your hair to your forehead, and frustration was a hot knot in your stomach. You were about to admit defeat and call a professional when there was a gentle knock on your door.

It was Clark, holding a small casserole dish. "I had extra lasagna, thought you might like some after your move-in efforts," he said, already scanning your apartment, his gaze landing on the chaotic heap of wooden planks. "Oh, gosh. Looks like you're having some trouble there."

Clark set the lasagna down on your kitchen counter, the warm, savory smell instantly making your stomach rumble. “Trouble” was an understatement.

“It’s… a work in progress,” you mumbled, pushing a stray hair out of your eyes.

He gave a soft, understanding nod. “Looks like it. Mind if I…?” He gestured vaguely at the pile of wood, a polite question in his eyes.

You scoff, falling back onto your floor in frustration as you waves both hands dismissively, rolling your eyes. Heat creeping up your neck in frustration— not towards Clark. You just hated being seen as helpless, especially by a man, after your ex had always made you feel like you were.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, though your tone clearly indicated the opposite. “I can… I’ll wrestle it eventually. Or something."

Clark didn't lecture, didn't patronize. He just offered a gentle, knowing smile. 

“Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can make all the difference, though. And a little extra muscle never hurts, does it?” He knelt beside the instruction manual, you watched, exhausted and feeling defeated, as his eyes quickly scanned the diagrams. He hummed quietly, a low, thoughtful sound. Then, without a word, he began to work.

He didn't seem to struggle, he didn't swear or grunt. And within what felt like minutes, not hours, the bones of the wardrobe began to emerge from the chaos. He worked with a quiet concentration, occasionally humming a low, tuneless melody to himself. You just sat dumbfounded on the floor, occasionally handing Clark a screw or reading an instruction out for him, feeling pretty useless.

Within a mere half-hour, the sinister pile of rubble that threatened to haunt you was standing tall and proud, a testament to... well, to Clark. He straightened up, wiping a smudge from his glasses. "There we go," he said, a faint, pleased flush on his cheeks. "Looks sturdy."

“Clark,” you breathed, staring at the finished product, then at him. He was wiping a little sawdust from his glasses, a faint flush on his cheeks. “How… how did you do that so fast?”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound, and shrugged humbly. “Oh, you know. Good instructions, and a little teamwork. You were a great help."

You knew he was being kind, incredibly kind, but you still felt goosebumps rise on your arm.

Before you can really thank him, or offer him some water, or to sit. He's picked up the empty box it came in, filling it with all the plastic packaging and packing material. “I’ll just take these down for you.” 

you can't even really protest, a weak, "Clark-" leaves with a sigh. But he was gone, leaving you with a perfectly built wardrobe and a warm, lasagna sat on your kitchen counter.

It became a quiet routine, an unspoken agreement that you had neither expected or requested— but wasn't unwelcome. You’d be struggling with an overflowing laundry basket down to the basement machines, and there he’d be, a polite cough and a gentle, “Need a hand with that?” before he’d somehow manage to carry it with one hand while holding the door open with the other. You’d find your groceries, especially those heavier bags of sugar or bulk-buy pasta, suddenly lighter as he’d appear by your side in the lobby, often with an “Oh, heading up? I’ll just grab that,” before you could even protest.

You’d settled into your new life, and Clark Kent was undeniably a part of that comfortable rhythm. He was the kind of neighbour everyone wanted but few ever had. He never asked for coffee, never lingered for small talk that felt forced. His kindness was earnest and unassuming. He worked at the Daily Planet— a journalist, you knew, you'd seen his article's and even read a few.

You started looking forward to seeing him, even. Like a warm cup of coffee on a cold morning. He was the antithesis of your ex, who had considered taking the garbage to the curb a Herculean task, and who expected a cookie, parade, medal, hoedown, just for helping, all while finding a way to subtly belittle your own efforts.

Clark just did. He folded your laundry one time when you’d left it in the communal dryer for too long, just leaving it neatly folded on your doormat. He once noticed your lightbulb flickering in the hallway fixture and, the next day, there was a new bulb and a note taped to it, “Fixed it for you! :) – CK.”

One evening, you were attempting to make dinner when a wallet draining gurgle erupted from your kitchen sink, followed by a torrent of brown, foul-smelling water backing up and spilling onto the wood floor. You stared at it in disgust, your half-chopped vegetables suddenly feeling a lot less appetizing. After a frantic, futile attempt with a plunger, and a quick, angry call to your landlord that went straight to voicemail, you slumped against the counter, defeated.

As you set your cell down angrily on the kitchen table, there's a faint knock at your door. Clark. He must have heard the gurgling, or maybe your frustrated groan.

“Everything alright in there?” He asked, his voice muffled through the wood.

You groaned, pushing yourself off the counter and trudging to the door. Pulling it open, you gesture back at the disaster zone that was your kitchen, a tired groan leaving your mouth. Murky water was still bubbling from the sink and pooling on the floor, the smell permeating the entire space.

“Clark! Oh my god, no. My sink just… exploded. And the landlord isn’t answering. I think I’m going to cry.” You admit, your eyes large and panicked as you let him in.

He looked at the scene, his brow furrowed with concern. His eyes moving from your distressed face to the overflowing sink, and then, without a word, he stepped inside.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. Taking the sleeves of his plaid shirt and rolling them to his elbows, revealing forearms that, surprisingly, had a lean strength to them, despite his general awkwardness.

“Let’s take a look.”

He walked towards the sink, not a hint of disgust on his face, even as he peered into the murky water. “Do you have a bucket? And maybe some old towels?”

You nodded, retrieving a bucket from under the sink and a stack of old t-shirts you used for rags. He worked with the same quiet efficiency as he had with the wardrobe. He listened to the pipes, tapped at them, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a large wrench and a snake. 

He didn’t make a mess, somehow managing to disconnect and clear a section of pipe without drenching himself or the floor in more filth, directing the flow into the bucket you held, which he’d insisted you only lightly support while he did the heavy lifting. The stench was still there, but diminishing as he cleared the blockage.

His brow was furrowed— just ever so slightly, a look of mild concentration, then there was a distinct whoosh as the water drained, gurgling and bubbling on its way down the pipe. He reconnected everything, wiped down the area with a towel, and then, completely unprompted, started cleaning up the spilled water on your floor. This was at least something you could help with, lowering your body as you assist in sopping up the liquid.

"Clark, you're always saving my day," you sighed, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. "My ex couldn't even load the dishwasher without a hassle."

He gave a small, humble nod, a faint flush rising on his cheeks at the praise. He never quite knew what to do with compliments, often just offering a shy, modest smile in return. “Just glad I could help,” he murmured.

You looked at the shining sink (pipes intact), the clean floor, and then back at him. He was already halfway turned, stealthily on his way back to his own apartment, he'd fulfilled his neighbourly duty. But even though the immediate disaster was over, a different feeling settled over you. He’d helped you out of a literal mess, dealt with something truly disgusting, and hadn’t so much as batted an eye. He deserved more than just a thank you. 

“Clark, wait,” you protest, making a gentle move for him, a hand landing on his arm. 

“You can’t just go. You… you literally just cleaned up my putrid plumbing. And you were about to drain your wallet on dinner ingredients before all this happened.” 

You gestured vaguely at the chopping board where your half-prepped vegetables lay. “Would you… would you mind staying for dinner? It’s the least I can do. I was making… well, I was trying to make pasta primavera, but I can easily switch to something else, if you prefer.”

He froze immediately at your touch— gentle as it was, he turned. His eyes widening in surprise, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Oh, you really don’t have to,” he stammered, his voice a little higher than usual. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I, uh, I was just heading back myself. Got… got some… articles to write.” He gestured vaguely towards his apartment door.

“Clark, you just saved my kitchen from a brown, watery apocalypse. You’ve earned dinner. And honestly,” you added, a genuine smile forming,

“I’d actually enjoy the company. My apartment feels awfully quiet sometimes.”

The hand that had gone to his arm was still there, a gentle anchor. He swallowed, eyes darting from your face to the half-chopped vegetables, then to his own apartment door He seemed to grapple with some unseen internal debate, his usual humble demeanor warring with the simple human desire for company, or perhaps, just not wanting to appear rude by outright refusing your sincere invitation.

He hesitated for another moment, then a small, true smile touched his lips. “Pasta primavera… sounds lovely,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but with a new note of quiet acceptance. “Thank you. That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

"Oh great!" you breathed, turning back to the kitchen with renewed energy. “Make yourself comfortable. Is there anything you can’t eat? Any allergies?”

“Oh, no, I eat… everything,” he said quickly, you just nodded, already rummaging for a clean pot.

"Feel free to sit wherever you'd like." you tell him, gesturing out at all the furniture in the dining and living room. 

He nodded, still a little stiffly, and settled onto one of your kitchen chairs, perching on the edge as if ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Your attention back on your cutting board and dealing with the unchopped half of the veggies. It was a comfortable silence, surprisingly so for someone you only usually encountered in brief, helpful bursts.

The thud-thud-thud of your knife on the vegetables filled the silence. Clark stayed still on the edge of the kitchen chair, hands clasped loosely in front of him, watching you with a kind of intensity that would've been almost unnerving, if it wasn't so genuinely kind.

“You know, you don’t have to just sit there like a statue, Clark,” you teased gently, turning back to segment a bell pepper. 

“You’re welcome to relax, maybe grab a book— i can get you a drink, or put on some music, what do you like?”

He blinked, as if startled from a deep thought. 

“Oh! No, no, I’m fine,” he said, straightening a fraction. 

“It’s… captivating. Watching you cook.” His admits, earnest and sincere, remained fixed on your movements. “You’ve got a good… rhythm.”

Your knife paused for a second, a puzzled type of smile on your lips; your back is still turned to him, and your head cocks to the side subtly. What? Captivating? you gave an internal scoff, was he sure about that? his words had sounded so genuine, pure, full of a type of appreciation you had never been shown before.

you hummed, finishing the pepper off and moving on without turning to face him. "Most people find cooking to be pretty mundane." 

He flushed immediately, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks. 

"No, no, I mean it!" he insisted, his voice earnest.

It was truly endearing, the way he found a simple appreciation for all aspects of things. You sliced some zucchini, and began mincing garlic; when the cutting was complete, you started boiling water for the pasta, then sautéing the aromatics. The smell of olive oil heating in a pan began to waft through the kitchen, mingling with the fresh scent of bell peppers and herbs.

“Smells amazing,” breathed from behind you, his voice barely above a whisper. It was an involuntary reaction, almost like a sigh of contentment.

You glanced over your shoulder, a smile on your lips. Noticing he was still perched on the edge of the chair, but his posture seemed to have softened a fraction. His eyes, were still fixed on your movements with that curious, focused intensity.

"Do you need any help?" he offered immediately, eyes snapping up to yours. He shifts in his seat, like he wants to stand up.

You shook your head right away, you didn't want him doing anymore than he had, it felt unfair to a point. that this was the first time you're able to repay him for all the tasks he has either assisted with— or outright done for you. It would feel incredibly wrong to ask him to help with more, at this point.

You shook your head, turning back around and gesturing vaguely with your wooden spoon. 

"Oh no, you've helped so much tonight." You insist. "I'm just going to finish the vegetables, then set the table while the pasta cooks."

He seemed to perk up at though, when he heard an unfinished task on your hands.

“I can do that!” He declared, nodding happily. He left from his spot with surprising speed, a blur, almost, you just blinked and he was just… standing there. Making his way to the drawers and cupboards, like he already knows their contents, pulling out the dishes and placing them at the table neatly.

“All set,” he announced, turning back to you, hands clasped in front of him again, a picture of humble satisfaction.

“Perfect,” you said, looking at the pot. The water was at a rolling boil, and you carefully dropped the pasta in. 

“Just a few minutes for the pasta, then we’re good to go.”

He settled back into the chair, this time a little less stiffly, watching the pot intently as if his gaze alone could make the water boil faster. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of the dinner you're cooking. It was a homey scent, it had completely washed out the murky drain smell.

You drained the pasta, tossed it with the sauce, and then brought the steaming bowl to the table, along with a sprinkle of fresh parsley and a bowl of grated Parmesan. as you carried them to the table, Clark immediately jumped up to pull out your chair for you, like a true gentleman.

“Thank you, Clark,” you murmured, genuinely touched by the small gesture. It wasn't often someone took time to be so gentlemanly to you, never really in the comfort of your own home.

He mumbled a quick, “Of course,” as he settled into his own seat. Clark’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the colorful pasta. He picked up his fork, hesitated for a moment, then took a bite. His careful chewing gave way to an expression of bliss.

“This is… incredible,” he murmured after a moment, looking up to you in appreciation. “I really like it!”

You smiled at him brightly, he could see your eyes light up before you respond. 

“Thanks! It’s hard to mess up good ingredients.” You took a bite yourself, enjoying the fruits of your labor. He was right, it tasted delightful, especially after the disaster you had gone through just prior. The awkward silence from before had shifted into a comfortable quiet, accompanied by the clinking of forks and the occasional appreciative hum from Clark.

You watched him as he ate— not on purpose, you were just a little mesmerized. He consumed his food with a sort of reverence, not fast, but steadily, enjoying each mouthful. 

It occurred to you then, seeing him sitting at you kitchen table, eating with you, that this was the longest you’d ever really talked to Clark, or rather, existed in the same room with him without needing help with something, or an emergency happening. Usually, he was swooping in, fixing something, then politely excusing himself. This was different. This felt… normal. And nice.

He finished his first helping with quiet efficiency, then looked up at you, a hesitant question in his eyes. “This is really good. Is there… more?”

You nodded happily at him, chuckling. “Of course there’s more, Clark. Plenty for seconds, and probably lunch tomorrow. Help yourself.” you insist, nudging the serving bowl in his direction.

Clark’s face lit up, a sweet, boyish smile spreading across it. He reached for the bowl eagerly, spooning a generous second helping onto his plate.

"Thank you!" he says softly, digging into this portion with the same quiet enjoyment as the first.

You stood up while he finished eating, taking your dishes to your newly unclogged sink, leaning down into a cupboard to get a Tupperware to put the leftovers in. You heard the gentle clinking of his fork on the ceramic plate for a few more moments, then silence. 

When you straightened up with the container, you saw that Clark had completely scraped his plate clean, again. He looked up at you with a faint flush on his cheeks, as if he was caught in the act.

“That was… truly wonderful,” he said, his voice a little softer than usual, filled with genuine gratitude. He even patted his stomach discreetly. 

“Thank you, really.”

You can't help the giggle that escapes you, you couldn't really describe the type of happiness Clark made you feel with one word; not only did you just feel so safe and taken care of when he was around, but his boyish tendencies had a type of purity to it. an inherent goodness.

you brought the container over to the serving bowl, with at least enough for a couple more meals in it; and scooped it inside. setting it down to let the steam out before you close it. your hands come down for Clark's empty plate, bringing it to join yours in the sink.

"Glad you think so. It’s comforting food, I think.”

Clark’s eyes, still wide and earnest, followed all your movements. When you took his plate, he stood up. “Let me help with that!” he offered immediately, reaching for the remaining serving bowl and the Parmesan.

You chuckled again, shaking your head gently. “No, no, Clark. Please. You’ve done more than enough tonight. Consider this a, well, a thank you dinner,” you said, nudging the serving bowl subtly away from his reach with your hip as you turned to the sink. 

“You rescued my evening, quite literally. Let me take care of the rest.”

He stopped mid-action, his hand hovering for a moment, then hesitantly lowered it. 

“Oh. Okay,” he said, sounding the slightest bit resigned, but still understanding. He watched as you quickly rinsed the plates and stacked them in the sink, then sealed the Tupperware of leftovers.

"Here!" you eld the plastic container out to him, still slightly warm to the touch. You wanted him to take the leftovers, not only to repay the lasagna from when you'd first moved in; but to repay for everything, all his kind acts that he didn't really allow you to reward or praise.

"please take it, you loved it so much."

He looks like he wants to say no, his tall frame towered over you no matter how small or meek he was able to make himself appear, hesitant and nervous. his eyes flick up to the ceiling, his face concentrating on something before he sighs softly and nods.

He took the container from you with both hands, cradling it almost carefully. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, his soft gaze holds your eyes as he gives a smile and a nod to you. 

“You’re very thoughtful.”

that night broke down a barrier. the one between friendly neighbour, and good friend.

You found yourself making excuses to extend your conversations in the hallway, lingering at your door just a little longer, hoping to catch him coming or going.

He still did the little things, but now Clark finally stopped pulling Irish goodbyes after. Instead, when he helped bring your groceries in, he stays for coffee when you offer— opening up about his job and the people there. He’d sheepishly admit to Perry White’s booming presence making him nervous, or marvel at Lois’s uncanny ability to sniff out a story; and how he wishes he could be that good.

But you read his articles (all, not just some now) and he was good, so many times you tried to explain this to him; how his pieces weren’t just well-researched, but infused with a real sort of empathy and humanity that others often missed. How he didn’t just report on the tragedies like a struggling family, but found their hope, their beauty. That he didn’t just list statistics, but he made you feel the injustice, the triumph– whatever the story demanded.

He’d just blush, run a hand through his messy dark hair, mumbling something about "just doing his job," But you knew better. It wasn't solely his work ethic (although that was a force of itself); it was his heart.

You share your baking with him, brining a plate of cookies or brownies over on your way by. Every time he seemed slightly startled at the idea of being given things, before his face softened into a genuine smile. "For me? You're too good to me."

He’d say it with such earnestness, as if a simple plate of chocolate chip cookies was the greatest treasure.

Sometimes, when the evening light softened the city into shades of bruised purple and gold, he'd knock on your door, a carton of Chinese takeout in hand, mumbling something about "a long day" and "not wanting to eat alone." 

You’d clear a space on your small coffee table, and he’d settle in, shoulders visibly relaxing as he recounted the day's events at the Planet, or sometimes, surprisingly, mused about the quiet life in Smallville. You'd learned he was adopted, and how his Ma and Pa raised him to be so kind, how he does a lot of what he does because of them. 

One particularly rough week, after a project at work went sideways and you felt utterly deflated, he knocked. This time, there was no takeout, just a hesitant smile and a small, slightly squashed bouquet of daisies. 

"I, uh… I overheard you on the phone earlier," he mumbled, his cheeks tinged pink. "Sounded like you had a tough day. Ma always said flowers help."

Your ex had never bought you flowers, never even picked up a cool rock or a pretty weed for you. 'why would i?  flowers just wilt and die.'

You felt a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the chill of the AC. You took the flowers, heart aching in a good way. 

"Thanks, Clark," you managed, your voice a little thick.

you'd never in you life been met with such a sheer force of positivity. And not ever in a toxic way— Clark was just genuinely good. a driving force in his work, in the building, in your life. 

It wasn’t just the flowers. It was the way he remembered your favorite brand of coffee when he went to the store, just in case you were low. it was the way he’d offer to take out your overflowing recycling bin, when his own was barely full. It was the way his whole face lit up when you laughed at one of his slightly corny jokes, a sound that seemed to chase away any shadows in the room.

You started to notice the subtle changes in yourself. You used to think so cynically, in your day-to-day life, at work, when any inconvenience befell you. But that shield began to soften. You found yourself smiling more, genuinely. The thought of Clark, of his unwavering kindness, was like a quiet hum of reassurance in the background of your days. He wasn't just doing things for you; he was showing you, through his simple existence, that genuine goodness wasn't a myth. It was real, and it lived just down the hall.

Today had been a long day, and you were looking forward to a relaxing evening with Clark. You’d invited him over for dinner, hoping to unwind with someone who was always easy to be around. things were even easier when you ran into him in the lobby of the building, groceries for the meal in hand. You saw Clark's face light up as he sees you, waving immediately and walking towards you, already relieving you of your bags and offering to head up together.

It WAS a nice walk up, but your face immediately fell as you step into your apartment with him. a grimace replacing the giggle that had just been on your lips as you immediately notice the eyesore of dishes, piled up in the sink from the past few nights of meals.

"Oh—jesus, sorry about this," you said, gesturing towards the mess. "Let me just get rid of it right now real quick—."

But Clark, being Clark, just smiled, setting the groceries down on the counter. "Don't worry about it. I'll just wash them up real quick."

You started to protest, but he was already filling the sink with soapy water. You watched as he carefully scrubbed each dish, his movements precise and efficient. It was like watching a dance, and you found yourself mesmerized by the way he moved.

As he rinsed off the last dish, you found yourself blurting out, "You're like a superhero, you know that?"

He froze, the dish in his hand dripping water onto the counter. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his gaze. But then it was gone, replaced by the same gentle smile you'd come to know so well.

you must've said something wrong, but what?

"Oh," he mumbled, his voice a little lower, a little less steady than usual. "

No, no, just... just a regular guy. You know. Farmers are... resourceful." He gave a nervous chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well, uh, I should, uh, get back. Got a... a thing. To do. Paperwork."

You're absolutely perplexed, he was leaving, because of something you'd said. You want to protest, your mouth opens to say something, but you're too clueless as to what could possibly be wrong, and he's already moving— fast.

He puts the plate down, and makes his way past you, towards the door; not quite bumping into the frame, but moving with a hurried, almost clumsy urgency that felt more like an escape than a polite exit. He vanished down the hall, leaving your door ajar, the familiar click of his own apartment door a moment later.

Clark let his apartment slam shut behind him, rushing inside in pure panic. He hurried to his couch, sitting down with a thud, his mind racing through the evening’s events. His thoughts tangled together like a mess of unraveled string. his chest feels tight, he feels hot and flustered— he definitely lost his cool back there, if you hadn't been hinting at something with your comment, you must be suspicious of something now.

It must've been that time he set the table, moving too fast, or when he had caught five apples falling from the top of your grocery bag without so much as stumbling, that must've tipped you off, and the comment was your way of letting him know you knew.

or, he was being silly. it was just a lighthearted joke, and you had no idea before he had rushed away from you with his tail between his legs.

He hated this. did you know? didn't you know?

Clark wouldn't lie to you.  And technically, he hadn't. You had never even mentioned superman before tonight, so he felt safe never bringing it up; being just Clark, your neighbour.

He liked being just Clark with you. He loved it, in fact. The easy conversations over the laundry machines, how you’d wave from your doorway when he came home from work, the comfortable silences when you were just in each other's presence. He enjoyed the simplicity of helping you, seeing your grateful smile, hearing your lighthearted jokes. It felt... normal. It made him feel normal.

With you, he wasn't Metropolis's hero, or an alien, or the last son of Krypton. He was just… Clark. the perpetually helpful, sweet-but-awkward guy from the apartment across the hall. And you treated him that way, so, the thought of losing that, of your perception of him changing from 'sweet, awkward Clark' to 'Clark, who is also Superman,' made his stomach churn.

"Superhero." The word echoed in his mind. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the heat still radiating from his cheeks. He’d noticed the shift in your easy smile, the way your brows had furrowed in confusion as he stumbled over an excuse, all but sprinting from your apartment.

He must have looked like a complete idiot, a mess who couldn’t even handle a compliment.

This was not how he handled difficult situations. He was supposed to be the one who kept a cool head under pressure, the one who faced down villains and disasters and saved lives every day under extreme pressure and scrutiny. But a simple, off-hand joke from his neighbor had turned him into a overthinking, panicked, mess.

He knew you. He knew you were kind, discerning, intelligent. He noticed the softness in how you treated others, a thing he admired a lot. He knew how good you were, so it made him feel...bad. guilty. he should trust you, he knows he could, that you'd never tell, or do anything to jeopardize his secret.

But he was just scared, so scared. what if you looked at him differently? Would you still joke with him? Would you still offer him dinner? Or would he become ‘Superman’ to you, even in the quiet confines of their building?

He threw himself back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his empty, quiet, apartment amplifying the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.

What were you thinking right now? Were you piecing it all together? were you going back through old Superman interviews, and realizing that only Clark Kent had ever conducted them? were you upset that he hadn't told you? you wouldn't be mad, but he would be crushed if you felt betrayed.

He swallowed hard, fidgeting with his hands in frustration. He couldn't just pretend it didn't happen. He couldn't avoid you forever. The apartment building was too small, your connection had grown too strong. He owed you an explanation, he owed you the truth. He just needed to figure out how.

He slept on it— not well, tossing and turning and hardly really sleeping. Thinking of when he would see you next, and what he would say, what you would say. He knew he couldn't avoid you forever. This apartment building wasn't THAT big, he still had a job, a city to protect. He also didn't want to avoid you, your company was nice and he had grown used to your presence, spending time together in his off hours. He didn't want that to end.

In the morning he made coffee, the warm scent of it blanketing the entire apartment, but doing little to comfort him and the feeling crawling around in his stomach. He paced his apartment, the decision solidifying in his mind. He would tell you. Today. He just needed the right moment.

Before he left for work, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring himself down. his icy blue eyes boring into every divot and curve of his skin, scrutinizing, he furrows his brow and stands up straighter, he took a deep, confident breath, the kind he usually saved for dealing with city-wide threats

"I-I am...superman." he says out loud, as if you were in front of him. 

he scoffs and shakes his head in annoyance, that didn't come out right. Good Lord, why was this so hard? it was just...you. His neighbour— his friend, one of the people he trusted most, wanted to be around most. it should come easier to him, but as he stares at himself, repeating different variations of "I'm Superman..." out loud, all of them falling flat, sounding wrong. He squinted at his reflection, this wasn't going to work. 

He turned away from the mirror, it was time for work anyways. he grabs his briefcase and listens closely, when he hears no movement from your apartment, he moves; rushing out as quickly and quietly as possible, by the time you'd be able to hear him out there, he would be already two flights down the stairs. his heart beating frantic in his ears, loud enough to give him a headache.

He wanted to tell you. He just didn't know how.

You hadn't seen Clark in a week.

It was like he was using the same sixth sense he had possessed to swoop in and fix any problem you had, to now avoid you. The hallways were quiet when he would usually be coming and going from work, he was never by the mailboxes or in the laundry room. 

his helpfulness never stopped though, he took out the garbage bag you'd left outside of the door in the ten minutes it took you to finish your show and go to deal with it yourself. he brought your mail up twice. but it was like he was a ghost, never seen or heard by you. his goodness still seeped into your life, invisible, but you could feel it.

Something had obviously changed that night, when you'd made that joke. That's all it was, a joke. you, perhaps, naively, had thought 'oh wow! Clark is strong and handy, and always there to help me. like a superhero!' because, well, that's how you felt about him. he had saved your day countless times with his smile, with this eagerness to help.

You considered knocking on his door. You thought about it, again and again. You were his neighbor, his friend— whatever THIS was. Things felt awkward, a regression maybe, but it didn’t seem like something that should be swept under the rug. The way he had rushed out of your apartment without any explanation, the way his eyes had lingered on you before he made a quick, panicked exit... it all felt wrong.

The thought of a regression stung. You truly appreciated Clark’s steady presence, his quiet strength, the way his mild awkwardness only made him even more endearing. Now, the hallway felt emptier, the silence from across the hall heavier. It was like something was missing, he was missing.

It couldn't be that Clark was offended somehow, or that didn't like metahumans. Clark loved all life, big or small, powerful or weak, young or old; he valued everything all the same. so why has he reacted so suddenly to your words?

You knew you'd messed up, but you couldn’t for the life of you figure out how. "Superhero." You mumbled the word to yourself, testing it, trying to find the hidden meaning that had sent him into a tailspin. It was a compliment, true and simple. He was YOUR superhero. He always seemed to appear exactly when you needed him, always went above and beyond, always with that earnest, gentle expression that both charmed and amused you.

Unless… unless he thought you were mocking him? But that made no sense. Your tone had been genuinely appreciative. You had no reason to mock Clark. You genuinely liked him. More than liked, probably.

"Superhero," you muttered to yourself, leaning against your door, listening to the lack of sound from his apartment. "What was I even thinking?"

Whatever it was, he must be mad, you think. You'd never seen Clark truly mad, but you figured this must be it. This silence, this absence. It had to be his anger.

A week. A whole week. This was ridiculous. Your patience, usually long-suffering, was wearing thin. You missed him. What was he doing right now? How was he doing at work? Was he alright? these were all things clawing away at your head when you're supposed to be sleeping.

this was enough, it was hurting. more than you could've ever expected to, tugging at your heartstrings and stinging in your eyes. you felt fractured, and the idea that you had somehow hurt the kindest person you'd ever known made it even worse.

You had to do something, say something. even if he was angry, even if he didn't want to say anything back.

Taking a deep breath, you walked to your door, your heart thrumming a nervous cadence against your ribs as you cross the hall. You paused, just for a second, then reached out and rapped gently on Clark’s apartment door.

One knock. Then two. You waited, expecting the quick, quiet click of the lock, perhaps the rustle of him moving inside. But there was nothing. You knocked again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Clark?" you tried weakly through the door, sighing gently as your hand falls to its side.

"Clark, i don't know if you're home. if you are though," you take a breath and clear your throat, you'd never felt so nervous when talking to him before, you don't know why this is happening now of all times.

"I just wanna say I'm really sorry..." you wanna beat yourself up for the way your voice audibly wavers, the tears that are big and fresh threatening to spill. you didn't normally cry over things, you usually shut down a bit, built defenses. but you felt so sad and pathetic begging at his door, you just wanted your friend back. 

"I really didn't mean to make you mad at me, I'm sorry—"

The click of the lock, soft but distinct, made you jolt away from his door. You stopped, and you watched, anxious, as the door slowly swung inward.

There he was. Clark.

He definitely didn't look mad.

His curly hair was usually a little messy, but right now it was completely disheveled. His glasses sat askew on his face, his eyes were still kind and soft when you looked into them, but you saw he had just the slightest bags under them, he looked worn out.

His gaze met yours, and the look in his eyes instantly dissolved any remaining self-pity you had. The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

"Oh, Clark," you whimpered, your voice pathetic.

He winced, his brow furrowing deeper. "No! No, no, no, don't cry," he stammered, his own voice sounding rough, unused. He took a hesitant step forward, as if afraid to approach you, his hands hover awkwardly at his sides. 

"Please don't cry. I'm not mad. I promise. Not at all."

Clark ran a hand through his already wild hair, his glasses still crooked. He looked genuinely pained, his eyes darting away from yours for a moment before settling back on your face, he hated that you were crying— because of HIM. He stepped fully out of the doorway, his hand reaching out tentatively, then dropping, was he allowed to touch you?

“Clark,” you choked out again, the single word the only thing you're able to conjure up; a plea, a question, an apology all rolled into one. Your chin trembled, and another tear slipped free. 

Clark looked genuinely lost, a far cry from the composed, if slightly clumsy, reporter you usually knew. His eyes, usually so clear and honest, were clouded with a mix of distress and something else you couldn't quite decipher. He was beside himself.

"I... I never meant to make you cry," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.

He took another step, this time, his hand didn’t retreat. Slowly, and very gently, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall further. The touch was feather-light, barely there, yet it sent a jolt through you, a warmth spreading from that small point of contact. Then, his thumb moved again, wiping away another tear. You leaned into the touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it offered.

"Please. I'm so sorry." His skin was warm against yours, and for the first time in a week, you felt a fragile sense of peace settle over you.

“Why did you leave? And you've been avoiding me? I thought… I thought you were mad. I thought I’d done something wrong.” you sniffle, your eyes are glassy and wide as you look up at Clark for answers.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, a quiet, repetitive motion that was incredibly soothing. He took a heavy breath, his eyes darting away for a brief moment, then back to you. he shakes his head, lips pursing slightly at the suggestion.

“I wasn’t mad,” he repeats, his voice low and strained. “Never mad. How could I ever be mad at you? You’re… you’re the kindest person I know.” He paused, searching for the words.

"I—" Clark paused again, clearly struggling to put the right words together. He took a shaky breath, rubbing his temples for a moment before meeting your eyes again, his face a mixture of uncertainty and guilt. 

"I never meant to make things weird between us. I thought... I thought I could handle it. But I can't. I’ve been lying to you."

Lying? Clark? those two words just didn't make sense put together like that. you feel your brow knit together and your mouth opens with a question hanging silent on your tongue. 

"Clark, what are you talking about? You haven't lied to me." You shook your head, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of his words.

He winced, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips, then to the hand still gently caressing your cheek. 

“You called me a superhero,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And... you were right. More right than you knew.” 

When your expression goes blank, somehow even more confused than before, he speaks again. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“I am a superhero. Not just your superhero, but... a superhero. The one you hear about on the news. The one that flies. The one from Krypton.”

You stared at him, your mouth slightly agape, the tears on your cheeks drying cold. The warmth of his thumb on your skin was the only real thing, a tether to the moment, because everything else was tilting.

Superman. Clark Kent. Your awkward, sweet, kind neighbor. It was impossible. It was… undeniably obvious, now that its been pointed out.

The way he always seemed to know when you needed help, appearing just as your groceries threatened to spill, or when your pipes burst. Not physically clumsy, no, but his social awkwardness, his carefulness not to draw attention to himself.

"You... you're..." Your voice was a barely audible whisper, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on his face.

Clark's face betrayed all his vulnerability, his gaze searching yours, absolutely terrified of your reaction. His hand, still on your cheek, trembled. He was bracing for anything– anger, disgust, fear, rejection.

"I know it's a lot," he mumbled, his voice softer now, laced with a raw honesty that pierced through the initial shock. "I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I just... I didn't know how. I didn't want to lose what we have."

He was scared? not just of you knowing his secret, but how you'd react to him— all of him. You had been so consumed by thinking he was mad, by your own hurt, that you hadn't considered any of this. He was scared you wouldn't like him anymore, that the ordinary, sweet neighbor you cherished would be overshadowed by the extraordinary hero.

But he was still Clark. Always had been. The heroics simply solidified the quiet strength and unwavering kindness you already knew. it made so much sense, if anyone was going to be superman, it would be him— and it was.

A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips, a shaky, tear-laced sound.

“You’re still Clark,” you murmured, your gaze unwavering. 

“The Clark who helps me with groceries, who fixed my sink, who listened to me ramble about my bad days.” A small, genuine laugh escaped you, a sound of pure affection.

“The Clark who’s like… a superhero. just, even more so now, I guess.”

“You’re not… mad?” he asked, a hint of wonder in his voice.

“Mad?” you scoff, leaning a little closer.

“Clark, I’ve been worried sick for a week that you were mad at me. I thought I’d said something wrong. I thought I’d lost you.” Your voice softened, your gaze dropping to his arms, then back up.

“I missed you, Clark. Terribly.”

You saw the moment his fear finally receded, replaced by a glimmer of hope. His thumb, which had resumed its gentle stroking, paused. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there, a question in the depths of his blue eyes.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, an eager, excited rhythm. You had wanted this, in some unspoken way, for so long. You leaned in, just slightly, inviting him.

His other hand rose, cupping your jaw, his fingers brushing against your hair. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, standing in the quiet hallway of your apartment building, the weight of a universe-shattering secret hanging between you, yet feeling lighter than air.

And then, he brought himself in close. His lips were hesitant at first, pressing softly against yours. It wasn't a demanding kiss, it felt like the first taste of oxygen after a long week of holding your breath. It was soft, sweet, full of unspoken apologies and a blossoming hope.

When he pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed for a moment as if savoring the feeling. When they opened, they were alight with utter adoration, like you were the only thing to exist in this moment.

“I… I’ve wanted to do that,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

This was Clark. And he was everything you had ever hoped for, and so much more. The superhero, yes, but also the man who worried about his laundry, who looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and who, right now, was finally letting himself be fully seen.

“So,” you whispered, your voice thick with anticipation, your heart pounding excitedly from the aftermath of his kiss.

“does this mean dinner is back on the table?”

Clark’s lips curved into a soft, relieved smile, the kind made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The adoration in his gaze deepened, and he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your forehead.

“Dinner is definitely back on the table,” he murmured, his voice laced with pure fondness. “And every meal after that, if you’ll have me.”

my first fic that's not a joc character, mom im scared. hope u like tho <3

[sflame15-blog]

In the Quiet, You

Summary: He’s been yours all along. It just takes Clark Kent six tries to say it out loud.

pairing: clark kent x reader

tags: childhood friends to lovers, smallville, slow burn, mutual pining, domestic fluff, eventual relationship, romance, soft! clark kent, love confessions, 5 almosts + 1 forever, arguments, slight angst, clark kent is utterly in love with you pt. 4, can be considered gn! reader, happy ending, loverboy clark kent, second person pov, no use of y/n

word count: 4.8k (not yet proofread)

♡…

The first time Clark almost says it, you’re both thirteen. 

It’s summer in Smallville, the kind that stretches golden across the fields, the kind that smells faintly of cut grass and Ma Kent’s pies cooling on the windowsill. The cicadas sing their endless tune, the sky above painted that honey-thick light that makes everything feel like it might last forever.

You’re sitting on the Kents’ porch swing with a glass of lemonade sweating in your hands. The swing creaks softly with each sway, chains rattling like a lullaby you’ve grown up hearing. Clark is beside you, his long legs already too big for the swing, knees bumping awkwardly against yours every time he shifts. He still hasn’t figured out how to fold himself into his growing body, all elbows and shoulders and too-big hands, though he tries to pretend he isn’t bothered by it.

He’s got one of Pa Kent’s old comic books propped open in his lap, the pages yellowed and soft at the corners. He’s pretending to be invested in the story, pretending not to notice that you’ve leaned just a little too close so you can peek over his shoulder.

“Y’know, you hog all the good parts,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

Clark glances up at you, then back at the comic, but the corner of his mouth curls anyway. That boyish grin spreads slow across his face, showing the tiny gap in his front teeth. It’s the same grin that always undoes you, the one that makes your heart do a strange flip you don’t have the name for yet.

“You wouldn’t understand it anyway,” he says, feigning seriousness as his thumb drags over the panel of a spaceship mid-flight. “Too many aliens.”

“Excuse me,” you huff, straightening up with mock indignation. “I’ve seen Star Wars three times. I think that makes me a certified alien expert!”

He snorts. “You fell asleep halfway through the last one.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop talking over the movie,” you fire back.

“I was explaining things,” he argues, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger. They’re a little crooked, smudged from fingerprints, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You were spoiling it,” you correct, sticking your tongue out at him.

Clark laughs, a real laugh—easy and warm, chest-deep, the kind of laugh that makes the air around you feel brighter. His shoulders shake, and for a moment you’re both just kids again, safe and unbothered by the world outside of Smallville’s borders.

He’s about to say something else, you can tell—his lips part, his breath catches in his chest, and his eyes flick to you with a softness you don’t quite recognize yet. There’s a beat where everything stills, the cicadas quiet, the swing pausing at its peak, and it feels like something important is about to happen.

But then Ma’s voice calls from inside the house, warm and lifting, asking if you two want another pitcher of lemonade. Clark shuts his mouth quickly, his jaw snapping closed like he’s swallowed down a secret.

You catch it, though—the shape his lips make around words that don’t come out. I love— and then nothing. 

Instead, he clears his throat, pretending to be casual, and asks, “Want another glass? It’s getting warm.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back into the swing with a sigh, but your smile lingers at the edges of your mouth. You don’t know what he almost said, what he tucked away like it was too precious to share. 

But he does.

He’ll always know.

♡♡…

The second time Clark almost says it, you’re both sixteen.

You hadn’t planned on going to the school dance.

The gym always smelled like a strange mix of sweat and floor wax, the music too loud, vibrating through the floor and into your chest, and the decorations were cheap, crepe paper streamers sagging before the night was even halfway over. 

The punch was over-sweetened, the kind you could practically taste clinging to your tongue in sticky aftertastes, and the lights flickered in a way that made everything look a little surreal, like you’d stepped into someone else’s world.

It seemed like the kind of event other kids looked forward to for weeks—the ones who knew how to glide across the floor in rented tuxes and glittery dresses, who were excited for corsages and disco balls and awkward slow dances. 

Not you. 

Not until Clark showed up at your front door.

He looked… nervous. Taller than you remembered, lanky in the way teenagers suddenly grow without warning, and his suit looked like it had been borrowed from some distant uncle—a little too big in the shoulders, sleeves hitting his wrists just wrong. The tie he wore was crooked, despite Ma Kent fussing over him three times before he left. And his hair—usually fluffy and sun-kissed from Smallville summers—was slicked down with so much gel it seemed almost shiny, darker in the gym light.

In his hand was a single flower, not a store-bought rose or anything pretentious, but one of Ma’s sunflowers from the garden, wrapped in simple tissue paper. It leaned slightly to one side, bright and cheerful, like it had its own small heartbeat, and somehow it made your chest ache with a feeling you couldn’t name.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat, shoving a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly. “I figured… maybe we could go. Together. You know. As friends.”

“As friends,” you repeated, though your stomach buzzed with a strange heat, like cicadas had taken up residence inside you. The words sounded silly on your lips, inadequate somehow, but you didn’t know how else to say them.

The gym was exactly as terrible as you expected. 

Streamers hung droopy from the rafters, some already ripped and curling, balloons deflated and sagging into corners. The DJ was skipping songs at random, switching from slow jams to something frantic without warning, and the punch bowl, of course, was empty within five minutes.

Clark looked awkward beyond belief—tugging at his sleeves, blinking rapidly, stepping back a fraction every time someone brushed too close. And yet, he stayed beside you, his presence a steady gravitational pull that had always made you feel safe. That had never once let you feel alone in a crowd. He walked in rhythm with you, careful not to step on your toes, yet somehow maintaining the subtle closeness that always defined the two of you.

Then the slow song started, a syrupy, old-fashioned thing the DJ must’ve dug out from decades ago. Clark’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and you felt that little tug in your chest—the way he always seemed to hesitate when something important might slip.

He held out his hand, palm open, a little clammy, but warm and steady. It was the same hand that had pulled you out of creek beds when you slipped, the same hand that steadied the flashlight when you explored barns you weren’t supposed to. You slipped your hand into his, feeling the reassurance in his grip, the weight of all the unspoken history between you.

“You don’t have to,” you teased, though your voice came out softer than intended.

“I want to,” he said simply, looking at you like the words themselves were fragile treasures, like even saying them aloud might break the magic.

And that was that.

You let him pull you into the crowd, bodies swaying in an awkward shuffle, neither of you good dancers, but it didn’t matter. His free hand hovered at your waist for a long beat before resting there, careful and tentative, as if one wrong move might shatter everything between you. 

Your other hand found his shoulder, and for the first time, you noticed just how much taller he’d gotten, how broad, how… everything about him suddenly seemed bigger, more present, more real than you’d ever noticed.

Clark’s grin was soft, shy, and completely yours. The familiar warmth of it sent a flutter through your chest, one you couldn’t ignore. He leaned in, ever so slightly, just close enough that you could feel his breath ghosting against your temple. His lips parted, voice caught somewhere in his throat between thought and speech.

“You know, I…”

Your heart raced. Your hand gripped his shoulder tighter, trying to hold steady.

“I think…” His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed, the words hovering at the precipice of everything he’d ever wanted to say. “I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

It wasn’t what he meant. You could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his smile faltered the instant the words left him, like he had betrayed himself. But the lights gleamed off his glasses, the music swelled, and you let it be.

You smiled, soft and shaky, and whispered, “You too, Smallville.”

And Clark held you like maybe that was enough.

For now.

♡♡♡…

The third time Clark almost says it, you’re both grown.

Metropolis is nothing like Smallville. The city hums day and night, lights bouncing off glass towers, streets thrumming with life, car horns and distant sirens blending into a constant urban symphony. 

It’s exhilarating and exhausting all at once, a world that never pauses, and sometimes it feels like it’ll swallow you whole if you don’t carve out a corner just for yourself.

For you, that corner is the Daily Planet newsroom—loud, chaotic, relentless, and ironically comforting. And Clark… he’s that corner too. Even in the middle of all the madness, he’s a steady presence, grounding and familiar, a thread tying you back to something simpler and safe, even in a city that never stops moving.

Tonight, the newsroom is quiet. 

Most of the staff have gone home hours ago, leaving just you and Clark. Desks face each other across a narrow aisle, but somehow he always manages to be half-turned toward you, long legs sprawled under his desk, one shoe kicked off, the other barely balancing on the edge of the chair. His tie is loosened, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he leans over his notepad.

A pencil is tucked behind his ear, and in the margins of the paper are little doodles—farmhouses, fields, sometimes a dog that suspiciously resembles Krypto. It’s a private world Clark creates when he thinks no one is looking, and you can’t help but notice.

The tap-tap-tap of your keyboard fills the quiet space between you, mingling with the low hum of the city beyond the windows. 

“You should go home,” Clark murmurs, voice low, careful, like he’s afraid the words might wake the building itself.

“So should you,” you reply without looking up, too absorbed in your work to give him your attention.

“I’m not tired.”

You snort. “Clark, you could yawn through an earthquake.”

“Untrue,” he protests, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I’d stay wide awake just to make sure you’re okay.”

Your fingers pause over the keys. That’s Clark—earnest, protective, impossibly anchoring in the most unassuming way. His words are simple, but they feel like promises, like he’s quietly staking his claim on a world you didn’t even realize needed claiming.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, chewing your lip, trying to sound skeptical. “You’re just stalling because you don’t want to type up your own copy.”

Clark leans forward on his elbows, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the kind that makes your pulse quicken. “Maybe. Or maybe I like being here with you.”

You freeze mid-typing, feeling the warmth of his gaze on you. Slowly, you lift your head and meet his eyes. He’s smiling faintly, tired but bright behind his glasses, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it one too many times. The way he looks at you—like he’s taking in every little detail—makes your chest feel tight, like it could burst if you dared to move too quickly.

His lips part, breath catching ever so slightly. “I think I—“

“Think you’re about to confess something juicy?”

Both of you jump at the sound of Lois Lane’s voice. She drops a stack of papers onto her desk with a satisfying smack, smirk tugging at her lips as she glances between you and Clark.

“Relax, Kent. Don’t look so guilty. I’m not the IRS.”

Clark fumbles, nearly knocking over his coffee as he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t—I mean, I was just—“

Lois raises an unimpressed brow, clearly trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.” She sits, shuffling her papers with exaggerated care, and without looking up adds, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Clark’s ears flush pink, spreading all the way to the tips. He ducks his head, scribbling nonsense in the margins of his notes, trying to erase any traces of the words that almost slipped out. You bite back a laugh, pretending to focus on your own work, but your heart won’t settle. 

You can still feel the ghost of the words hovering in the space between you, the weight of them pressing against your ribs.

You glance at him secretly. His shoulders are tense, but his eyes, even behind the smudged lenses, are fixed on you in that way he always does—full of warmth, quiet longing, and a nervous energy that has never left him.

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He never does.

But you know.

You always know.

And for a moment, in the half-empty newsroom, it feels like a secret shared only between the two of you, delicate and unspoken, fragile as a breath but as certain as the sun rising over Smallville back when you were kids.

♡♡♡♡…

The fourth time Clark almost says it, you almost die. 

It happens fast. Too fast. 

One moment you’re walking down a Metropolis street, juggling your bag and a cup of coffee, mind racing about a lead you and Clark had been working on. The next, the ground shudders like the earth itself is angry. Glass shatters overhead, people scream, and the building beside you groans before part of its facade collapses in a storm of brick and dust. 

You don’t have time to think. All you register is a deep but familiar (?) voice—sharp and panicked—calling your name before a blue-and-red blur slams into you, shielding your body from the danger with a force that pins you to the sidewalk as the debris crashes down around you. There’s a thunderous rush of air, and then you’re stumbling back into the street, coughing and spluttering, dust clinging to your hair and clothes. Your coffee is gone, your bag torn, and your lungs burn with every ragged breath. 

But somehow… somehow, you’re alive.

Your head lifts, and your eyes meet the figure hovering above you. The iconic blue suit, the cape, the emblem gleaming even in the dust-choked sunlight. Superman. Your heart stills for a beat before pounding again in gratitude and awe.

He lands gracefully, cape fluttering in the wind, and kneels beside you. His hands are on your shoulders, sweeping away dust and checking for injuries. “Are you okay?” His voice is calm, but the urgency underneath sends a shiver down your spine. 

“Yeah—I think so,” you gasp, chest heaving, barely steady on your knees. “Thank you… for saving me.”

“Don’t move yet,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “You might have been hit by debris you can’t see. I need to make sure—“

You shake your head, trying to stand. “No, I’m fine. I promise. Really.”

He studies you for a long moment, eyes intense, and then he’s gone in a blur, leaving only the faint echo of wind and the whisper of his cape. People stare, pointing and murmuring. You swallow hard, your pulse still racing, and for a moment, the world feels impossibly big and impossibly small all at once. Superman saved you.

. . . .

You’re pacing the small living room, bag and coat carelessly tossed onto the couch, heart still racing from the panic of that day. The city hums faintly outside your windows, oblivious to what nearly happened, but inside it feels claustrophobic, charged with anger and fear. 

Clark stands near the kitchenette, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff. He keeps his gaze low, refusing to meet yours, like he’s bracing for impact. You stop pacing and point a finger at him, voice shaking. “You were there! You’re Superman! You saved me, and you didn’t tell me!”

He flinches at the word, a sharp intake of breath. “I—Yes. I was there. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Anyone to get hurt?” Your voice rises, echoing off the walls. “Clark, I almost died! And all this time, you didn’t think I deserved the truth?! What, you didn’t think I could handle it?”

His hands lift slightly, unsure where to place them. His voice rises, strained, but controlled. “You don’t understand! You have to know… I couldn’t risk it. Not your safety, not anyone’s. If people knew—if anyone found out…” His voice lowers. “Everything could change. I couldn’t let you be in danger because of me.”

“Because of you??” The words slip out, sharp and biting. “Clark, I’m not a child! I can take care of myself! I trusted Superman, and it was you all along, and you didn’t say a word. Do you have any idea how that feels!?”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, shoulders tense. “I almost told you… so many times. Trust me, every time I got close, every time I thought I could… I stopped. I couldn’t risk—“ His throat tightens, voice breaking. “…I couldn’t risk losing you.”

You blink, caught off guard by the raw honesty. You cross your arms, trying to rein in the shaking in your hands. “Lose me? Clark, you think keeping secrets like this keeps me safe? You think pretending nothing happened… pretending I don’t see the truth…”

“I didn’t have a choice!!” His voice cracks, echoing against the walls of your apartment. “Every time I nearly told you, I stopped because I couldn’t. I can’t lose you. Not knowing if someone—anyone—would come after you because of me. Not knowing if…”His words falter, chest heaving, and he takes a shaky breath. “…If you’d even want me to be the one protecting you if you knew the truth.”

Your chest tightens, heat and frustration swirling together. “Clark… you should’ve trusted me,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You think I wouldn’t have understood? That I wouldn’t have stayed?”

He swallows hard, jaw trembling, then lowers his gaze. “I just… I can’t lose you. Ever. I—“ ‘I love you’ He almost blurts out, and then stops, throat closing in on itself. 

The words sit heavy on his tongue, aching to be spoken, but he doesn’t push them out. Instead, his face crumples and he pulls you against his chest, burying his face in your hair. His arms lock around you so tightly it almost hurts, as if he’s trying to convince himself you’re really there, breathing and solid in his arms. 

You let him hold you, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat. 

You don’t ask what he almost said. 

You don’t need to.

♡♡♡♡♡…

The fifth time Clark almost says it, you’re home.

Smallville feels different now that you’ve both grown up—the fields look smaller, the farmhouse more weathered—but it still smells the same. 

Fresh cut hay, pie cooling on the windowsill, and the faint hint of laundry soap Ma Kent uses, the kind no store-bought brand has ever managed to replicate.

The kitchen is alive in a way that feels sacred. Lois is leaning against the counter, glass of iced tea in hand, teasing Pa Kent about his questionable taste in movies. “Kevin Costner again, Jonathan? Really? You’re gonna subject us to Waterworld one more time?” Pa pretends to grumble, but the corners of his mouth twitch, giving him away.

Jimmy has his camera out, catching moments no one else thinks to frame: Ma Kent’s hands dusted in flour, the faded family photos tacked to the fridge, the way Kara has claimed the couch like she owns it, sprawled across the cushions with Krypto using her back as a pillow. The dog’s tail thumps whenever anyone says his name, but otherwise, he looks perfectly content to be her blanket.

It’s chaos, but the kind that soothes rather than overwhelms. The kind that makes your chest warm.

You’re standing at the sink with Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms damp, soap bubbles clinging stubbornly to his wrists. You wash; he dries. The rhythm is easy, practiced—like you’ve been doing this your whole lives. (Because you have.)

Ma Kent hums faintly in the background, some tune that seems to unravel the tension in Clark’s shoulders. He relaxes in a way he never does in the city. Every once in a while, his hand brushes yours as he takes a plate, a fork, a glass. The first few times you pretend not to notice, but by the fifth brush, your stomach swoops so hard it’s a wonder you don’t drop the dish in your hands.

You risk a glance up. He’s already looking at you.

The farmhouse light catches in his eyes, making them softer, warmer. And suddenly, the room feels smaller, quieter, like it’s just the two of you standing here, hands dripping suds, soap bubbles sliding down your skin. No Lois smirking knowingly from her corner, no Jimmy crouching for the perfect shot, no Kara groaning loudly from the couch about how grossly domestic you two look.

Just you and Clark, shoulder to shoulder at a sink you’ve both outgrown.

He’s holding a dish towel but not moving. Just staring. You feel the air between you shift, thicken, as if the whole house is holding its breath. His mouth parts, his chest rising and falling like he’s been working himself up to this for years.

And then—softly, surely—he says, “I love—”

The door bursts open.

Krypto barrels in like a rocket, nails clicking across the tile, ears flopping. He launches toward the table, tongue lolling, and Kara stumbles in right behind him, nearly slipping as she tries to grab his collar. “He heard the neighbor’s dog again—sorry!”

Water splashes over the counter as you jerk, startled, and Clark fumbles the plate in his hands so badly he almost drops it. You both burst into laughter, the fragile spell shattered, and Krypto immediately demands attention like he’s done the world a favor.

Clark kneels down to scratch his ears, cheeks flushed as if nothing just happened—as if he wasn’t one syllable away from changing everything. “Guess he wanted to say hi,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly.

You crouch too, ruffling Krypto’s fur to hide the way your pulse is still thundering in your ears. “More like he wanted to save you from dish duty.”

Kara snorts from the doorway. “Or save us from whatever disgustingly sappy moment was about to happen.”

Clark shoots her a look over his shoulder, half-annoyed, half-amused. She just grins.

But when he rises again, setting the towel aside, his eyes find yours. And they’re still soft. Aching. Like the words he swallowed are right there, pressing against his ribs, begging to be freed.

You wonder what would’ve happened if Krypto hadn’t chosen that exact moment to make an entrance.

Clark wonders too.

♡♡♡♡♡♡…

The sixth time, Clark Kent finally says it.

The city hums outside your window, distant and alive—car horns, footsteps, the faint thrum of music from a bar across the street. But inside your apartment, it’s quiet, wrapped in that cocoon of stillness that only ever settles between people who know each other down to the marrow.

The lamps are dimmed, golden light spilling over books stacked on the coffee table, your half-finished mug of tea, the couch where Clark sits. His tie is loosened, collar open, glasses abandoned on the side table. His hair is a little messy, the kind of tousled that looks like it should belong to anyone but Clark Kent—except it suits him perfectly. He looks impossibly human this way, stripped of all the things that keep him buttoned up during the day. 

Just him. 

Just Clark.

You curl up in the armchair across from him, knees tucked under your chin, one hand loosely wrapped around your mug though the tea’s long gone cold. Neither of you rush to fill the silence. It stretches out, but it’s not heavy; it’s comfortable. It feels like the silence after a storm, like the kind of quiet that says I’m safe here.

His arm is draped across the back of the couch, long fingers brushing against the cushion. Sometimes—when he shifts, when he leans forward, when the space between you feels small enough to disappear entirely—those fingers almost graze your shoulder. Every near-touch sparks like static, a reminder of all the almosts that have piled up between you over the years.

You let yourself look at him. Really look. 

The strong line of his jaw. The curve of his lips that always seem caught between bashfulness and a smile. The small furrow in his brow when he’s lost in thought. You’ve seen him a thousand times, in a thousand different lights, but somehow he still manages to knock the air out of you.

And then his gaze lifts, meeting yours. His eyes are soft, lit by the lamplight, but unguarded in a way they so rarely are. It’s like watching him peel back every careful layer he’s built—not Superman, not the shy reporter, not the steady friend who’s always there when you need him. 

Just Clark.

Your chest tightens because you know, even before he opens his mouth, what’s about to happen.

His fingers twitch, a nervous little habit you’ve only ever noticed when he’s holding back something big. He swallows, throat bobbing, and then his lips part, the words quiet but certain.

“I love you.”

It’s almost tentative, almost as though he’s afraid to break the fragile stillness between you—but it carries the weight of years. Every half-glance. Every brush of his hand. Every almost-confession.

You blink, heart hammering so hard you’re sure he can hear it. A laugh escapes you, shaky and breathless, because it’s been so long coming that you almost don’t believe it’s real. “Took you long enough, Smallville.”

He exhales a laugh of his own, soft and relieved, his grin spreading wide and bashful. His whole face lights up, eyes shining in that way that always makes you feel like he’s carrying the sun inside him. “I’ve loved you forever,” he admits, voice rough with sincerity. “I just—didn’t know how to say it.”

Before you can answer, he leans forward. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his hands reaching for yours almost blindly—as if he needs the contact to anchor himself.

Your fingers tangle naturally, fitting together like puzzle pieces that had been waiting all this time.

And then you kiss him.

It’s slow at first, almost tentative—but the second your lips meet, it’s like the years of holding back finally snap. The kiss deepens, soft and certain, and you pour everything you’ve never said into it. 

Every unsent message. Every touch you’d brushed off as accidental. Every long look you’d never let linger.

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and he kisses you like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and find this was all a dream. His strength is there, yes, but so is his care—the gentleness he reserves only for the people he can’t bear to hurt.

When you part for breath, your lips still brushing his, he whispers against them, “I mean it. Every single word.”

You laugh again, low and breathless, pressing your face against his shoulder to hide the giddy smile threatening to split your cheeks. “I know,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. “I always knew.”

He lets out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh, his cheek resting against yours. His arms wrap around you fully now, pulling you into his chest, holding you like he’s never letting go.

“I can’t believe I waited this long,” he admits, voice muffled in your hair.

“You almost said it five times before,” you tease softly.

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling, pressing a small kiss to your temple. “But it’s worth the wait if the ending’s you.”

Your throat tightens, tears pricking at your eyes, and you press your forehead against his again. The city hums on around you, but here, in your apartment, time feels suspended. There’s only warmth. There’s only laughter. 

There’s only Clark Kent—your friend, your constant, your gravity—finally saying the words you’ve always needed him to.

And for the first time, the world feels exactly right.

♡…

a/n: oh boy, the clark kent obsession is real y’all. (and i’m not even a big dc person)

but just know i’m sitting here rubbing my hands together every time i think of the perfect song to pair with a fic

i was thinking of that one verse from this song that’s like “you’re the girl, you’re the one” “gave you everything that i loved”

[sflame15-blog]

Match Made (Part Two)

Love is an elusive concept to Clark, but one thing he knows is that it cannot be found through an arrangement. You set out to prove him wrong.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Clark goes on dates not with reader lol, hurt/comfort rather than angst?, some talks about insecurities ▸ WORD COUNT: 9.0K ▸ A/N: thank you so so much for the wonderful response for part one TT i had lots of fun writing this thing and exploring clark's character a little more. hope you enjoy this final part of him with miss matchmaker!

↤ Part One

Clark nearly forgets that the whole point of engaging you is for his article. He makes progress on his other pieces, simpler ones that do not require him to go on dates or being constantly distracted by a certain matchmaker. 

After that night in your apartment, the two of you have become friends. At least, that’s how Clark considers it. It starts with a text from you the following night of your mediocre dinner. He replies with his own spread and offers to share some with you. He runs some of his ideas by you and texts you boring details about his work out on the field, you send him angry emojis with a full block of text whenever you’re talking about one of your more insufferable clients. Then there are days when you send him a picture of your breakfast and tell him “yours was better, let’s do a repeat” and Clark allows himself to hope a little.

His curiosity has transformed into something more tangible, something that makes his heart ache and his cheeks sore when he smiles a little too wide at your messages. He likes hearing about your day, the little things that he thinks not everyone has a glimpse of.

With no mention of his third date, he wonders if something has changed with you too. If you’re delaying arranging this last one for him to prolong the time you have with him. It’s likely wishful thinking, but Clark lets himself have it. 

He is doing his best not to overthink the situation. All he knows is that he is enjoying this time with you and he is hoping that it will last. 

Luckily, he always has his coworkers to keep him occupied. 

“Clark, did you get photographs yet for your matchmaking article?” Jimmy tosses over his shoulder.

Ah, crap. That’s right. He probably does need this. It’s not as if he can take pictures of the date to include. Perhaps it may merit a visit to ADORE offices and even getting quick quotes and interviews from other matchmakers.

The bonus is that he gets to see you.

“I have not, should I set up some time? I think it would be good to go to their offices.”

“Yeah, you can ask your girlfriend that.”

Clark has never reddened so fast as he immediately denies this. “She’s not my girlfriend!”

Jimmy smirks, rolling his eyes. “Sure, man. I’m available this week unless some natural or manmade disaster calls for my attention.”

“You know it’s because we’ve never seen you smile so much, not like this. Not until recently,” Lois grins from across the hall. Clark doesn’t look up; he can’t, especially when his face feels like it’s about to explode. Lois will never let him live it down. 

“I’m pleased with my article.”

“Mhmm, okay.” She strolls over to his desk, planting herself on his desk again. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Clark sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s the biggest cliché, isn’t it? Falling for my subject,” Clark groans, rubbing his face furiously under his glasses. He presses his fingertips against his eyes.

“Technically, the subject itself is the matchmaking process, so it’s not as if it’s a problem. I wouldn’t stress too much about it,” Lois reassures him, but he almost feels pitied.

“But it’ll definitely bias my article,” he says, rolling around the pen on the table.

Lois places her hand over his to stop his movements. “It will give it a personal touch, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” She gives him one last reassuring pat on his back before returning to work. 

He turns back to his desk and picks up his phone, pulling up his message thread with you. He smiles when he sees the most recent picture you sent, which is of your comparatively healthier dinner of fried chicken and fries. Nothing like dinner for dinner. At least you were eating somewhat proper food. 

Maybe he should ask you out to dinner. 

The thought goes as quickly as it comes. He is still working with you, he should be professional. Nothing that would risk you becoming uncomfortable with him. 

Are you free anytime this week to take pictures?

The reply comes almost immediately. Pictures?

We need photographs for the article so I was thinking me and Jimmy could stop by the office. Maybe even get photos of the matchmakers :-)

The bouncing three dots appear then disappear. A minute goes by before they reappear and your reply pings his phone. Thursday? The entire team will be in.

Perfect. See you then!

I’ll make sure we get the entire office catered lunch ;) maybe breakfast foods?

You know the way to my heart :-)

He contemplates whether the message is too cheesy, and ultimately decides that maybe a little bit of cheese can be nice. “Jimmy, Thursday,” Clark calls out.

Jimmy makes kissy faces. “It’s a date.”

Clark fruitlessly tries not to flush again, and chooses to duck his face into his notebook instead.

Thursday rolls around quick, and Clark and Jimmy make their way to the ADORE offices only a few blocks away from The Daily Planet. He is dressed in one of his better shirts, hoping to appear put together in front of your colleagues.

He hasn’t seen you in quite some time, so the nervous energy thrums quietly in his veins. He rocks on the balls of his feet as he and Jimmy stand in the elevator.

“You’re down so bad, dude,” Jimmy chuckles.

Clark doesn’t deny it. He can’t. He just bites his bottom lip and nudges his glasses up, praying that the heat on his face dissipates by the time he sees you.

You are there waiting at the front desk when the two of them arrive. His heart skips a beat. You look as beautiful as ever. Your hair is done differently today, Clark wonders if you had done it for the pictures. The sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains casts a golden glow on you, brightening the smile on your face even more.

“Clark, it’s been a while,” you say politely. Your eyes are sparkling with mischief, which makes him grin, before they flick over to Jimmy. “Jimmy, right? Good seeing you again.”

“You too, thanks for having us.”

Your eyes shift back to Clark as you tilt your head warily at him. “You okay? Looks like it’s pretty hot out today. Hope you don't get heat stroke.”

His body betrays him when he proceeds to blush even harder. Jimmy muffles his laughter behind his camera and pretends to take pictures of the entrance as Clark waves off your concern. 

You lead the way through the spacious office. The layout is not a far cry from The Daily Planet with the open desks, but it certainly looks brighter and more beautiful. Less death and depression from reporting terrible things that happen, more happily-ever-after sunshine draped across the room in bright colors and pastels. You quickly introduce them to the rest of the team, all of them particularly eager to say hi to Jimmy, who just shifts away from them uncomfortably.

While Jimmy takes candid shots of the office, Clark lurks nearby and asks some of them for quotes about their experience, but his eyes are constantly wandering over to you in the distance. He has to ask a few people to repeat what they said, apologizing profusely. He sees Jimmy smirk from the corner of his eye.

“He’s so cute.” Clark’s ears perk up and he sneaks a glance at the other side of the room. You’re standing with another one of the matchmakers, whispering in the distance. The words came from your coworker but both their gazes are locked in his and Jimmy’s general direction.

“Yeah, he is,” you murmur softly, eyes meeting his before you swiftly look away. He sees you nip your bottom lip to stop a smile. He quietly does the same, but he can’t help looking at you again. He drinks you in, appreciates the way you shyly avoid his stare.

“Do you think he’s single? I didn’t think I would be into redheads but I could make an exception for him.”

You look at her puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”

“That photographer obviously! Who are you talking about?”

Your lips part in realization before you grow a little flustered, waving it off. Clark tries not to smile too hard. 

Everyone eventually crowds the open kitchen to get their fill of free office lunch. Jimmy tries to hide in a corner with his plate, which is a mistake because then at least three women are crowding around him. He sends desperate looks Clark’s way but Clark spots you walking towards him. Sorry, Jimmy.

“He’s a popular one,” you note in amusement.

Clark chuckles. “He hates the attention, but gets it anyway.”

“Maybe I should sic him on some of my tougher-to-please clients,” you smirk.

“He would absolutely hate that so yes, you should.”

Laughter spills from your lips — light, effortless, intoxicating. He’s memorized the sound by now, tucked its melody into the corners of his mind like a song he never wants to forget. It’s addictive, the kind of sound that lingers long after it’s gone.

“How’ve you been?” Clark asks.

“Good, busy.”

“No more roaches in the apartment?”

You snort. “Thank god no. Otherwise, I already know the first person I’ll be calling to exterminate it.”

“Maybe you should put that on my list of strengths.”

“Top of the list,” you smile.

Comfortable silence wraps around the two of you. It’s as if you’re in your own little bubble, just you and Clark. Everyone else fades into the background. Clark is standing so close to you, he could feel the brush of the back of your hand against his. It’s a light touch, but it still sends electricity coursing through his body.

Chemistry. Sparks. The usual clichés. He used to only consider them a fantasy, a figment of imagination for people to describe the feeling of falling in love. And he doesn’t know if he’s falling in love with you, it’s a terrifying thought, but he knows that there is something here. A chemical reaction that has his stomach fluttering and his heart racing.

With the last date on the table, he wonders — hopes — if he should take his chance. If he should take the first leap.

“You know you still owe me one more date,” Clark tries to joke, clearing his throat.

He’s hoping that you get the hint. The last date he wants — the only one he wants — is with you. He doesn’t care if the two of you end up at a fancy restaurant or doing something expensive, or if you want something more casual like cooking dinner at home. He’s a great chef. He’ll whip up your favorite foods, light some candles, play some jazz. As long as he’s with you.

A look flickers in your eyes, one that he cannot name. You move towards your desk, shuffling around some of the documents. “I do, yes. Um, I actually have a new client — the one I mentioned the other day. Let me know when you’re free.”

He hears glass breaking and he wonders if that’s the sound of his heart shattering.

Clark doesn’t think he has ever been turned down without even getting the chance to ask. The rejection is quiet. Implied. It’s worse than a blatant ‘no’. His hoping has been fruitless. If you were finally organizing his last date, it means that, not only is his time with you coming to an end, but you are also still set on connecting him with someone else. 

Someone else. Not you.

While he stews in the realization that you don’t have feelings for him the same way he does for you, you don’t even notice the silence that falls between you as you turn away.

You don’t notice how his fingers tremble, twisting together behind him as he watches you pull up notes about your client in your notebook. You’re still speaking, saying something about compatibility and interests, but all he can hear is a dull ringing, a faraway hum that muffles the noise around him except the thundering of his own heartbeat.

He swallows hard, trying to push past the tightness in his throat. He wills himself to smile, to nod, to do anything other than focus on the sting of rejection that clings onto his skin.

He should’ve known better. You told him you don’t date. He heard you and he respected your decision. But he has always been foolishly hopeful, thinking that maybe he could be the exception. That maybe he had shown you how wonderful he thinks you are and changed your mind about it. About him. About the two of you.

It’s naive, he knows. Now, watching you so easily working to match him with someone else, hope slips through his fingers like water. It hurts in a way that is unfamiliar to him. It’s not a sucker punch to the gut that he’s used to handling. It’s tiny little slices and he doesn’t realize the magnitude of his feelings until he’s sitting there, bleeding.

“Clark?”

Your soft voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts and he looks at you, worry clouding your gaze. His throat feels tight. “Sorry, yeah. You mentioned a new client.”

“Yes, are you interested?”

He isn’t. He wants to tell you that he would rather take his last date with you. However, the last thing he wants to do is drive you away or make you uncomfortable. You're only doing your job, and this is your last task. He would rather have you as a friend than nothing at all.

For this article, all he needs to do is complete one more date. One more date and then he can go back to his life before all this. Before the dates. Before falling for you. 

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

–

His third date, Wendy, is surprisingly nice. She is no less wealthy, judging by the blinding jewelry that adorns her wrists and fingers. However, unlike the first two, she seems almost… normal. It’s a little frightening. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She’s a little shy like Clark, stumbling over some of her words and accidentally biting her tongue. Clark finds it somewhat endearing. The conversation flows rather easily. She seems kind and she seems genuinely interested in him. She asks questions and listens intently to his answers, going as far as to ask relevant follow-ups.

He finds himself laughing over some of her stories. His eyes trail over her features carefully and he notes that she is pretty. He could see how people could be attracted to her. He thinks that maybe he could be attracted to her.

For a while, he doesn’t think of you. He thinks that maybe he has a chance with this woman. But then he freezes. He gets a whiff of something, perfume that reminds him of you. He watches the table next to him slurp a noodle soup and he thinks of the puddle of ramen on your floor. Someone breezes past him in blue and he remembers the night the two of you first met.

At that time, Clark never would have guessed the sizable imprint you would leave in his mind.

It’s harder to focus now when he’s thinking of you again. He’s wondering if you’re at home or if you’re still in the office. He wonders if you’re eating a proper dinner or if you opted for cheese and crackers again. He wonders if you’re curled up on your couch with your notebook, humming a tune from that one band you like.

Movement in his periphery draws his gaze outside. For a moment, he swears he sees you standing there, looking right at him. He pictures you in a nice yellow dress, the very definition of summer. He pictures you bright, wonderful, and breathtakingly beautiful.

But then he blinks and the mirage is gone.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wills you out of his mind. He has gotten to a point where he’s clearly seeing things.

“Clark? Are you okay?” Wendy asks, a frown marring her face.

Forcing a smile, he squeezes her hand across the table to ease her worries. “Yes, sorry. It was a long day at work. What were you saying?”

“We could call it a night early,” she offers with a sweet lilt to her voice. Then she blushes, shifting in her seat as she quietly suggests, “We could always pick this up on a second date?”

And Clark thinks of you again. He can be friends. To be friends, he needs to move on. With Wendy, he can see himself doing just that.

So he smiles at her. “I’d love that.”

The call from you is expected. It comes later in the day when Clark is in the break room, absently picking at the edges of his sandwich. The pieces shred and crumble under his fingertips.

“Hey, Clark.” Your voice is soft, comforting in a way that is uniquely you.

He says your name under his breath. He says it like a secret. His coworkers shuffle around him, loud and unaware. He would prefer for them not to know that he’s speaking with you, otherwise he wouldn’t hear the end of it. The last thing he wants to hear is their relentless teasing about his “crush” when you have virtually turned him down.

Clark slips into the hallway, phone still pressed to his ear and his shoulders against the wall. The surface is cool even through the fabric of his clothes. It helps ease the way his heart beats a crescendo.

“How’d the date go?” You ask.

He draws in a breath, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. “It went fine, I think. Better than the first two. She’s—” he hesitates, the right word hanging on the edges of his vocabulary before he manages out, “—nice.”

For a moment, he thinks the line went cold, but Clark hears the distant clicks of keyboards. “She’s interested in seeing you again,” you finally say, and it almost sounds like a question.

Clark thinks back to Wendy, her reddened cheeks, the way she lingered when she asked him. She was thoughtful. It was a nice gesture. “Yeah, she mentioned it last night.”

“Oh, did she?” There is surprise in your voice, unguarded for half a second. “What did you say?”

He wishes he could lie, but he doesn’t think he has the strength or will to do that, especially not with you. So he confesses. “I said yes.”

He hears it, your breath catching. The sound is soft, involuntary, like you weren’t ready for his answer. For a second, Clark ponders your reaction. Are you pleased? Worried? Disappointed?

But Wendy is nice and safe and thoughtful. She is a future that he can almost see, if he squints hard enough. She is his opportunity to move on. He thinks that maybe it is time to stop chasing something he doesn’t even quite understand.

He wants to hear it from your lips. He wants you to confirm to him that he chose correctly. “Did you think that was the right call?” He asks, barely above a whisper, as his head thuds gently back against the wall.

“Honestly?”

“Always.”

“It’s probably your best call yet, Clark.” Your voice is gentle but detached. It feels far from him, but it also doesn’t settle comfortably. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to the version of you he knows best — the one who laughs when he says something funny and sends you shy smiles when he does the same.

This version of you sounds like goodbye.

I don’t date.

Maybe you meant it. Maybe it was always going to end this way — quiet but painful in a way that throbs dully in his chest. You’ve done your job. A match made. A love created, or at least the seedlings of one.

With that, Clark has a chance. When one door opens, another closes. This one is simpler. Safer. And that should be enough.

Maybe, someday, it will be. 

–

His nerves are practically vibrating underneath his skin. Every sound feels like it triggers another jump in his pulse. The ticking of the clock, the click-clacking of typing around him, the scrape of paper flipping and shifting. He chances a glance across the room where Lois sits at her desk, chewing that pen within an inch of its life as her eyes rapidly scan across the pages. It’s not how quickly she’s reading it that is making him anxious; it’s the way her brows are furrowed in deep concentration.

Clark’s experience has mostly been in typical news. Bank robberies, superhero work, and the occasional coverage of someone’s cat in a tree (metaphorically and literally). He knows how to write the grittier type of stories, the ones that are very much a redistribution of facts. It’s easier, simpler.

This lighter and more experimental piece, exploring a topic far outside his comfort zone, has Clark on edge. The initial plan was to write a story about the reality of the matchmaking industry; if he was lucky, he could potentially turn it into a more interesting exposé.

However, as he started noting down the most interesting parts of his investigation, he found that the story is more personal. More focused on love as an experience. It examines the intricacy of human intimacy — or even lack thereof — in the modern dating world. It’s not unsurprising that his writing took a turn.

After all, the entire time he writes, he thinks of you.

But now that it is completed, the result of his blood, sweat, and tears over the last month, he isn’t sure if it’s something The Daily Planet can even publish. Who other than Lois Lane — writer extraordinaire — to give him the brutal, honest truth?

Clark has reorganized his pens five times over, ensured everything on his desk is spick and span, and perfectly aligned. He peeks at Lois again and finds that she’s on the last page. He may need a defibrillator soon.

When he hears the rustling of pages land on her desk, he fearfully turns over to her.

What he sees is… surprising to say the least.

Lois is smiling at him. Smiling. Not even in a snarky, sassy way that shames him. It’s a genuine smile, like a parent proud of their child. He can’t tell if he should be flattered or offended.

“Clark. Dear Clark,” Lois says as she moves towards him, papers in hand.

He is hesitant when he responds with a quiet, “Yes?”

“I think you’re finally a real writer.”

Pride is quick to spread across his chest, spreading a warm, tingly feeling. Clark huffs a laugh, “I feel like there is an insult hidden in there somewhere.”

“No, this is fantastic, Clark. I don’t write or read a lot of stuff like this, but it’s got a lot of heart.”

He worries his bottom lip. “Think Perry will still publish it?”

Lois smiles, “He would be an idiot not to.”

Rarely is Lois ever wrong, and this is another example of such instance. Having Perry review the piece after Lois is significantly less stressful. The man looks through it quickly, scribbling down a couple of things, and then hands the papers back to him. Without even looking up, he says, “Fix those and we print tomorrow. Send it over to Benji.”

It is always a nice boost to his self-esteem when he sees his work in print. His article is not on the front page, but it’s a decent-sized spread in the lifestyle section. While his parents don’t technically read The Daily Planet — most of it is irrelevant to them as they are in Kansas, they never fail to get a copy when he gets printed. 

“Oh, Clark, honey, the writing is lovely,” his mother starts, crooning about how proud she is of her boy. 

His father in the background also calls out, “It’s gorgeous, son. Beautiful story.”

“Did you hear that, your dad said it’s gorgeous and beautiful!”

He chuckles, leaning back on his seat and smiling up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Ma, Pa. It was a little stressful to write but I’m glad you both enjoyed it.”

“So who’s the lucky person?” His dad chirps in the background.

Clark nearly tumbles out of his seat, drawing the attention of his colleagues when he has to rattle himself back into place. Clearing his throat, he quickly sits back up and leans down to his desk. “What do you mean?”

“These are the words of a man in love, son. You know better than to sneak something like this past your parents,” his dad softly says. His dad has always been the softie of the family, the one who notices his emotions before he does. 

This time is no different.

“There is no gal, Pa,” Clark sighs. Because it’s the truth. There is Wendy but he doesn’t think what they have has any legs right now for him to be sharing with his parents. 

Not when he didn’t think of her when he completed the article. 

“Alright, you tell us when you’re ready, Clark,” his dad responds with a gentle lilt. He can imagine his parents in the living room. His mom’s phone on speaker as they lean close into it. He thinks about the worn-out fabric of the couch and the sunlight seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the farmhouse. 

He thinks about what it would be like to bring you there. For his parents to cook you something real nice for dinner, something that you will teasingly say is much better than his cooking just to flatter them. 

Clark closes his eyes and swallows thickly. “Right. Okay, I have to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later.”

A few colleagues give him pats on the back when he comes in the next day, telling him he did a great job with the article. One of the mailroom girls even comes up to him, batting her eyelashes in a way that Clark has never experienced. "I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Clark.”

He understands why Jimmy is so uncomfortable with the attention now.

When he looks at his phone, he sees a few messages. Your name on that list makes his heart stop and his finger involuntarily, immediately swipes to open the message.

It’s a selfie of you with the article. A huge smile spread across your face right next to the half-page dedicated to his work. The familiarity of your features strikes his heart with a slight sting. He hasn’t seen you in a while. With the growing number of clients you are managing and Clark swept up in the chaos of Metropolis, the two of you haven’t had a chance to properly catch up.

Neither of you also have the excuse of the article to meet. 

He absentmindedly finds himself tracing his screen, like a lovesick fool. He’s lucky his team isn’t looking at him otherwise he would never live it down. 

Great work, Kent. Team is loving it :-)

He misses you. He misses you so, very much. He didn’t think that you’ve carved such a big place in his life that he would feel the gaping hole so meaningfully. Your texts have been sparse and in between. He isn’t sure if you’re avoiding him, but it wouldn’t be surprising if you were.

Disappointment sinks deep into the pit of his gut. He likes to think that the two of you have become friends. More than colleagues or acquaintances. There are moments where even those lines are blurred and he thinks that there could be something even greater there. Those are moments that have Clark’s pulse spiking, his imagination conjuring up creative thoughts that are dangerous for his heart.

But given the limited contact you’ve given him the last week, he wonders if it has always been about the work for you. You promised him three dates and you delivered. Wendy asking for a second date is a sign of success. You’ve done your job and you could wipe your hands clean of him.

Regardless of whether he wants that.

He releases a deep, desolate sigh as he thinks about his response.

Thanks! Should we grab coffee to catch up?

Awesome to hear. How are you doing? Any bugs you need me to help you with?

I miss you, can I see you?

He feels ready to fling his phone out the window with how pathetic he sounds, begging for scraps. Your clients are probably much more suave than this. As he continues to type, erase, and retype a response, someone calls his name from the front desk. “Kent, someone’s here for you!”

Perking up, he rolls around to look towards the entrance. Some silly part of him is hoping that it’s you dropping by for a surprise visit, maybe to give him kudos on his article in person. But that hope is quickly quashed when he spots Wendy walking shyly towards him, her face lighting up like Christmas lights when her eyes land on him.

He’s a real jerk.

Guilt socks him right in the stomach. What a despicable reaction to the sight of a woman who has been nothing but gracious with him. He went on his second date with Wendy a few days ago. It was fine. It’s always fine with Wendy. There is no blinding passion or mind-numbing fireworks like the ones in the movies, or even the kind of warm, steady love that he sees with his parents. But he will have affection in that quiet, subtle, comfortable way. And maybe that is enough.

He rises to his feet when Wendy approaches him. “Clark, sorry for dropping by unannounced. You weren’t responding but I was in the area,” she bashfully says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

The moment he saw your text, he completely disregarded all other messages. Including Wendy’s. Another stab of guilt hits him. “No, don’t apologize. Did you need something?”

She flushes a little and smiles up at him, holding out a paper bag. “I got you lunch. I wasn’t sure if you ate already.”

He opens his mouth to tell her that he did but Lois shoots him a look that says absolutely not. So he quickly switches his response. “No, I haven’t. Thank you, this is very kind of you,” he says as he accepts the bag. “Did you eat yet?”

Clark was going to suggest eating together, but bites his tongue when he realizes he isn’t even sure if he wants that. Talking with Wendy is fine. They maintain polite conversation and small talk. He doesn’t think he has the social battery for that today.

“Yes, I was having lunch with my parents.” Clark distinctly remembers her talking about her parents. Her extremely wealthy parents. Extremely protective of their one and only daughter. “I mentioned you to them.”

He can feel his heart stammer behind his ribs. It’s not out of excitement, but fear. “Oh?” is all he manages to weakly say.

“They said they want to meet you,” Wendy carefully says. He knows it is more of a suggestion, a question. Clark tries not to squeak out so soon? But apparently he does not try hard enough because, judging by Lois smacking her forehead in his periphery, he likely said it out loud. Wendy’s reaction only confirms it when she becomes flustered, face turning a deeper shade of pink. “Not now, of course! We can give it some time. I think they’re just excited I’ve finally found someone I like.”

Remorse chips away at the shell of his heart. The right thing to say would be to tell her that he also likes her, that he is equally enthralled by her as she is by him. However, it is not the right thing to say if it is not the truth.

Before he can manage a poor attempt at a kind reply, Lois swings in to save the day. She plops down on his desk, puts on her most charming smile, and sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois. So nice to meet you.”

Wendy is momentarily alarmed by the addition to the conversation but quickly recomposes herself. She simpers sweetly at Lois. “Oh, so nice to meet you too. I’ve read a lot of your work. Clark speaks very highly of you.” Clark doesn't think he has mentioned Lois to her, and he has a feeling she has read zero of Lois' articles, but Wendy is a socialite through and through. She knows how to work people.

But Lois isn’t people. “How wonderful,” she replies kindly, and Clark knows better than to take that at face value. She has her judging goggles on, carefully evaluating Wendy. By the look on Wendy’s face, he has a feeling she is also aware when she is being analyzed.

Clark wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Awkward silence wraps around them when they all appear at a loss on what to say. This is the kind of atmosphere that Clark wants to avoid. Thankfully, Wendy chooses that moment to eliminate that tension. “I should get going. I have to meet a few friends. Shall we do dinner tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Clark agrees, the word leaves his mouth before his brain could catch up. “Tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” She nods and looks at him. There is brief hesitation as she stares at him with earnest eyes, and then she reaches up on her toes and kisses him on the cheek. The color that unrolls across her face is fast, but Clark doesn’t get a chance to reply when she scurries out the door.

Clark releases his second extremely deep sigh of the day.

Lois looks at him, quirking a brow. “She’s nice.”

He knows there is an unsaid but there, but he chooses not to address it. He doesn’t have the energy to. “She is,” he simply affirms.

She studies him briefly, seeming to contemplate her next words. “Clark, I think you deserve a little better than nice.” He turns to her. “You should be with someone you’re actually thrilled to see. Someone who gets you excited to go on a date, not sigh like you’ve just been given a death sentence. Someone who makes your heart race.”

He knows that. Deep down, he knows that. He wants that. For a while, he thought he could have it with you, but he had been in over his head. Someone as fantastic and brilliant as you probably has suitors lining up around the block. Not to mention, you don’t date so the chance of anything happening between the two of you is close to nil.

In response to Lois, he can only nod. He instead opens his phone again to the message from you. Your face lights a small fire within him, the kind of heat that expands rapidly throughout the rest of him. He thinks of the night you spent together. Intimacy that goes beyond words, beyond predictable actions. It’s the kind of affection that science cannot predict but the chemistry is there all the same.

He knows the right thing to do by Wendy. No one should be caught in a loveless relationship for the sake of not being alone. Clark thinks that he is perhaps also Wendy’s safety net, the same way she is with him. She is kind and she deserves better. Someone who makes your heart race.

Clark isn’t perfect but he knows the one good thing he can do. 

–

Dinner with Wendy is the same as the first two times. She has selected a nicer place this time so Clark does put on a suit and tie for it. He tugs on the collar of his shirt lightly. Sometimes, he feels like he is playing dress-up with her. Trying to be — or at least act like — someone different to keep up with her. 

The nice thing about Wendy is that he has been honest with her from the start. Well, to an extent. He certainly does not mention his feelings about you. However, he does make it clear to her that his Daily Planet salary cannot support the perhaps overly affluent lifestyle that she is used to having. 

Wendy being Wendy had taken it in stride. She smiled and told him she didn’t mind that in the least. She knows what she wants — if they are doing something more casual, he covers the date, but if she picks a more upscale location, she picks up the bill. She shrugs, telling him that she doesn’t mind it as her parents fund most of her spending habits anyway. 

He likes that she says this confidently. There is no shame in her words; she was born lucky and she leverages that to her advantage. She doesn’t try to shove the way she spends on others, and instead prefers to lavish them with her luck. He has to respect her for that. 

The one thing about tonight that he does find odd is that she is particularly talkative. 

She is not chatty in a way that is meant to ask and respond like their usual conversations, but seems to be an attempt to constantly fill the silence with noise. It is the kind of dialogue that his brain struggles to focus and track. Neither of them has ever felt the need for it before, so he wonders what brought about this change. She goes on and on about her family’s foundation and their most recent giving cycle, stories shared from her friend at dinner yesterday, the fact that she’s so grateful for you and you’re finally on a date—

Clark has to do a double-take as his brain works to catch up. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Wendy halts, equally alarmed. “About what?”

“About the date thing.”

She brightens, repeating her words to confirm that he in fact did not mishear anything.

You are on a date. You’re on a date. You’re on a date with someone. You’re not setting up a date. You yourself are on a date.

The words circle his mind like vultures, ready to prey on his bare emotions. He turns the words, reorganizes them, shifts them around to ensure he understands the situation clearly.

Wendy doesn’t seem to notice the mini crisis he is currently experiencing. Instead, she keeps going, “I’m so grateful to her, you know. I’ve met so many wonderful people, including you. I’m just so thrilled that she found someone she’s interested in.”

Clark can barely comprehend the words. He is still struggling to connect the you that is on that date with the you that had told him that you do not date. Ever. There is a chasm between these two truths that he is attempting to bridge.

The bigger question is: what changed?

What — or who — could’ve changed your mind? A smaller part of him, the one that fears the answer to this, forces him to reckon with the matter that he wasn’t enough. He isn’t enough. Not to date, not to change your mind. But someone else is.

And he has to learn to live with that. Maybe one day, he will learn to let you go for good. He will learn that there are other people out there for both you and him. He will find others that he will fall in love with, and maybe they will break his heart, or he will break theirs.

One day.

Not today.

Today, he wants to make sure he has no regrets. His feelings for you are real. Tangible. His heart has been in your hands from the day you met for dinner, and then for coffee. It has been with you since that evening in your apartment, the unshed tears in your eyes that he aches to wipe away. It has been with you through the multitude of messages you shared, the most tedious parts of both your days are interesting when he views them through rose-colored glasses. 

Even if you turn him down, he will at least have an answer to his feelings. His satisfaction will be in having had the courage to be vulnerable with you. The last thing he wants to do is regret his first go at love.

“Do you know where they are?” He breathlessly blurts out. His feet are itching to move, but he has no direction. Not yet.

Wendy’s brows knit together as she looks at him in confusion. “Um, it’s at that swanky new steakhouse a few minutes from here. Benjamin’s?”

He has a name. He has a direction. He has a path to you.

But first, he needs to get the words that have been hanging on the tip of his tongue all night out. It’s the right thing to do. “Wendy, listen.” Her expression falters ever so slightly.

She knows. Clark winces. He wishes he could’ve been more sensitive. He wishes that things could have worked out with Wendy. It would’ve been so much easier for both him and her. But, as they say, the heart wants what it wants.

“I’m so sorry. I promise I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her and— you’re great. You’re fantastic. I’m happy we met, but you deserve someone who adores you with the same fervor you adore them. It’s not you—”

“It’s me, I get it,” Wendy smiles. It’s a little sad, it’s kind. He wonders if she gets tired of being nice. He doesn’t think he would say anything if she hit him real hard right now; he deserves it for having led her on for three dates. Time and money wasted. “I get it. I had a feeling you had someone on your mind anyway. I was hoping a little too hard, I guess. I just didn’t realize it was her.”

Clark swallows thickly, toying with the napkin in his lap. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Don’t ever apologize for love, Clark. I wouldn’t. I’m not one to stand in the way of true love.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, rising to his feet. “I’ll pay on my way out. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You were cute while you lasted, Clark Kent,” Wendy sighs and flashes a smirk his way, rolling her eyes as she shoos him with a flick of her wrist. Clark wonders if he has misjudged her, if there is another side to her he has yet to see. “I’ve got the tab. Go get your girl.”

Clark leans down, quickly ducking to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re an angel.”

“Let me know how it goes!”

His long legs are already taking him far. He reaches the door in a blink of an eye and his feet carry him in the direction of the restaurant. It’s a place he has passed many times in the last few weeks. The name is imprinted on the back of his mind, burning it to his memory, along with the image of you with someone else.

He shakes the thought away as he weaves through the evening crowd.

—

Clark’s gaze darts through the tables, rapidly scanning each face for yours. The host says something, tries to tell him that he has to explain what he’s doing there, but he isn’t exactly listening. Not when his eyes finally land on you.

You’re sitting in the middle of the room, a man across from you with his back turned towards Clark. You’re laughing, your hand raised to respectfully cover your mouth. He thinks of the way you usually throw your head back in a genuine laugh, the sound ringing clear in his ear like the delightful tingling of bells. 

Before the host can argue, Clark makes a beeline in your direction. He doesn’t exactly think. He just does. One foot in front of the other, one step after another. He sees the moment you spot him from the corner of your eye. Your eyes widen a fraction, enough to send electricity jolting through him. There is a sharpness to your gaze that lights a fire inside his chest. You squint ever so slightly, trying your best to disregard him and focus on the man across from you.

But Clark knows better. He has your attention. He’s not about to lose it now.

When he finally reaches your table, your name escapes his lips. It comes as a desperate whisper.

“Clark, what are you doing here?” You ask, frowning as your eyes flick between him and your date in concern.

He purses his lips as he rights his crooked glasses and adjusts his tie. In his rush to get here, he feels and looks somewhat disheveled. His curls are looser than normal, falling against his forehead. His shirt slightly untucked and his tie shifted to the side. “Hi. Hi. Sorry to interrupt—”

You’re suddenly on your feet, napkin falling to the table as you speak quietly to him. “What are you doing here? Wendy mentioned she had a date with you today.” You glance at your watch. It’s still peak dinnertime.

“No, um, well, I was. I was at the date, I mean.” He takes your bewildered look as your response. “But then— listen, I’m so sorry to interrupt.” He turns to your date, feeling the guilt sink in now that the man is looking at him in utter confusion. “I’m so sorry, man. I just need to talk to this lovely lady right here. If I could borrow her for a second—”

“Get your own date, dude,” the guy spits out venomously. Confusion gone, replaced by pure irritation.

Your lips tighten into a small smile at the man. “Sorry, Evan. He’s a client. Would you give me a second? Work calls.” Then you are ushering Clark out into the street, pinning him with a combined look of uncertainty and mild exasperation. He tries not to smile at the fact that you can’t even be really upset with him. “Okay, Clark. What’s up? I’m a little lost here.”

“Wendy told me you were on a date,” he says. With a hand on your hip, you cock to the side as if to question so? “You told me you don’t date.” A raise of your eyebrow. He feels the shame and panic settling in, so he has to get his words out fast. “So why are you on one now?”

You blink at him, clearly caught off guard by his question. “Uh, I’m— I don’t know. I mean, he’s a potential client.”

“Do you date all of your clients?”

“No! Of course not!” You scoff.

“Or was I the only one you never considered?”

Your head jerks back, the puzzled look returning. “Clark, what? Why would you ask me that? What kind of question is that?”

He drags his fingers through his mop of hair. He looks up to the sky, throat moving as he tries to swallow the dryness in his throat. “Is it because I don’t make as much money as your clients? I know I can’t always take you to the nicest places, but I could. Sometimes. I’ll try. I have enough saved up.”

“Clark, hold on—”

“Or do you not think I’m attractive enough? You mentioned in the beginning that you thought I was good looking. I can clean up, you know that. You’ve seen it. Am I just not your type? Because if that’s the case, tell me what it is—”

“Clark, you’re perfect,” you interrupt him, hands latching onto his biceps to stop his rambling. You look a little winded too, breaths heavy in your chest as you look up at him. Your eyes are blown wide as you look directly into his crystal blue eyes. “Christ, you’re perfect, okay, I’m— I’m just not sure where all of this is coming from.”

Clark pinches his lips together, almost pouting in a sulk. “You told me you didn’t date, but here you are,” he repeats.

For a brief moment in time, the two of you are at a standstill. The only noises around you are the rush of cars and the pattering of shoes against the pavement. You avoid his eyes, preferring to focus on the flashing red lights. Clark takes a breath and you do the same.

“It’s what you wrote in your article,” you say quietly, shifting your heels on the pavement and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Clark’s fingers crave to do the same. “That love is not something unattainable, but something everyone deserves.” Of course, he remembers that line. It’s one of his favorites from the piece. You wet your lips, arms wrapping around yourself protectively. “It made me think. I wanted to try it again, to see if I deserve love too.”

Clark’s lips form a circle as he lets out a little oh.

“And honestly, I thought you were really happy with Wendy,” you clear your throat. “She spoke very highly of you, and you’re on your third date. So I thought my job was done. I thought it’s what you wanted. That she is what you wanted.”

“She’s… fine,” Clark mutters dumbly. He can’t seem to find the right words to say now. His giant vocabulary sits at the bottom of his feet along with his brain.

“You wrote about walking through those doors and meeting her and feeling love, which — don’t get me wrong — I’m so happy for you. I was so thrilled that it was a successful match. It’s my job after all to bring you someone you could one day love. I just—” you take in a sharp breath, “—I didn’t realize how much I would care. About you. About you with her.”

His lips twitch as he ducks his head in part embarrassment, and something akin to hope soaring in his chest. He can feel his giddiness radiate off him in waves. It does not go unnoticed by you. 

The expression seems to irritate you, which is fair. It’s not the most appropriate reaction to your words. “Why are you smiling?”

A laugh slips past his lips this time. “That wasn’t about Wendy.” You tilt your head with a frown. “It was about you. It was about the first time we really talked. When I was pitching you the article. The narrative is obviously a little dramatized but the point still stands.”

“What?”

“I was talking about you,” he admits with a grin, taking a step closer towards you. He can see your pupils dilate, your heart rate picking up, your breath hitching. “I feel… alive when I’m with you. You make me feel like someone different, someone better. Desirable. Valuable. Someone who deserves you.”

He can hear your heart skip a beat, the nervous energy pulsing through your veins. “You are all those things on your own already,” you murmur, stepping towards him to close the distance. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I think you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re not awful. You’re so incredibly wonderful and I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you.”

Your gaze falters, your face twisting slightly. “Clark, I don’t know if I can…”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust myself with you. The thought of inevitably hurting you, or pushing you away. Or maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize that I’m really not all that. I don’t know if I could do that.”

Clark senses you drifting away, your body angling further away from him, so he quickly takes your hand and leans down. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dating is a marathon, not a sprint, right? We’ll learn to jump and tackle the highest hurdles, the worst parts of ourselves. I’m not perfect, but I want to be the best version of myself for you. I want to be better for you.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat. Light. Genuine. Music to his ears. “You’re more than great already, you know that, right?”

“Well, the only way I would know that is because of you. Because I can see myself through your eyes. You see the best version of me even when I can’t.”

Another laugh. Clark thinks he could pass out happy right here, right now. You grin at him, “Christ, I can’t believe you just deliver those lines like nothing. Did you rehearse this speech or did you pull that out of thin air? You’re straight out of a novel.”

Clark doesn’t waste a second. His arm slides around you as he pulls you against him. Chest to chest, heart to heart. He closes the distance between you and captures your lips with his. He tastes the sweetness of your gloss, smells the slight spice in your perfume, and feels the warmth of your skin.

He tastes the memories you’ve shared, and the memories you’ll create together. He tastes the smiles, the laughter, the tears, the ache, and everything in between. He tastes love because it’s you.

In this journey, this marathon, Clark knows that — when he eventually gets down on one knee, he still wouldn’t have reached the finish line.

Because it’s only the beginning with you.

—

There are people who make you believe in love — that it’s not something unattainable, but something everyone deserves.

This kind of love is something this writer has considered but did not think he could experience until he walked through those doors and met her.

Sometimes, it doesn’t take much. Only a leap of faith, and this writer has taken the first step. Will you?

Tag List: @sflame15-blog @kissmxcheek @ticklish-leafy-plant @qardasngan @fox-saturn @the-fairy-anon @sofia-1d @itmekelpy @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @nuhveah

[sflame15-blog]

This counts as 3 meals thank you

Match Made (Part One)

Love is an elusive concept to Clark, but one thing he knows is that it cannot be found through an arrangement. You set out to prove him wrong.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Clark goes on dates not with reader lol, hurt/comfort rather than angst?, some talks about insecurities ▸ WORD COUNT: 10.6K ▸ A/N: watched materialists and was inspired for this lil cross-over-esque story! some scenes are inspired by the movie but the plot is different. turned out a little long so split it up into a two-shot. next/final one coming very shortly :)

—

If Clark had known years ago that Perry was made of money, he would’ve asked for a raise sooner. Judging by the venue selection, the obscene amount of elaborate decor, and the fact that the bride has switched dresses five times, Perry White is a very wealthy man. 

The sheer scale of this wedding for his son means that Perry decided to invite his favorite colleagues; in other words, the five employees whom he tolerates. Steve barely made the cut, but now all five of them are dappered up, dressed to the nines, to attend Perry’s son’s — Keith's — wedding at the swankiest hotel in town. 

“Can you believe they met through a matchmaker?” Lois whispers conspiratorially, leaning over at the assigned Daily Planet table. 

“A matchmaker?” Clark raises an eyebrow. 

Lois nods. “Keith apparently signed up for some matchmaking services to get connected with women. I don’t know why he would. The man is a catch — at least in the traditional sense. Six foot, doctor, handsome.”

“Miss Lane, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you have a crush,” Clark teases, earning a sharp elbow to his abdomen. A pained oof leaves his lips. “You’ve known the guy forever. Didn’t you start working with Perry when you were like ten?”

With a huff that has her curled bangs flying, she shakes her head. “Once upon a time, I might have. Keith is a good guy, which is why I don’t understand why he would pay a boatload of money to get introduced to someone.”

Clark can’t help but agree. Call him old-fashioned but he likes meeting people organically. He has heard stories about couples meeting at grocery stores, at the library, in college. He knows that the world has changed a lot. His parents might have met bumping into each other at the farmer’s market, but plenty of his peers have begun transitioning to dating apps. Cat is an example; she goes on a date a week as a way to keep herself entertained and also recruit new gossip material for her column. Work hard, play hard. 

However, Clark shouldn’t really be saying anything regarding this matter. He hasn’t been out on a date since things with Lois ended. It was an amicable breakup that left them with a stronger friendship. 

“I do agree, I don’t think there is much appeal in getting set up. What happened to a good meet-cute? There is no science in matchmaking,” Clark notes, mostly to himself. 

“Sixty-seven percent of daters say that their dating life isn’t going too well. Three-fourths of daters find it difficult to find people to date. People look for so many different things in a partner nowadays, especially when they’re older and more particular. Height, looks, income, sense of humor, and so on.”

The new voice that interjects itself to the conversation has them looking up. It’s a woman who is sitting at their table, and likely has been there the entire time they’ve been discussing this matter. 

You look up from your phone, setting it down as you finally address the rest of the guests. You’re in a blue strapless dress that almost shimmers underneath the dining room lights. Your eyes sparkle with something akin to mischief, one that sets off Clark’s nerves. 

“So, yes, meeting people in the outside world naturally is ideal, but it’s not always realistic.” With your name, you introduce yourself. “Matchmaker for Keith and Delilah. Pleasure to meet you. I see we’re all assigned to the colleagues table.”

Heat rushes to Clark’s face having been caught red-handed speaking poorly of your profession. You don’t seem fazed in the least. He pushes up his glasses on his nose and hopes that he doesn’t look as red as he feels. 

“There is plenty science in matchmaking. You’re figuring out the right combination of variables to trigger the right reaction. A matchmaker is the catalyst. My job is not to make sure you have the perfect relationship, it’s about finding out what you want and making sure it aligns with your potential partner’s criteria.”

“So what are the variables that your clients look for?” Lois is curious now, eyes alight and eager. 

You shrug, taking a sip of your champagne and crossing your arms over your chest. “It depends.”

“All of them must be looking for money. Both Keith and Delilah clearly can afford your services.”

Your lips tug into an amused grin. “You’re not incorrect, but financial stability is not the only checkbox. It can be anything from height, hobbies, age, personality, job.”

“Isn’t job the same thing as financial requirements?” Lois prompts.

“You’d be surprised by the number of people looking for partners who make high six figures without being in finance. That’s some of my tougher ones.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Dating is all about setting expectations. It’s about understanding what you really want and going for it. No partner is perfect, you can’t expect to get all the things on your list, but you just need the ones that matter.”

Lois hums. Clark and Jimmy abruptly spin to look at her. They share a look. It’s her impressed hum. It takes a lot to wow Lois Lane. That’s an approving hum. 

Continuing with her line of questioning, Lois asks, “How many successful matches have you had?”

Tapping your finger against your lip, you seem to think about it, but Clark knows better. A woman with your confidence and skills, your kill rate is certainly top of mind. 

“Eight — well, nine including this one — since I started three years ago.”

“Nine couples?”

“Nine weddings. There are a few successful matches that haven’t yet gotten to this stage and may never get there, but to each their own. Love comes in all forms, right?”

Another impressed hum. Clark is about to get a severe case of whiplash. 

Before Lois can pepper you with more questions, another voice jumps in. “Excuse me.” The entire table turns to find a trio of women. “You’re the matchmaker right? Can we talk to you? After seeing what you’ve done for Delilah and Keith, we wanted to talk to you a little bit more about the experience.”

Your eyes light up, a charming smile settling on your lips. It’s the look of a salesperson ready to delivery a crowd-winning pitch. “Of course.” You briefly look around the table, eyes landing on Clark when your smile stretches just a smidgen wider. “It was nice meeting all of you.”

When you’re finally gone, Lois lets out a low whistle. “I’m not going to lie, she almost sold me there. If my bank account was big enough, I might’ve considered hiring her.”

Clark looks at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding. You? Lois Lane? You considered hiring a matchmaker?”

“Aren’t you curious what kind of people she would match you with? Like she said, it’s about setting and meeting expectations. It’s a formula at the end of the day. If she’s successfully created nine weddings in three years, she’s clearly good at what she does.” 

Clark has never thought about what he wants in a partner. He is busy enough as is dealing with his double life. He already had to explain being Superman once to Lois, he can’t imagine having to do it a second time. 

Then again, that feels inevitable. 

“If I could afford her, I’d ask her out,” Lois notes, eyes raking over you appreciatively across the room. “I love a strong, confident woman.”

“The two of you would likely kill each other before the date is over,” Jimmy mutters, being the second person tonight to get a jab from Lois. 

“Well, I think she makes for an interesting story. Clark, didn’t you say you’ve been struggling to find something for a new piece?”

He has hit a bit of a block for inspiration; he can’t write about Superman (in other words, himself) forever. Stories about Superman taking down the next monster in Metropolis no longer make big splashes on the front page. 

“Yes,” Clark grumbles, “but I don’t think this is the piece we want. This feels like it’s up Cat’s alley. Or since you’re so interested, why don’t you do it?”

“You know I have my hands full with the LuthorCorp piece I’m working on. Plus, I think you could bring a certain nuance to this as a single, straight man in Metropolis. Which is the perspective that most people read about anyway.”

He winces, “I don’t think people want to hear from yet another white man.” There is also the concern around pricing, which he doubts Perry will let him expense. “Do you think she has a discount code?”

Lois smirks, “If you write it as a piece focused on her company, they might appreciate the good marketing and do a free trial period for you. Their version of charity work, I suppose.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. 

It’s not the worst idea Lois has had, and she has had plenty when it comes to getting a great story. There probably is an angle he could work with; it could be an exposé on the matchmaking industry or an inside look into dating trends in general. It’s not his realm of expertise but he has been meaning to broaden his range. 

“Well, guess I have my next story.”

–

There are worse things in life than having to take the next step in your career by writing about a luxury matchmaking service in Metropolis. For example, Jimmy walks in covered in monster goo just minutes ago and has to immediately extract the photos for publishing, dripping slime all over his desk. Meanwhile, Clark sits comfortably at his desk with his good friend Google.

His first order of business is to explore your company further. When he pitched the idea to Perry, he immediately greenlit the concept. The man was already hesitant about ADORE, the matchmaking company, when his son brought up paying thousands of dollars for it, so he was on board with Clark doing an investigative piece on it.

ADORE has been around for a decade, its revenue experiencing a steep upward trajectory in recent years, driven by the influx of billionaires and single individuals (not necessarily mutually exclusive). They list all their matchmakers on the website, all attractive women with smiles mimicking yours from yesterday. The headshots are clear, and their expertise detailed. He finds you immediately.

Clark can admit to himself that he finds you attractive. You are. You exude the kind of confidence that has Lois intrigued, the comfort in your skin that can even make Jimmy uncomfortable, and the dangerously knowing smile that puts Clark on edge. He has met many beautiful people in his lifetime, but none have shaken him the way you do.

He copy-pastes your email and begins drafting a message. Every time he finishes two sentences, he deletes one. He has never been the most polished speaker or writer, Lois gives him enough crap for it. Somehow, emailing you feels like one of the most daunting things he has done, especially after your interaction over the weekend. He has multiple colleagues read over the email and only when it has received the Lois Lane approval does he pull the trigger and click send.

Now, he waits.

Ping! Well, clearly he does not have to wait very long. It’s a response from you.

Sure, Clark. I’d be happy to meet with you to discuss a potential article. How about tonight at 7? You pick the place.

This feels like a test. It has to be a test, right? Pick the place? Seven is also dinnertime, which means you expect him to take you out to dinner. Or perhaps he can limit it to a drink, even if he does not drink.

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Jimmy nods, looking almost proudly over his shoulder. “You’ve got yourself a date, Clark.”

The water halfway down his throat makes his way back up as he sputters onto his desk.

“Oh, I hope you don’t do that tonight. You’re not winning anyone over by spitting all over them.”

“This is not a date,” he emphasizes, quickly grabbing a few napkins to clean up the mess.

Jimmy ignores him. “Where are you going to go with her?”

“I don’t know…” Clark has never been the type to keep track of trendy restaurants or places to go to impress women, he hasn’t needed it. His meals consist of multiple breakfasts in a day, because he knows the recipes by heart and they are relatively easy to make. “What about Metro Grill?”

Jimmy groans, followed by Lois on the other side, and even Steve across the floor.

“What? What’s wrong with it? It’s a good place to eat.”

“That’s where you go when you’re about to break up with someone, Clark. Or bring someone you really, really hate,” Lois flags. “She’s going to turn you down the moment you suggest it.”

Clark should be offended by this, but he also accepts the truth that he is not an expert in this area. “Okay, where should I go then?”

Jimmy snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up. “My cousin works at this sick new restaurant just a few blocks from here. The Refinery, have you heard of it? Great drinks, great vibes. Perfect for a date.”

“It’s not a date,” Clark says exasperatedly.

“I’m sure he can get you a last-minute reservation and hopefully a discount.” At what is most likely a despondent look on his face, Jimmy quickly adds, “It’ll be fine. As long as you’re not getting anything crazy like the seafood tower, you’ll be fine.”

That same night, the words that leave your mouth has his body ascending to another plane of existence.

“I think I’ll get the seafood tower.”

Clark doesn’t think he has ever paled as fast — or paled at all for that matter. You seem to have the heart-stopping effect on him, and he’s not so sure it’s the good kind.

You are dressed in a plaid blazer today to complete an all-black ensemble. Your hair is twisted, a little unruly compared to the neat pins in your head when he first met you. However, you still look beautiful — even more so today, he thinks.

The laugh that escapes you yanks him out of his thoughts. “I’m just kidding. I wasn’t expecting you to pick such a nice place, but this is a good choice. A few of my clients have been out here. It has a good atmosphere and the food is passable.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. The first test is over. “I’m glad. My coworker recommended it to me. I, uh, don’t really get out much so I’m not an expert at the restaurant scene in the city.”

You regard him carefully, cool eyes carefully assessing him. He feels a bit… unraveled under your gaze, like you’re picking him apart to his very bones to find his flaws and imperfections.

Clark knows that he is objectively, relatively handsome, but he does not have the aura that lures people in like Jimmy does. Clark Kent is also a bit of a mess in his everyday life: spilling coffee on himself twice a week, occasionally deleting an entire article after it’s been completed, and at times tripping over his own foot and face-planting onto the sidewalk in front of hundreds of people during morning and evening rush hour.

“Well, you have great resources. I’ll have the Greek salad,” you say to the waiter, handing him the menu.

“You can, um, order an entree too. I can pay, I promise.”

Your lips tug up again, like you know something he doesn’t. It’s unsettling. “I had a big lunch.”

Once their orders are in, you lean back against your seat, arms delicately crossed on your chest. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, Clark Kent, pitch me.” He blinks at you, taken aback. “Why should I agree to be the subject of this article for you? The business is doing well, I am clearly good at what I do. Why should I risk my and my firm’s reputation to give you a story?”

“Well, it would be good marketing for—”

“Something else. Something more exciting. What’s the angle for the story?”

“It would be great if we could cover the dating scene in Metropolis?”

You purse your lips, glancing away across the room.

“Or if you have other ideas, I could be open.”

Turning back to look at him, you let your lips stretch into a wide, Cheshire grin. Shivers snake up his spine involuntarily. “Have you considered being matched with someone, Clark?”

“Me? Oh, um, no. I don’t think I could be.”

“Why?”

He looks at you in surprise. “Well, I just assume your clients would want someone… better.”

You give a small shrug. “My clients tell me what they’re looking for, but sometimes they don’t even know what they really want. At least, until I show them. I could show you to some of them.”

“I couldn’t possibly afford your services.”

With a snap of your fingers, you grin. “That’s it. How about you do a firsthand account on what it’s like to be a client? I get a challenge in you, and you can try and prove me wrong. Win-win situation, right? Isn’t that what you wanted to do anyway? Write some silly scathing piece about the business.”

Clark flushes red. Caught again. “I don’t think—”

“I’ll give you three dates. Most people take more but I think I can do it in three for you.”

“That’s a feat for you. I don’t think you could.”

“Then try me,” you smile, leaning forward with your arms folded on top of each other on the table. Your salad pushed to the side.

This is playing with fire. This isn’t the article Perry approved, but it may be one that captures the story best. Who better to speak about the matchmaking experience than someone who has gone through it himself? 

But, there is still the matter about money.

“And the fee for your services?”

“Free for you. Just think of it as a trial period.”

His teeth catches his bottom lip, gnawing at it warily. It is for the article. It is for inspiration. It is to get out of this writing slump. He repeats these three sentences in his mind like a mantra until he convinces himself that this could perhaps be a good idea. Lois and Jimmy would be so proud of him for taking a step outside of the comfort zone.

“Alright,” he relents with a sigh.

You stick out your hand and he reaches out to accept it. “Deal, Mr. Kent. Don’t act like you’ve just signed your death warrant. This will be fun for both of us.”

“So, let’s say I’m your paying client. How does the process usually go?”

“Well, I would speak to you and ask you about yourself. I’ll write down notes on what I think are your strengths and weaknesses. I’ll ask you about your criteria in a partner, and we will go from there.”

“Great, shall we do that now?”

Your eye catches the waiter lurking in the corner. The man looks antsy, looking at your untouched salad and the fact that Clark only ordered a glass of water. Your table is bleeding money right now. “How about we move this elsewhere? I know a great late-night café.”

Clark thanks the heavens that he can finally escape this place. The moody, romantic lighting was starting to get to him. It’s probably partially the reason why he agreed to this shenanigan.

The two of you trek ten minutes to the café. The walk is silent and Clark finds the cool evening air calming for his flustered self. He watches you walk ahead, the clicks of your heeled boots mixing in with the cacophony of traffic around you. Your fingers are intertwined behind your back as you observe the city come alive before you. The shifting city lights illuminate your features and Clark thinks you look even more enchanting out here, completely in your element.

You look younger when you’re relaxed. The tightness in your eyes and lips have smoothed out as the tension leaves your shoulders.

When a man calls out your name upon entering the coffee shop, Clark looks up. It’s the barista behind the counter. You give him a small wave and a big, friendly grin. It’s not the same smile you offer your clients. Or him.

He almost feels a little jealous.

After taking your orders, you stick around by the register to chat some more with the barista and Clark awkwardly slides his large frame into one of the booths.

“Do you come here often?” He asks when you sit opposite him.

“Yes, mostly for clients. Gary doesn’t chase me out when I take a little too long.” You nod your head to the barista who’s cleaning the equipment behind the counter.

It’s just you and him in this quiet little place.

He looks at you and sees that you’re still looking at him carefully, like your eyes are conducting a comprehensive analysis of him. His curiosity gets the best of him. “So what do you think then?”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“You’ve been looking at me like you do,” Clark points out.

Your lips twitch. “Do you want my honest first impression?”

“Yes, how do you think my potential matches would find me?”

Leaning back against your seat, you assume the same position as earlier. Arms crossed, discerning eyes that rake over him appreciatively yet objectively. “You’re a great-looking guy. Height that any man would kill for — what is it? 6’4”?” Clark blushes a little but nods. “Gentleman. You’re not charming in that obnoxious, cocky way, but in a cute, endearing way. There are definitely women who like that. All in all, you tick a good number of boxes for most of my clients.”

Clark fidgets in his seat. He feels like an object being appraised. This is how women feel all the time. The patriarchy truly is the worst.

“I hear a but coming,” he replies.

A soft laugh rises from your throat. “But I can tell your suit comes from the discount bin. It’s loose around your middle but stretched around your shoulders. Your pants end too short on your very long legs. Moneyed men have suits tailored to their exact measurements. While style is an easy fix with a good stylist, wealth is slightly more difficult.”

Frowning, he crosses his own arms over his chest. “You think I wouldn’t be able to date your clients because I’m not rich? That’s incredibly superficial.”

“They make the rules,” you grin. “In this economy, financial stability is a big trait that people look for. With that said, I think your level of wealth does realistically limit the pool, but it does not eliminate it completely. I think you have plenty of great qualities that my clients are looking for, we just need to sell you properly.”

“And what would that entail?”

“A little sweet-talking from me,” you smile.

Clark isn’t sure what to make of that. 

–

The eyes are truly the windows of the soul because, in this moment, as he looks at his reflection in the mirror, he sees his soul departing from his body. He leans over his bathroom sink, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves.

It’s only a date. Clark has been on dates before. Sure, he has. None of them ever made it to a third except Lois, and we all know how that one ended. He lets his curls hang a little looser and adjusts his glasses on his face.

You hadn’t told him anything about his date aside from the fact that her name is Angela, she is thirty, and she is a doctor.

“Any words of advice?”

“Be yourself. The whole point of this is to find someone you can be yourself with. You’re going to be fine, Clark.”

Easy for you to say. You’re not the one dressed in a fifty-dollar suit, one of the only two suits he owns, going to a restaurant he can barely afford. Since you approved of his restaurant choice last time, he figures that taking his date there wouldn’t be a bad idea. Plus, Jimmy did convince his cousin to give Clark a discount, so hopefully his wallet doesn’t hurt too much.

Unless his date decides to order the seafood tower — for real this time.

They agree to meet at the restaurant and upon seeing her, Clark already has a sinking feeling in his gut. This is not a good sign for people meeting for the first time. He expects some excitement and thrill, but his anxiety is eating him from the inside out. Angela looks stunning in a red dress that drapes over her frame like silk.

She’s beautiful and she seems nice. She looks around the room, seeming pleased with his choice. When they put in their orders, she thankfully does not order the seafood tower and instead opts for the steak. She also adds a couple of appetizers. “To share,” she beams.

It’s the thought that counts, he supposes.

However, when the waiter asks for any drinks, she looks at him. He looks at her, unsure why she is looking at him. “Well? Are you not going to pick a bottle of wine?”

“I don’t drink, so I’m not familiar,” Clark admits, biting back a wince.

The light in her eyes dims a little, and Clark feels like he got his first strike of the night. She smiles tightly at the waiter, “I’ll just have sparkling water. Thank you.”

Clark tries to make conversation, but everything is a little stilted. He asks questions, she provides answers. She asks questions, he provides answers. There is no natural progression. It is almost like an interview.

He gets his second strike when she asks him about what he does. “She mentioned that you’re a writer. That sounds fascinating, what kind of stories do you write?”

“Oh, I write for The Daily Planet, so unfortunately mostly nonfiction,” he tries to joke and she only smiles politely. “But I’ve focused a lot of my work on Superman.”

Her face immediately sours. “That alien character?”

Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. He looks down at his plate, which he has finished.

“Yes, the superhero.”

“I don’t know if I would call him a hero.”

“Why not? What would you call him?”

She shrugs, manicured nails drumming incessantly on the table. “A menace to society?”

“He’s trying to save lives.”

“He destroys property. One time, he flew straight through my apartment to take down some monster. Why couldn’t he pick another building?”

A snappy retort sits on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. You set up this date for free for him. She is a paying client to you. He wants to be considerate. Of you. Not of this woman. 

“I’m sure he would’ve if he could’ve,” he mutters under his breath.

The conversation stalls afterwards. A nerve has been struck, one that makes it clear that this discussion and dinner cannot be salvaged. When the waiter comes back around asking if there is any interest in dessert, the answer is a unanimous no. 

Still, Clark is a gentleman, so he does the gentleman thing of offering to drive her home. 

However, when he gestures at his car — his very mediocre, secondhand car, she glances at his car, then at him. “I’ll take a cab. Thank you for dinner.”

Strike three and he’s out.

When he gets home, he asks himself how anyone could put themselves through this, before he promptly falls asleep.

The next time he wakes, it is to the sound of his phone vibrating against his cheek. The constant small talk wore him down last night, and he ended up crashing on his couch, which is much too small. Probably half the size of what Angela owns in whatever building he crashed into.

Your voice, however, is chipper. “Good morning, Clark. How’d you sleep?”

Miserably. He’s still thinking about the hefty tab from last night and how he definitely should not be going out with these women. It’s not too late to back out of this article. There are other things to write about in Metropolis.

“Clark?”

“Hi, yeah, sorry. Slept fine. You?” He massages the crick in his neck as he drags himself to his kitchen. Coffee is definitely needed.

“Good. I wanted to check in to get feedback on your date. Usually, it’s helpful when things are still fresh. I had the chance to speak with Angela already, but I wanted to hear your thoughts.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Clark sighs, “I mean, it was fine. She is definitely looking for someone with more refined tastes in both wine and cars, so I don’t think we would work out long term either.”

“Noted, that is helpful.”

"What did she say about me?”

“She said that the date was fine, but the chemistry just isn’t there for her right now.”

Clark snorts. You’re sugar-coating it for him. “You can tell me the truth.”

A pause at the other end of the line. “Dating is a marathon, not a sprint. We go through trial and error, find the best way to adjust to what we can’t change, and charge forward. It just wasn’t a good match, so we learn from the ones that don’t work out to figure out one that does. It only takes one, Clark.”

He wants to add that it only takes one for him to give up his whole farce.

“Onward and upwards,” you say, and he can picture that sales smile again.

“Do you talk to all your clients this way? Coax them gently through the pain of rejection.”

You laugh and Clark notes the pitch is a little different, a little breathy. It sounds like a sincere laugh. Warmth blooms in his chest as a result. “I’m here to be a helping hand. Some refer to us as therapists.”

“Certainly costs more than my health insurance can cover.”

Another laugh, another spark in his heart. “Well, we do provide the highest quality customer service.”

There is a moment of silence that falls over the phone. Clark knows you’re still there with the birds chirping in the background. He wonders if you always work Saturdays, it seems like a lot to ask of someone. Then again, he has also sacrificed many weekends for a story.

He finally asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in all this? The work that you do. Do you think that you’ll be able to find the perfect match for all your clients?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Nothing — no one — is perfect, but I do believe that there is someone out there for everyone. Whether you meet them in your teens, your twenties, or even when you’re sixty and graying, love is about finding the right time and place. I want to be the person who gets you there.”

“You’re a romantic.”

“I’m a rational romantic,” you correct him teasingly. “Love isn’t all about the sparks. It’s also about finding balance in what would make the foundations of a strong relationship.”

Clark nods, realizing then that you cannot see him.

“What are you doing tonight?”

He wishes he had enough plans to check his calendar, but his answer his quick. “Nothing planned, why?”

“I have an engagement party to attend, care to be my plus one?”

Are you— is this you—

You are swift to clarify, “I’m not asking you on a date, Clark. It’s part work for both you and me. I promise it won’t count towards your now-two-date quota.”

He can hear the smirk in your voice. It’s not as if he has anything better to do. He tells himself that this is for his article. For the depth of his article.

He keeps telling himself that when he shows up at an extremely fancy party at a mansion. You had actually rented him a suit and got it delivered. It is much more comfortable, and even he can admit when he looks pretty darn good in something.

“You clean up very nicely in clothes that fit right.”

Clark whirls around to find you. This time, in a floor-length gold dress. You look… ravishing. Like a gem that sparkles underneath the moonlight. He wants to compliment you, tell you that you do too, but the words can’t seem to leave his mouth.

A slow smirk curls on your lips. “Well, at least I know I can still make a man tongue-tied.” You reach up to fix his bowtie, fingers brushing against the base of his throat. Your hands press against the lapels of his jacket, smoothing over his chest, and down his arms. 

His breath stutters. No one has touched him like this in a long time — and you’re not even trying. At least, he doesn’t think you are. Maybe it’s just habit. But maybe it is something else entirely.

He swallows hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up, only to find you already watching him. Your eyes darken, lingering at his lips then rising again to meet his.

Heat coils low in his stomach. His hand twitches at his side, aching to settle on your waist and pull you in until there is no space left between you. The urge to lean in, to draw you closer, is magnetic. Dangerous. 

But then you step away and the cool evening breeze kisses his skin to bring him back to the present. You clear your throat as he offers his arm. “Shall we?”

It’s an engagement party for one of your clients. He still has no idea why you decided to bring him here, but perhaps it’s to add more to the article about your expertise. What better way to show off your success than meeting you at a wedding and attending an engagement party that you created?

“We’re going to pretend you’re my boyfriend,” you whisper. “The bride-to-be is a big believer of big love, so I wouldn’t bring just anyone to this.”

He wants to ask why him, then. Why go through all this trouble? However, he misses his chance when they finally step through the threshold.

It’s hard to believe that this is someone’s home. Approximately an hour into the suburbs, the farmhouse that could more accurately be described as a mansion sits on sprawling land that stretches acres. A chandelier dangles from the ceiling, gold plates are being passed around with hors d'oeuvres, and once again, everyone is dressed like they’re meeting the queen.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, “I don’t think I should be here.”

He swears he sees you shudder slightly, but it’s gone when you look up at him with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I only want to show you the magic we can create at ADORE. Enjoy some free food while we’re at it.”

The happy couple — Samson and Kierra — are long-time clients of yours. Samson had been in the service for a year, and Kierra for a couple of months, when they were introduced to each other. One first date and two years later, Samson finally proposed to Kierra on a cliffside with an extravagant display of flowers.

Kierra couldn’t be upstaged even if anyone tried. She is wearing a massive white dress with a tail that trails behind her and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. When she spots you, she immediately brightens, screeching your name and hurrying over as fast as she can with the weight of her gown.

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you could make it!” She throws her arms around you and a laugh slips past your lips. Clark steps away slightly to avoid trampling on Kierra’s skirt and to give them their moment.

“Thank you for the invite. It’s an honor to be part of your celebrations.”

Kierra scoffs and swipes a tear away from her eye. Her blinding smile does not waver once. “Please. All this happened because of you. You introduced me to the love of my life. You’re a miracle worker.”

“It is all you, darling,” you grin, holding her at arm’s length. “You are the magic you create — and this love between you and Samson, it’s no miracle. It is inevitable.”

With a watery pout, Kierra hugs you again. “You always have such a way with words. I can’t wait to have you at the wedding too! We’re going to have flamingo dancers and a cabaret — daddy’s thinking about setting it up carnival style. It’ll be a grand time.”

You match the joy in Kierra’s expression. “I’m looking forward to it.” Then she turns to Clark and he freezes. Before he can embarrass himself, you swoop in, “This is my boyfriend, Clark.”

“Look at you,” Kierra whistles, wiggling her eyebrows at you, which earns another genuine laugh. “A tall, very tall drink of water. She snatched up the best one for herself, huh?”

Clark blushes and decides to play along. He slides an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, pressing his lips against your head. “It’s all her. Like you said, she’s a miracle worker.”

Kierra looks like she’s about to burst into tears again. “I’m so happy you found each other.” She turns to you. “I remember the first time we spoke, you told me that you hadn’t dated anyone in a long time, but look at you now. Oh, I love love. I’m going to find Samson and we’ll be sure to say hi again. For now, please drink lots and lots and enjoy the food. I’m getting married!” She squeals before scampering off into another crowd of giggling women.

His eyes follow her across the crowd, as she proudly shows off her ring to anyone and everyone who will listen. When a man finally joins her, seemingly the complete opposite, the prime example of calm and cool, Clark can see the fondness with which he looks at his future wife.

This is a couple in love. This is what it means to create that scientific reaction you explained to him the first time you met.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s starting to feel kind of nice being held like this.”

Clark slowly drags his eyes away and realizes that you’re still tucked to his side. His arm is still around you, except now your hand is carefully placed on his chest. Red sprawls across his face again as he slowly releases you. “Sorry, I wanted to make sure we were convincing. I completely forgot and I didn’t mean to just hold you for that long. It was an accident.”

Great, now he’s rambling like a fool who has never touched a woman.

“It’s good. You sold it well. Shall we enjoy the party a little more?”

He is thankful that you don’t make a big deal out of it. Clark offers his elbow and you slip your hand through. The two of you spend some time mingling with the other guests, taste-testing the fancy tiny morsels drifting around the room, and drinking your fill of champagne. Clark sticks to his iced tea.

Kierra and Samson do their speeches, and he spots you getting a little teary-eyed, so he slides a napkin your way and you look at him gratefully.

At some point, you persuade him to dance with you. He is all long, clumsy limbs, but you don’t seem to mind, laughing along with him when he does an embarrassing, old-school move. You would mimic him and the two of you end up drawing amused glances from the rest of the guests.

When a slow song comes on, before he can tug you off the dance floor to allow the other couples to take the space, you’re already taking his hands and maneuvering them onto your hips. You put your own on his shoulders and the two of you gently sway to the soft melody crooning through the speakers.

“Do you get it now?” You whisper, tilting your head up to look at him.

Clark’s eyes examine the room. There is a lot of love packed into this place. It’s not only the bride and groom, but it’s the people that they have brought together. Even him. As someone who can’t say he has experienced love beyond the one from his parents, he can feel his heart stretching open to welcome it.

And the catalyst for it all? You.

You who worked your magic, who believed in their love. You who work tirelessly to bring people who have never known each other together in the hopes of creating something bigger than the sum of their parts.

“Yeah, I can see it,” he murmurs quietly, lifting your hand to spin you around and catching you in his arms again. “Kierra’s right. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Not a miracle worker. Just a believer,” you smile.

–

The last thing Clark wants to do is relive that second date. It had been an experience. He definitely needs to give you his feedback, but he’s trying to keep his mind off it while he’s at work. Unfortunately, he has friends like Lois and Jimmy, and even Cat, who are relentless in badgering him for spoilers for his article.

“Y’all, come on. Every writer has their process.”

Lois waves him off with a roll of her eyes. “You’ve been on two dates. That’s two more than you’ve been on in the last five years. Give us something.”

“How is it working out? Where are you taking them?” Jimmy questions.

“Anyone famous that I would know?” Cat peers at him through her thick-framed glasses, eyes looking much too manic for his liking.

Clark is backed into a corner at his desk as the three crowd around him. He really needs to go back to saving the world and writing Superman articles. Metropolis has been eerily quiet lately, which is a big plus because all his free time is consumed trying to write notes for this article. He still isn’t quite sure what angle he wants to play this at.

The engagement party shifted his perspective. Clark is not a cynic by any means, but he certainly has his doubts about organized dating; it is what prompted him to write about it to begin with. He didn’t think that it would result in real, more-than-superificial love. His largest point of reference for love has always been his parents. Real love that has lasted decades. 

Seeing Kierra and Samson has tilted his world, forcing him to question what it means to date in the modern world.

Then there is the matter of you. You’re… different. The matchmaking business almost seems unbelievable at first. Capitalism at its finest. He knows that, while he still has faith in humanity, humans are also known to profit off others. The career seemed to be an easy way to money-grab people of hundreds of thousands with the grand promise of a happily ever after. 

But then he remembers you that night. The genuine look of awe on your face and how you preened with pride having been the one to connect the two. The way you spoke about love and how desperately you seem to want to convince him of it too. 

It appears to work because Clark finds himself reckoning with these notions, these concepts that he has held onto for so long. He thinks about love and how it is created and what it means to find it. 

He thinks about how comfortable you feel in his arms, or how you smiled up at him with those twinkling eyes. He thinks about the teasing lilt in your voice and the gentle comfort of your words. He thinks about how easy it is with you. 

He tries not to think about that part too much when you ship him off on his second date, which is a hundred and ten percent worse than the first one. Cold chills spread through his body, goosebumps rising on his skin, at the memory.

“Oh, bad date then,” Lois laughs. “God, look at the look on your face. So was everything she said just hoo-ha?”

“No,” he says slowly, “not everything. Though, I’m not so sure how good she is at matching me with people. Either that or she has terrible clients.”

“Tell us then!” Jimmy urges impatiently.

Clark groans. “The first one hated me because I don’t drink wine, I don’t think Superman is a terrorist, and I don’t have a nice car. The second one—” he will have nightmares for days about this one, “—she kept trying to climb on top of me at the restaurant.”

The cackles ring loud and clear across the room, capturing the attention of many irrelevant parties who have no business knowing about his — dare he say — love life.

“Why is that a bad thing?” Cat asks, frowning. “It’s good that she’s attracted.”

“She was—” crazy, there is no other word, because she kept trying to kiss him even after she inhaled that plate of garlic knots in five minutes, “—a no-go, for sure. A little too eager.”

Cat grumbles something about men these days.

“But you still think it’s possible? For you to meet the love of your life in three dates?” Lois asks.

"I highly doubt that, but it’s been an interesting experience.”

If someone were to honestly ask him how it’s going, he would say that it’s not going so well. The dates have been mediocre at best, dangerous at worst. So if someone were to ask him why he is sticking around, he doesn’t think he can yet admit out loud that it’s because of you.

He’s curious about you, in a way that he hasn’t been intrigued by anyone in a long time. He wants to know more about you, about why you do what you do, what drives you. If you have anyone in your life who makes you believe in love the way you have made many others believe in it.

He doesn’t know how he feels about the last one, if he even wants the answer to it. A small nagging part of him whispers in his ear that it should be him, but that would be ridiculous because the two of you barely know each other.

So he tries not to dwell on it too much.

Lois scrutinizes him closely, even after Jimmy and Cat are gone from his desk. She has always been able to read him better than anyone else. It’s what makes her such a good reporter. He fidgets under her gaze, trying to avoid direct eye contact, lest she realize the thoughts sitting under his skin.

“There’s something here you’re not telling me,” Lois starts with narrowed eyes, “and I’m going to find out. I’m a patient woman.”

She is, and he is even more terrified because of it.

As he wraps up work that night, his phone rings and your name pops up. His heart skips a beat. He’s surprised it has taken you this long to call, presumably for feedback.

“Hey,” Clark greets. Simple, easy.

There is honking on the other side of the line and then you curse, which draws a smile from him. You always seem so professional around your other clients, but have no qualms calling and cursing in front of him.

“Hey, shit, sorry. It’s been a rough day. A few clients are out on dates so I needed to check in with them first but I wanted to make sure I came back to you. First meal I’m eating today so forgive me, I’m cooking while I call you, but I wanted to get your thoughts on your date. Heather was really happy about you, she couldn’t stop raving.”

Well, this will be awkward. “Ah, right.”

You pause, silence on the other end. “I’m assuming you have other thoughts about it?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“She was a little… eager,” he says hesitantly, “she kept trying to kiss me and climb on top of me. We were at a restaurant. It didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Oh Christ,” you mutter. “I’m so sorry, Clark. Heather’s a great woman but she’s had a string of shit dates — not all organized by me, mind you — so she might be a little pent up. I’m not excusing her behavior because that is wildly inappropriate. I’ll have a chat with her to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

"Yeah, it’s fine. No harm done. Thanks for checking in though,” he responds, packing up his bag for the day.

The office is deserted, most people have gone home for the day, but he wanted to get a head start on additional research for his article. He wants to speak to a few experts too and hopefully get more insight there beyond ADORE.

“I have a new client who just came on board. She’s fantastic and I think the two of you will get along—ow, shit!” Clattering on the other end has him on alert.

He frowns, trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder as he loosens his tie. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Um, yeah, no big deal.”

Your voice is shaky, none of your usual confidence. “Hey, tell me. What’s going on?”

“Fuck, this is so embarrassing. I can handle it, don’t worry.”

Clark sighs, “I’m not asking if you can handle it. Tell me what happened.”

A groan reverberates through his phone’s speakers. “I was cooking and then this roach—fuck, it came out of nowhere and I had the pot in my hand and I dropped it and now the roach is somewhere in my apartment and I’m standing on my couch because I’m fucking terrified. Roaches fly, don’t they? They can still get me if I’m above ground?”

“I can come over and help.”

“No, oh my god, that would be so unprofessional. I’ll… figure it out.”

“Tell me your address. I’ll drop by.”

“Clark, you really don’t have to—”

“Text me, yeah? I’m heading out of the office right now.”

A pause before your quiet voice comes through again. “Okay.”

Ten minutes later, Clark is standing in front of your door. Your apartment is surprisingly… simple. He expected an extravagant penthouse, but it’s a quiet, walk-up building with an old buzzer that had caught him off guard. You have a mat outside your door with “Hi, I’m Mat” written on it. He smiles to himself. Cute.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, I’m a little freaked out and I don’t really want to step off the couch to open the door.”

Clark looks down at the knob and wonders if it would be problematic for him to just melt or break it to access your place.

“I have a spare key under the mat.”

That works too. Also, incredibly unsafe. He’ll have to talk to you about it later.

For now, he takes the key and opens the door. The first thing he notices is the spilled puddle of red liquid next to your small kitchen. The second thing is you perched on top of the couch, looking at him in alarm with a pillow in your hand.

“Hi,” he greets, amused.

You scowl, “Don’t look so happy. I don’t know where that little creeper went.”

Clark proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes looking around both on his feet and on his knees. When he finally spots the little bugger underneath one of your side tables, he glances around for something to catch it with.

“Don’t kill it,” you mumble from your spot.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says as he grabs one of your empty shipping boxes, traps the thing in, packages it up, and flicks the roach out your window. Turning back around, he sees you slowly climb down from your couch.

It’s a little disconcerting to see you in such casual clothes. Your hair is wet, your pajamas adorned with little stars somewhat rumpled, and your feet bare against the cool, creaky wooden floors. You exhale deeply, smiling awkwardly up at him. “Thank you. I’m sorry you came all the way here for this, I know the office is kind of far. I hope you didn’t get any traffic tickets on the way here.”

Thankfully, law enforcement has no jurisdiction over how fast he can fly from one place to another. “It’s no worries at all. I’m sorry about your dinner,” he says, looking at the pitiful mess on the floor.

“It’s just ramen, I can always make another.”

He looks at you in disbelief. “You didn’t eat all day and you were going to eat ramen for dinner?”

“It’s easy,” you say, your cheeks warming, “don’t shame me for my girl dinner.”

Clark laughs. “I’m not, I’m only slightly concerned about your health.”

“I have so much work to catch up on.”

As if on cue, Clark’s stomach also grumbles. He ate a sizable lunch but he still hasn’t had anything for dinner. “How about you work and I whip up dinner for both of us?”

Your eyes widen, protests spilling from your lips. “No, oh no. That’s a crazy inconvenience. I’ve already had you come all the way here to get rid of a bug.”

“Think of it as my thank you for setting me up on dates for free,” Clark smiles. “I’ll be back in a bit with groceries.”

When Clark is outside of your apartment, you whip the door open. “Hold on! I’ll come with you at least.”

“You have work.”

You ignore his words. “Give me a second to change.”

He always finds grocery shopping therapeutic. There is something so particularly human about it. He remembers the times he walked through the market where his parents met all those decades ago, with his mom by his side. She taught him how to pick the freshest produce and how to turn them into his favorite dishes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You prompt.

He almost forgets that you’re next to him, until he sees you peer around him to look at his face. He chuckles, “Nothing important. Just thinking about how I used to do a lot of the grocery runs with my ma.”

“You’re close with your family?”

Clark hums, tossing a bag of flour next to the box of eggs in his basket. “Yeah, they’ve been good to me. Raised me even when I was an unruly teenager.”

“I can’t imagine you as an unruly teenager. The worst thing you’ve probably done is skip school.” Clark pinks to the tips of his ears. “Oh my, you’ve never even skipped school?”

“Education is very important!” He defends, plucking baking powder from the shelf.

You laugh, the sound a delight. Clark’s growing fond of the way you laugh. Your genuine laugh. The one that comes straight from your belly and escapes from your lips. “God, you’re such a good guy. Catching roaches, making dinner, prioritizing education. Complete package.”

The two of you continue talking about nothing and everything as you finish up your shopping. Clark carries all the groceries in the short five-minute walk back to your place, despite your insistence that you are strong enough to carry some of it.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to,” he points out before his hands loop through the bags.

As he prepares his usual dinner menu, you camp out on your laptop. Clark watches you from the counter, how your forehead creases and your lips twist whenever you see something you don’t like, how your lips twitch with a silent laugh, how they purse when you’re thinking. You are oddly expressive for someone who he always imagines to be calm and collected. It is an interesting bit of knowledge.  

By the time he pours the last of the pancake batter onto the sizzling pan, you shut your laptop and pad over to where he is, looking around him at the stove.

“Of course you would be the type to like breakfast for dinner.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you eat like a child,” you tease, “but at least it smells delicious.”

“I’ll have you know I learned this blueberry pancake recipe from my ma and it’s still the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”

The two of you quickly plate the massive spread Clark has prepared. Pancakes, toast with butter, perfectly runny eggs, yogurt with granola and honey, and an assortment of fruits. The plates are spread across your coffee table and the two of you settle comfortably on the floor, backs against your couch. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had this much breakfast food in my life,” you say as your eyes wade through the dishes in alarm. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Don’t thank me yet, you have to like the food first.”

Clark slices through the pancakes and moves them to your plate, topping them off with a healthy drizzle of maple syrup. He watches as you ravenously pile food onto your plate before digging in.

“Oh my god,” you groan. Clark blushes again and tries not to let his mind wander, instead beginning to work through his own plate.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling.

“Quit laughing at me,” you grin, shoving him lightly. Of course, Clark doesn’t budge an inch.

“I’m not laughing. I’m happy you’re enjoying your dinner,” he smiles right back.

“This is no joke. Best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

“Big compliments from someone who’s probably been to many fancy breakfast places.”

The two of you enjoy the meal in relative silence. The television plays in the background as white noise as you stuff yourselves to the brim with the delicious feast Clark prepared. It’s a comfortable silence, the type that usually only exists between old friends.

Despite your initial introduction, Clark finds himself at ease with you. He had — incorrectly — assumed that you would be more uptight, more focused on pitching your services with your sales voice rather than building real connections. Seeing you in action and spending time with you these past couple of weeks have been eye-opening.

After dinner, you’re stretched out on the couch, eyes glued to the television playing some old animated rerun. Clark is still nestled on the carpeted floor, long legs stretched out in front of him and his back pressed against the sofa.

“Why are you still single, Clark?”

The question takes him aback, and he turns slightly to look at you, but you’re still looking at the screen. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a perfect gentleman. You have all the physical qualities that make you objectively attractive. You cook. You’re a family man. You’re not scared of bugs. You come to the aid of a damsel in distress who has only put you through hell so far with your dates.”

Clark swallows a laugh at the sincerely befuddled expression on your face. “I don’t know. I’ve been on a few dates but I don’t think I’ve ever been that good at it.”

“You’re literally perfect.”

“Far from it,” he murmurs quietly. “I think people tend to look for someone charming, someone put together who can talk their way through anything. I’m not that guy.”

“On the contrary, I think people who are too charming can seem disingenuous. You, on the other hand, bleed sincerity.”

The corner of his lips tugs up. “Is that really a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing, I promise.”

He shifts and breathes out slowly. “What about you? Any partners?”

“Oh, yes, loads. As you can see by my delicious dinner on the floor and the fact that I spend all of my hours at work.”

Clark chuckles low, shaking his head. “Alright, no need to sass me.”

“I’m single as a pringle.”

“Why don’t you date?”

Thick silence blankets both of you for a moment. You seem to be deep in thought, your lips pressed into a thin line as you snuggle deeper into the worn fabric of your couch. Clark wonders what or who put that look on your face. Impassive, but if you look closely, it’s tinged with a little hurt.

“I’m not… datable,” you begin quietly. “I don’t date. I think I’ve seen too much of the inner workings behind dating to believe that it’ll work for me. I’ve been around the block and I’m not about to take that walk again.”

Clark stews on it for a moment. He has never been that good at biting his tongue. “Can I ask why?”

You take a deep breath. “My last boyfriend, we got into so many arguments. I was young and insecure, I was constantly concerned about how long we would last. I analyzed every single part of our relationship and us as individuals to see if we were meant to be together. He told me I was cold and emotionless, that I didn’t really understand what makes a relationship.”

“That’s not fair. Relationships don’t last solely based on love alone, as much as people would love to believe that.”

Tilting your head back, you look up at the ceiling. The fan whirrs quietly, offering some reprieve from the heat that crawls up your skin. “I’m an awful person, Clark. I talk a big game about being able to match people with their perfect partner, but I don’t even believe it’s even possible for me.”

"I don’t think you’re awful,” he quickly interjects with a frown.

A light laugh escapes your lips as you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes are warm, and sad, and Clark wants nothing more than to chase that expression away. Before he can continue, you say, “You don’t think anyone is awful, Clark. That’s your strong suit.” You smile. “It’s a good thing. We need more people like you. More people with faith.”

“You’re too tough on yourself,” Clark says, turning his body around entirely and sitting cross-legged on the couch. His fingers itch to reach out to you, but he keeps his hands tucked on his lap. “Love isn’t easy. What you do isn’t easy. You help people who may no longer believe in love find their way again. That’s not a simple task. What you’re trying to do is build relationships that last, and that includes understanding what people are looking for and making sure they never settle for less than they deserve.

“Humans are complex. No one thinks about love exactly the same way as another person. You— you just haven’t found someone yet who thinks the way you do, but it doesn’t mean they’re not out there. I understand what you’re looking for. I’m a romantic,” he smiles, “but I also do think that some sensibility matters. So no, you’re not an awful person. You don’t need anyone to make you whole, but you sure as heck can find someone who will love you as much as you love them.”

When he finally looks at you, he sees the unshed tears in your eyes. You’re looking at him with something like awe and appreciation. It makes his heart stutter, and he quickly looks away.

“Gosh, that’s a little embarrassing. I talk as if I know anything about this, huh?” He laughs, the sound stilted. His heart tightens in his chest as he glances away from you.

“You’re a darn good man, Clark Kent,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Clark smiles. “No need to thank me.”

As if you’re trying to release the tension from the air, you sit up, discreetly swiping at your eyes. “Also, are you real? Who says things like heck and gosh?”

A groan bubbles up his throat. “My parents raised me not to curse, alright.”

“Yeah, you were a real unruly teenager.”

Part Two ↦

Tag List: @sflame15-blog

[sflame15-blog]

just my type

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is. tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 9.9k note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again. 

Not him, obviously. That would be complicated. 

Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.

You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened. 

At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.

And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be. 

You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.

Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”

Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing. 

The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly. 

Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second. 

It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.

And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”

Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling. 

Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.

When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place. 

Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.

Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.

You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?” 

You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.

Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.

You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.

You hadn’t planned to live with him this long. 

A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?

When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.

By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.

And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment. 

You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place. 

He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days. 

You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.” 

Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that. 

From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself. 

Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept. 

You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.

No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.

Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were. 

You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark. 

Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.

You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.

So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.

There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.” 

Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.

Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”

“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.

He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”

You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”

Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”

“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.

“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced,  and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word. 

But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.

As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date. 

Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.

You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through. 

Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections. 

None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.

And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.

At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face. 

All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest. 

And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off. 

As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in. 

How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed? 

It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.

Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered. 

Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.

The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead. 

You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair. 

You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.

“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”

You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”

“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”

You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”

Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.

You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”

Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”

You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.

Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.

By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore. 

“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”

He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”

You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.

A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.

“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”

And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.

Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead. 

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.

“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.

“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”

Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”

He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”

Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark. 

You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”

“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”

Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.

“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”

Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”

“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”

He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”

Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.

Then disaster struck. 

Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”

You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.

Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.

By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”

You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”

Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”

You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”

Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.

You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.

Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.

The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.

“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.

You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.

You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”

He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.

The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”

You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”

Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.

You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”

He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries. 

The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow. 

He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.

“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”

Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.

Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.

“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together. 

You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.

You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.

But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.

You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him. 

Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.

With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while. 

“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.

You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.

It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating. 

Not that it was anything special. 

You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.

You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry. 

Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.

Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.

So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates. 

You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.

“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”

You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”

Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.

“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”

He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”

Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”

You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.

Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”

Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”

Your stomach did that impossible flip. 

Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.

Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.

The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass. 

Meanwhile, you were freezing.

You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.

After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.

But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.

Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.

You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow. 

It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.

“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.

You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”

Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts. 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.

“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.

Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”

You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”

When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark. 

You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”

You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.

Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened. 

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk. 

Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.

Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.

Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”

You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.

“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”

You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.

Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared. 

“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.

Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.

Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.

“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.

He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”

There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.

“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”

You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”

Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”

“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”

“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. 

Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”

You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”

Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh. 

“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”

The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”

The way he said it made your heart squeeze.

You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.

Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.

Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.

Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.

You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing. 

In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.

It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.

Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”

“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”

“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”

“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”

Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.

“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”

“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”

“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”

Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”

“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning. 

Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”

“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”

“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”

Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”

You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream. 

“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”

“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”

Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.

Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.

The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.

“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.

He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”

That was all it took. 

In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.

It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.

Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.

When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.

When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real. 

Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.

You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.

Your throat went dry. “I—”

But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Golly, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”

The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself. 

“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”

His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.

“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.

You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”

Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.

“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”

Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”

That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.

You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?

Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”

The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”

“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to my girlfriend, not my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”

Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”

Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”

He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”

And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.

You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”

Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.

“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.

“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”

You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.

When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.

You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”

You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”

Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing almost as much as that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”

You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort. 

You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation. 

It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.

And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.

Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.

Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly. 

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”

Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.