summary: fans couldn’t have known that the man who’s spending his days making you feel loved like you’ve never been before is the same man who’s battling your ex on the track…until the night your album is released, that is.
pairing: max verstappen x lando’s ex!reader
fc: maisie peters
warnings: emotional neglect • cheating • not lando friendly! - don't like, don't read • fluff • attempts at humor • time skips • likely a mistake or two
vicious speaks: shoutout to @prozacandprosecco for bringing to my attention that i hadn’t written a fic yet where max ends up with lando’s ex. needed to rectify that immediately!! this is the first fic inspired by florescence, but it is not the last, so keep an eye out 😉 ok luv u bye!!
max masterlist | read on ao3
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
april 22nd
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yn my new album, ‘florescence’, is out may 22nd 🥹 i poured my heart and soul into this project, and i can’t wait for it to be yours!! this album was made with a lot of special people, one of which being my very close friend taylorswift !! i think you’ll go crazy once you hear kingmaker 🤭 more deets to come later <3 oh yeah, i also sat down with zanelowe !! vid out tomorrow :)
and because i love you, my new single, ‘never do’ is out now 💐
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taylorswift they aren’t ready for it 😉 ♥︎ by author
aarondessner The secret’s out! Can’t wait for everyone to hear the absolute magic we’ve been creating in the studio 🙂
⤷ yn always a joy creating with you :)
⤷ fan oh of course you’re involved
⤷ fan aaron’s collecting all the emo girlies 😭
fan WE ARE BEING SO FED
alexandrasaintmleux as someone who had the honor of being one of the first people to listen to this album, i can confidently say this is some of your best work yet. so proud of you, chérie
⤷ yn ilysm 💞
fan IT USED TO BE SO OVER BUT NOW WE’RE SO BACK ♥︎ by author
gracieabrams ridiculously excited for this!! ♥︎ by author
fan hey so never do just destroyed me
⤷ fan omg same…the way she basically confirmed that LN really did cheat on her with his current gf ❤️🩹
⤷ fan i really didn’t want to believe he could do something so damaging to her but there’s no denying it now :(
oliverbearman oh this is huge
⤷ yn massive, even 😌
⤷ fan ofc her biggest fan is here
⤷ fan there was once a time max would also be in her likes before lando ruined everything 🙄
⤷ fan omg don’t remind me ☹️
fan when her and LN broke up so you know there will be heartbreaking songs, but she’s also dating a new man so there will be love songs too…daisies, we’ve won.
lilyzneimer 🩵 ♥︎ by author
fan A NEW ALBUM, A TRACK WITH TAYLOR MF SWIFT, A ZANE INTERVIEW, AND A NEW SONG!! MOTHER I AM OVERWHELMED IN THE BEST POSSIBLE WAY
mclaren Can it be may 22nd already?
⤷ fan silence, brand.
⤷ fan oh fuck off
fan EVERYONE GO LISTEN TO NEVER DO RN
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
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maxverstappen1 good break 👍🏼
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fan oh-
fan there’s so much in this post to unpack
fan never did i think i’d live to see day of you soft launching
fan THE THIRD PIC HELLO!!
⤷ fan HE’S SO HOT
fan your gf is one lucky woman
fan who had max soft launching a girlfriend on their bingo card?
fan girl no one cares about that damn break WHO’S THE WOMAN???
fan the heart pic is so cute <3
fan if you think can use the shirtless pic to distract us from your new girlfriend, well, you’re right
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
texts between you and max
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
yn has added to their story
caption: can’t wait for you to hear this album in all its glory!!
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maxverstappen1 liked your story
fan making this album my entire personality 💅
gracieabrams liked your story
fan already have my tissues ready
lilyzneimer liked your story
fan can’t wait for that man to be humiliated
victoriaverstappen liked your story
fan never do being the opener is crazyyy you really didn’t even try to let us be happy huh 😭
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
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ynupdates 😭😭😭
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fan get him again for me
fan she’s so funny
fan lmao i mean it is good advice
fan may that man never know peace again
fan imagine cheating on the human equivalent of sunshine
fan it’s her losing it that’s sending me
fan hope he’s scared to show his face once this album drops
fan vroom vroom guys can never be trusted
⤷ fan so glad she’s dating someone normal now
fan at least she can laugh about it? 😭
fan guys i can’t watch rn is there a recap anywhere?
⤷ fan ynsdaisy on twitter!
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
may
yn has added to their story
caption: celebrating flo release week with a date night 🥰
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maxverstappen1 liked your story
maxverstappen1 you’ve really captured my good side ♥︎
taylorswift liked your story
fan oh hey again emoji man 👋
alexandrasaintmleux liked your story
fan these pictures never stop being funny
oscarpiastri liked your story
fan imagine a new fan seeing this 😭
kikagomes liked your story
fan emoji man’s face reveal will change lives
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
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yn florescence is out now 🥹💐 creating this album was painful, freeing, challenging and joyful all at the same time. flo is a little different in that the first half was written by a girl experiencing a heartbreak like no other, and the last half was written by a girl experiencing a love like no other 💛 i really hope that as soon as you guys press play, this album becomes the new soundtrack of your lives✨ now, i have to say a major thank you to aaron for teaming up to co-produce/co-write this album with me. we really did manage to capture lightning in a bottle!! and of course, thank you to my daisies who waited with bated breath for my next project; this album is as much yours as it is mine 🌼🫶🏼
and finally, to my max. the second half of the album literally would not exist without you. thank you for being my love, my muse, and my own personal hype man. i love you endlessly.
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maxverstappen already said it a million times today and i’ll say it a million more: i love you so much and i am so proud of you, liefje. it’s an honor to be a part of a beautiful body of work 💐
⤷ yn 🥹🫶🏼😚
⤷ fan wait what
⤷ fan lol huh???
fan I HAVE NO WORDS
taylorswift i love the album i love our song i love you 💛 ♥︎ by author
fan MR EMOJI MAN IS MAX FUCKING VERSTAPPEN?
lilyzneimer ALBUM OF THE YEAR IS HERE 🥳🏆💐 ♥︎ by author
fan currently losing my mind about max and bopping to questions at the same time 🙂↕️
oliverbearman already in the process of going triple platinum in my house
⤷ fan what’s your favorite song?
⤷ oliverbearman drop dead
⤷ yn good answer
fan “my max” i am floored
aarondessner 💛💐💫😭 ♥︎ by author
fan “thank you for being my love, my muse, and my own personal hype man. i love you endlessly” this killed me dead.
alexandrasaintmleux obsessed with it already!! ♥︎ by author
fan i know lando is somewhere punching the air right now cause what do you mean max came out of nowhere last season and stole his first championship from his grasp and now he’s dating his ex and doing that better than him as well 😭
oscarpiastri glad the cats out of the bag! now you can come to a race…i’ll save you a spot in my garage 😉
⤷ maxverstappen1 keep dreaming, papaya boy 😂
fan is anyone else crying to we go way back?
⤷ fan YES omg it’s such a beautiful love song
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
yn has added to their story
caption: the man. the myth. the legend: mr. emoji man himself!! thank you for all the kind words about flo 🥰 i’ll be right here with my boys, basking in the love the love from everyone 🤍
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maxverstappen1 liked your story
fan i still can’t believe it 😭
alexandrasaintmleux liked your story
fan NINO 🥰
danielricciardo liked your story
fan gonna take a while to sink in i guess cause why did i do a double take when i clicked on your story and saw him 😭
kikagomes liked your story
fan the emojis on his face were my fave running gag lmao
charles_leclerc liked your story
fan 💞
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
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maxverstappen1 we go way back 💛
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yn 🤎🤎🤎 ♥︎ by author
fan between the way they speak to/about each other and the songs she’s written about him, i’m about to be their biggest defender
fan the proof that they indeed go way back 🥹
fan shoutout to LN for introducing you to the love of your life
⤷ maxverstappen1 i’ll send a fruit basket
⤷ yn max 😭
fan you guys are adorable <3
fan so cutesy
fan always here for friends to lovers 🫶
fan i’m never shutting up about this
fan he’s known her in every era 🥹
fan just realizing this is why taylor liked his soft launch post and i thought trav was just getting her into the sport LMAO
we used to get christmas episodes of television. halloween episodes. valentines. we used to get television that felt like part of your life. like it was happening alongside your life. now we mostly get 8 episodes dropping all at once every two years and they don't have time for any of that. i miss characters living alongside us
Summary- After loosing one of your hearing aids, you don't tell arthur as you want to feel 'normal' for one family game night!
notes- This include a hearing impairment reader! I love writing fics with disabilities! Hope you all love this as much as I do!
The afternoon sun streams through the living room windows of the Leclerc home, warm and golden against your closed eyelids. You hadn't meant to fall asleep—Arthur had only gone upstairs to shower and change before everyone arrived for game night—but the couch was so comfortable, and the quiet hum of the world through your hearing aids had lulled you into an unexpected nap.
You wake slowly, blinking against the light, and immediately know something is wrong.
The world sounds... off. Unbalanced. You sit up quickly, your hand flying to your ears, and your heart drops into your stomach. Your right hearing aid is still in place, but your left ear is empty. The absence is jarring, disorienting, like trying to walk when one leg has fallen asleep.
"No, no, no," you whisper, running your fingers through your hair, checking if it somehow got tangled. Nothing. You drop to your knees beside the couch, running your hands over the cushions, between the cracks, under the pillows. Your breathing quickens as panic sets in. These aren't just expensive—they're your connection to the world, to conversations, to Arthur.
You check your phone. Thirty minutes until everyone arrives.
Your search becomes more frantic. You check the floor, under the couch, behind the cushions. You retrace your steps from earlier—the kitchen, the hallway, back to the living room. Nothing. It's like it vanished into thin air. You press your palm against your bare left ear, the silence there so complete it makes you dizzy.
"Chérie?" Arthur's voice comes from behind you, and you spin around so fast you nearly lose your balance. He's standing at the bottom of the stairs, hair still damp from the shower, wearing that soft green sweater you love. His expression shifts immediately from relaxed to concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing!" The word comes out too quickly, too bright. You force a smile, tucking your hair behind your right ear—the one that still works—while letting the left side fall forward. "Just... thought I dropped my phone. Found it though!"
You hold up your phone as evidence, and Arthur's eyes narrow slightly. He knows you too well, can read the tension in your shoulders, but before he can question you further, you cross to him and press a kiss to his cheek.
"You smell good," you say, which is true, but also a distraction. "What time is everyone coming?"
Arthur's hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. His green eyes search yours, and you can see the question forming. But then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and the moment breaks.
"That's Maman," he says, still watching you carefully. "They're on their way. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Perfect," you lie, and hate yourself for it. "I'll help you set up the games."
You turn away before he can see the anxiety written all over your face, before he can notice the way you're tilting your head to favor your right side, before he realizes that something is very, very wrong.
Just get through tonight, you tell yourself as you arrange game boxes on the coffee table with shaking hands. You can find it later. You can handle this. You can be normal for one night.
But even as you think it, you know it's not true. The world already feels tilted, unbalanced. Every sound comes from only one direction, flat and strange. You're missing half of everything, and pretending otherwise is going to be nearly impossible.
Still, you have to try.
The Leclerc family arrives in a whirlwind of noise and affection. Pascale comes through the door first, her arms already open for hugs, followed by Charles and Alex, then Lorenzo and Charlotte. The living room fills with voices, laughter, the rustle of coats being removed, and you smile and greet everyone while your heart hammers against your ribs.
"Ma chérie!" Pascale pulls you into a warm embrace, and you hug her back, breathing in her familiar perfume. When she pulls away, her hands frame your face. "You look beautiful, love. Doesn't she look beautiful, Arthur?"
"Always," Arthur says from beside you, but his hand finds the small of your back, and you can feel the question in his touch.
You angle your body slightly, unconsciously positioning everyone to your right side. It's automatic, this compensation, but it makes you feel like you're performing, like you're not quite yourself.
"How are you, darling?" Pascale asks, and you realize she's been watching you with those perceptive mother's eyes.
"Great!" You inject enthusiasm into your voice. "Excited for game night. I'm going to destroy all of you at Pictionary."
"Big words," Charles laughs, slinging an arm around Alex. "We're the reigning champions, aren't we, mon amour?"
"We are," Alex agrees, grinning. "But I admire your confidence."
You laugh, but you're watching their mouths as much as listening, already relying on lip-reading more than you want to admit. The single hearing aid is picking up sound, but without the other to balance it, everything feels muddled, like you're underwater.
"Let's start then," Lorenzo says, rubbing his hands together. "Charlotte and I are ready to reclaim our title."
As everyone settles into the living room, you find yourself gravitating toward the right side of the couch, where you can see everyone's faces. Arthur sits beside you, close enough that your thighs touch, and his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing.
He leans in, his breath warm against your ear—your working ear. "You're being weird," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
"I'm not," you protest, but your voice wavers.
"Chérie." His thumb strokes over your knuckles. "I know you."
"I'm fine," you insist, squeezing his hand. "Just tired from my nap. Promise."
It's another lie, and you can see he doesn't believe you, but Pascale is already explaining the first game—charades—and the moment passes.
The first round starts innocently enough. Lorenzo goes first, acting out what turns out to be "The Lion King," and everyone shouts guesses. You're doing okay, watching carefully, laughing at his exaggerated movements. But then Charlotte goes, and she's facing slightly away from you, and when she mouths something, you can't quite catch it.
"Fishing!" you call out.
Everyone turns to look at you.
"Chérie," Arthur says gently, "she hasn't started yet."
Heat floods your cheeks. "Oh. Sorry. I thought—"
"It's okay, love," Pascale says warmly, but you catch the concerned glance she exchanges with Arthur.
You force a laugh. "Guess I'm too eager."
The game continues, and you try harder to focus, but it's exhausting. You're reading lips, catching fragments of sound from your right side, trying to piece together context. When it's Charles's turn, he acts out something with exaggerated movements, and everyone is shouting guesses.
"Swimming!" you call out.
"We already guessed that," Lorenzo says, not unkindly.
"Oh." You hadn't heard him. "Sorry."
Arthur's hand tightens on yours.
The next round is Pictionary, and you're paired with Arthur, which should be perfect—you two always work well together. But when Pascale calls out the category, you could swear she says "movie," so when Arthur starts drawing, you're shouting out film titles.
"The Titanic! Jaws! Finding Nemo!"
"Chérie," Arthur says, his pencil pausing, "it's a book."
"Yes, I'm fine, just—" You tuck your hair more firmly over your left ear. "Just not paying attention. Sorry."
But you can see it in their faces now—the confusion, the concern. Charles and Alex exchange glances. Lorenzo looks puzzled. And Arthur... Arthur is watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach knot.
"Maybe we should take a break," he suggests.
"No!" You shake your head quickly. "No, I'm fine. Really. Let's keep playing."
You're not fine. Your head is starting to ache from the strain of trying to hear with one ear, from constantly turning your head, from the exhausting work of lip-reading. But you can't stop now. Stopping means explaining, means admitting you lost your hearing aid, means being that person who ruins game night.
The third round is a trivia game, and it's a disaster.
"What year did World War II end?" Charles reads from a card.
You're sure he said World War I. "1918!"
"That's World War I," Alex says gently.
"What? No, he said—" You stop, seeing everyone's faces. "Oh."
"Darling," Pascale says, and there's real worry in her voice now, "are you sure you're feeling well? You seem a bit... disoriented."
"I'm fine, Pascale, really—"
"You don't look fine, love." She's studying you carefully. "You're pale, and you keep—"
"Next question," you interrupt, desperate to move on.
But it keeps happening. You mishear "Paris" as "Harris," "cat" as "hat," "brother" as "mother." Each mistake brings more concerned looks, more gentle teasing that makes you want to sink into the floor.
"Are you sure you're not tired?" Charlotte asks kindly. "We can play something simpler."
"Or take a break," Lorenzo adds.
"I'm fine," you insist, but your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Arthur's hand finds your knee, squeezing gently. When you look at him, his eyes are full of worry and something else—hurt, maybe, that you won't tell him what's wrong.
By the time the third round ends, your head is pounding. The constant strain of trying to compensate, of turning your head to catch sounds, of reading lips in dim lighting—it's all catching up to you. The world feels tilted, wrong, and you're so dizzy you have to close your eyes for a moment.
"Chérie." Arthur's voice is low, meant only for you. "That's it. Something's wrong."
"Arthur—"
"Don't." His hand comes up to your face, and you know what he's about to do. He's going to check your hearing aids, the way he always does when he's worried about you, the gentle touch behind your ear that's become so familiar—
"Wait!" You pull back, but it's too late.
Alex stands up suddenly, stretching. "I need to grab some water—"
There's a sickening crack.
Everyone freezes.
Alex looks down at her foot, then up at you, her face draining of color. "Oh my God."
She lifts her shoe, and there, crushed beneath it, is your hearing aid. The casing is cracked, the battery compartment broken open, the delicate electronics clearly destroyed.
The world seems to stop.
"No," you whisper. "No."
"I didn't see it, I'm so sorry, I didn't—" Alex is already apologizing, her hands flying to her mouth.
But Arthur is on his feet, and his face is thunderous. "How did you not see it? How do you just step on something without looking?"
"Arthur—" Charles stands too, defensive. "It was an accident."
"An accident?" Arthur's voice rises, and you can hear the fury in it, the protective rage that comes from loving someone and watching them hurt. "Those are custom-made! Do you have any idea how long it takes to get replacements? Do you know what it's like for her without them?"
"I know, I'm so sorry—" Alex's eyes are filling with tears.
"Sorry doesn't fix it!" Arthur snaps.
"Don't yell at her!" Charles steps between them. "She said it was an accident!"
"Maybe if people paid attention—"
"Arthur, stop," you try to say, but your voice is too quiet, and the argument is escalating.
"Boys!" Pascale's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and maternal. But then she looks at you, really looks at you, and her expression shifts. Her hands come up, moving in the signs you've taught her, slower and less fluid than Arthur's, but clear enough: Are you okay, love?
You shake your head, and that's when you realize you're crying.
The noise is too much—everyone talking at once, the argument, the sound coming from only one side, muddled and overwhelming. Your head is pounding, your heart is racing, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't—
You run.
Your feet carry you up the stairs, down the hallway, into the bathroom. You slam the door and lock it, sliding down to sit with your back against it, and finally, finally, you let yourself break.
The sobs come hard and fast, tearing out of your chest. You press your hands over your face, over your one remaining hearing aid, trying to muffle the sound of your own crying. Everything is ruined. Game night is ruined. Your hearing aid is destroyed. You're going to be half-deaf for weeks while they make a replacement, and it's all your fault for falling asleep, for losing the first one, for not telling Arthur right away.
There's a knock on the door, gentle but insistent.
"Chérie." Arthur's voice is muffled through the wood. "Please open the door."
You don't answer. You can't.
"Mon amour, please. Let me in."
You press your forehead against your knees, trying to breathe through the tears.
"I'm not leaving," he says, and you can hear him settling against the door. "I'll wait as long as you need, but I'm not leaving you alone."
The minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Twenty. Your sobs gradually quiet into hiccupping breaths, then into silence. Your head throbs, your remaining hearing aid creating a feedback loop that makes everything worse. You can hear Arthur shifting outside the door, occasionally murmuring soft words you can't quite make out.
Thirty minutes pass before you finally reach up and unlock the door.
It opens immediately, and Arthur is there, his face etched with worry. He doesn't say anything, just pulls you into his arms, and you collapse against him, fresh tears spilling over.
"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, chérie. I'm here."
He holds you while you cry, one hand stroking your back, the other cradling your head. When your tears finally slow, he gently guides you to sit on the closed toilet lid, kneeling in front of you.
His hands come up to your face, wiping away tears with his thumbs, and then he reaches for your remaining hearing aid.
"This is hurting you," he says softly. "Can I?"
You nod, and he carefully removes it, setting it aside. The world goes quiet—not completely silent, but muffled, distant. You can still hear some sounds, the vibrations of voices from downstairs, but it's like being wrapped in cotton wool.
Arthur's hands come up, and he begins to sign.
His movements are fluid, beautiful, each gesture deliberate and clear. You're so beautiful, he signs. Even with tears on your face. Even when you're sad. Especially when you're sad, because you let me see all of you.
More tears slip down your cheeks, but these are different.
I love you, he continues, his green eyes locked on yours. I love every part of you. Your smile. Your laugh. Your stubbornness. A small smile tugs at his lips. Your terrible habit of hiding things from me when you're struggling.
You let out a watery laugh, and his smile grows.
Talk to me, he signs. Please. What happened?
"I lost one," you say, your voice rough from crying. You can barely hear yourself speak, but you know he understands. "Before everyone came. I fell asleep and when I woke up, it was gone. I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find it, and I didn't want to tell you because—"
Your voice breaks, and Arthur's hands find yours, squeezing.
"Because I wanted to be normal," you whisper. "Just for one night. I wanted to be the girlfriend who doesn't need special accommodations, who doesn't make everything complicated, who doesn't ruin game night because she can't hear properly."
Arthur's expression crumples, and he shakes his head firmly. His hands move again: You are normal. You are perfect. You didn't ruin anything.
"I did," you argue. "I ruined everything. The games, the night, your family—"
He cuts you off by taking your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. When he speaks, he over-enunciates so you can read his lips clearly: "You. Ruined. Nothing."
Then his hands move again, signing as he speaks so you can follow both: You know what ruined things? Me not noticing you were struggling. You trying to handle this alone. You thinking you had to be someone other than who you are.
"Arthur—"
Why didn't you tell me? His signs are gentle, not accusatory. Why didn't you let me help you look?
"Because I'm tired," you admit, the words spilling out. "I'm tired of always needing help. I'm tired of being the one who needs accommodations, who needs people to face me when they talk, who needs subtitles and sign language and special equipment. I just wanted one night where I could be like everyone else."
Arthur's eyes shine with unshed tears. He pulls you forward, pressing his forehead against yours, and when he pulls back, his hands move again.
You are like everyone else. You're human. You're beautiful. You're loved. The hearing aids don't change that. They're just tools, like glasses or contacts. And you know what? He pauses, making sure you're watching. I love signing with you. It's our special language. It's intimate and beautiful and ours.
You're crying again, but softer now.
Should we go back downstairs? he signs.
You shake your head immediately. "I can't. I'm so embarrassed. Everyone saw me fall apart, and Alex must feel terrible, and—"
Alex is worried about you, Arthur signs. Everyone is. They love you. Maman is probably pacing a hole in the floor.
Despite everything, you smile a little at that.
We don't have to go down if you don't want to, he continues. But I think you'll feel better if we do. And I promise— his hands move with emphasis—I will sign everything to you. Every word. Every joke. Every game. You won't miss anything.
"You don't have to do that," you protest. "That's exhausting. You should enjoy game night, not spend the whole time translating for me."
His hands move firmly: There is nothing I would rather do than make sure you're included. Nothing. Do you understand?
You look at him—really look at him. At the determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his hands are still poised to sign, ready to be your voice and ears for as long as you need.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
When you come down the stairs, Arthur's hand firmly in yours, the living room goes quiet. Everyone turns to look at you, and you have to fight the urge to run back upstairs.
But then Alex is rushing toward you, her face blotchy from crying. "I'm so sorry," she says, and even without your hearing aids, you can read the words on her lips. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't see it, I should have been more careful, I feel terrible—"
You reach out and take her hand, squeezing it. "It's okay," you say. "It was an accident. I'm not mad."
"But your hearing aid—"
"Can be replaced," you finish. "It's okay, Alex. Really."
She pulls you into a hug, and over her shoulder, you see Charles mouth "thank you" to you.
When Alex releases you, Pascale is there, her hands moving in signs: Are you okay, darling?
You nod, and she pulls you into a warm embrace, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
When you settle back on the couch, Arthur immediately positions himself so you can see his hands. Lorenzo is explaining something about the next game, and true to his word, Arthur's hands move, translating every word.
Lorenzo says we're playing charades again, but this time with movie titles only. Charlotte is going first.
You watch Charlotte stand up and begin acting something out. Everyone starts shouting guesses, and Arthur's hands fly, keeping up with the rapid-fire conversation.
Charles guessed "Titanic." Lorenzo said "Jaws." Maman thinks it's "Finding Nemo."
You laugh, leaning into Arthur's side, and he wraps one arm around you while continuing to sign with the other hand.
The night continues like this—Arthur translating everything, his hands never stopping, never tiring. When it's your turn to act something out, he signs the title to you, and you perform it with exaggerated movements that make everyone laugh. When you guess correctly, Arthur's face lights up with pride.
You team up with him for Pictionary, and it's perfect. He draws while signing descriptions to you, and you call out answers, and somehow you win the round. Everyone cheers, and Arthur kisses your temple, his hand finding yours under the table.
See? he signs with his free hand. You're amazing.
As the night wears on, you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of it. Arthur's hands moving, translating jokes and comments and game rules. The way he occasionally pauses to sign something just for you—I love you or You're beautiful or That was funny—little private moments in the midst of the group.
Pascale keeps checking on you, her hands moving in simple signs: Okay, love? And you sign back: Yes, thank you.
When you start to fade, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, Arthur notices immediately. His arm tightens around you, and he signs: Tired?
You nod against his shoulder.
He turns to the group, and you watch as he explains—you can't hear the words, but you can see the understanding on everyone's faces. They all wave goodnight, and Pascale blows you a kiss.
Arthur helps you up, keeping you tucked against his side as you climb the stairs. In his bedroom, he helps you change into one of his t-shirts, then tucks you into bed. He slides in beside you, pulling you close so you're facing each other on the pillows.
His hands come up in the dim light from the hallway.
The world is going to be quiet for you for a while, he signs. Until we can get your hearing aids replaced.
You nod, feeling the weight of that reality settling over you.
But I'm going to be here, he continues. Every day. Every moment you need me. I'll be your ears. I'll sign everything. I'll make sure you don't miss anything important.
"Arthur," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.
I love you, he signs. Not despite your deafness. Not even because of it. Just... you. All of you. Exactly as you are.
You surge forward, kissing him deeply, trying to pour everything you feel into it—gratitude, love, relief, trust. When you pull back, his eyes are soft in the darkness.
Sleep, he signs. I've got you.
You curl into his chest, his arms wrapping around you, and for the first time all night, you feel completely at peace. The world might be quieter now, muffled and distant, but Arthur's heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, and his hands are ready to speak for you whenever you need them.
As you drift off to sleep, you feel him press a kiss to your hair, and even though you can't hear it, you know he's whispering the words his hands signed earlier: "I love you. I've got you. Always."
Summary: You disappear during lunch, come back bruised, avoid questions, and somehow never react to Superman. Clark is completely convinced you’re secretly a superhero. The truth is far less glamorous.
Word count: 8k+
Warnings: fluff, mention of bruises and injuries
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.
Clark wouldn’t call himself an observer.
Sure, he noticed things. He had to. It came with being Superman. He listened for collapsing buildings beneath the noise of the city, watched for danger hidden in crowds, caught details other people missed because if he didn’t, people got hurt. But he never really focused on one person before. Never poured all his attention into memorizing someone’s habits, their expressions, the way they moved through a room.
Until you came along.
You were one of Perry’s newest hires, fresh blood thrown into the Daily Planet bullpen like bait into shark-infested water, except you never seemed intimidated by any of it. Most newcomers either tried too hard or shrank into themselves. You did neither. You found this impossible balance that made people gravitate toward you without realizing it.
Kind, but not overly sweet in a rehearsed way. Professional, but still willing to join after work drinks. Funny, but not enough to earn Perry’s eternal annoyance the way Jimmy did after getting warned three separate times about “inappropriate use of humor during serious editorial meetings.”
You fit too easily into their world. Beautiful without trying, smart enough to keep Lois interested in conversation, sharp enough to challenge Perry during meetings, and somehow constantly showing up to work covered in bruises with absolutely no explanation.
The first bruise Clark noticed sat just beneath your jaw.
Not because he was staring. He absolutely was not staring.
It was only there for a second when you tipped your head back laughing at one of Jimmy’s terrible jokes, the collar of your sweater slipping just enough to expose the faded purple mark against your skin. Clark’s fingers paused over his keyboard immediately. His hearing dimmed beneath the sound of your laugh.
A bruise.
Not the kind someone got from bumping into a door, either. It looked darker than that. Finger-shaped almost.
Something ugly twisted in his chest.
He wanted to ask if you were alright. Wanted to know who put their hands on you hard enough to leave marks. But there was something guarded about you too, hidden beneath the easy smiles and sarcasm, and Clark worried that asking would make you retreat entirely. So he stayed quiet, even while the image lingered in his head for the rest of the day.
Three days later there was another one.
This one wrapped around your wrist, peeking beneath your sleeve when you reached up to grab a file from the top cabinet. Clark caught sight of it from across the bullpen and looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash when your eyes flickered toward him.
“Smooth,” Lois muttered without glancing away from her computer screen.
Clark blinked. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
The immediate defensiveness in his voice only made Lois snort.
“Oh, you absolutely are.”
“For your information,” Clark said stiffly, “I was looking at the cabinet.”
“The cabinet wearing glasses and cardigans?”
Clark cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in the article on his monitor. Lois leaned back in her chair with a knowing smirk.
“You know,” she said casually, “normal people ask coworkers out instead of conducting FBI investigations.”
His ears burned instantly. “I’m not investigating her.”
Except he was.
Because there were patterns.
Clark noticed patterns.
You arrived every morning carrying coffee from the tiny stand three blocks over, despite always claiming you were running late. You wore thin-framed glasses that slid down your nose whenever you got stressed, and every time you pushed them back up, Clark had to physically stop himself from staring. Some days, there were scratches along your knuckles. Other days, bruises bloomed beneath your sleeves in places too deliberate to ignore.
And then Jimmy mentioned it. You disappeared almost every lunch break and came back twenty or thirty minutes later looking flushed and disheveled, your hair windswept like you’d been sprinting across rooftops.
“She disappears for hours sometimes,” he said one afternoon while tossing gummy bears into his mouth at Clark’s desk. “Like full mystery mode. One second she’s here, next second poof.”
Clark tried to sound casual. “Maybe she just likes being alone.”
Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You're defending her because you’re in love with her?”
Clark nearly inhaled his own saliva.
“I am not in love with her.”
Jimmy looked unconvinced.
The thing was, Clark disappeared during lunch too, so he never actually noticed you leaving. Usually, he was halfway across the city, stopping a robbery or preventing some catastrophic disaster before rushing back to the Planet pretending he hadn’t just held up a collapsing bridge. But now that he knew you were vanishing too, every weird little detail about you started clicking into place.
And the biggest thing of all?
You somehow never reacted to Superman.
Everyone reacted to Superman.
Jimmy lit up like a little kid every single time Superman came up in conversation. Lois always had opinions, whether she admitted it or not. Half the newsroom stopped working whenever he flew past the windows.
You?
You barely looked up.
Like you’d seen stranger things before. Like the flying alien in blue wasn’t remotely the most interesting thing in your life. You never pitched Superman stories. Never fought for front page exclusives about him the way every newcomer usually did trying to impress Perry. Sometimes Clark caught you listening quietly when the others talked about Superman, your expression unreadable behind your glasses, but you never joined in.
It drove him insane.
Clark leaned back slowly in his chair one evening, staring at you across the bullpen while realization settled into his chest piece by piece.
Another superhero.
It had to be.
You weren’t active in Metropolis. He would know if you were. He would have seen you during patrols or heard whispers about a vigilante operating nearby. But another city? Another state?
A hidden identity.
A superhero.
The thought should not have thrilled him as much as it did.
Yet suddenly every interaction with you felt charged with something heavier. Something electric. Because maybe you understood him in ways no one else could. Maybe you understood the exhaustion of splitting yourself into pieces for the world. The balancing act. The secrecy. The isolation. The terrible loneliness that came with carrying things no one else could know.
And once the idea rooted itself in Clark’s mind, it refused to let go.
“You’re doing it again,” Lois said without looking up from her laptop.
Clark’s head snapped upward so quickly it was almost suspicious on its own. “Doing what?”
“Staring.”
“I’m not staring,” he said immediately. “I’m observing.”
Lois finally looked at him then, one eyebrow lifting slowly toward her hairline. “That somehow sounds significantly worse.”
Across the newsroom, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding at Clark’s desk, you sat cross-legged in your chair flipping through interview notes with one hand while absentmindedly chewing on the end of your pen. Your glasses had slipped halfway down your nose again, and every few seconds you nudged them back up without even noticing you were doing it. The soft yellow light hanging over your desk caught against the side of your face and illuminated the faint purple bruise resting high along your collarbone just above the neckline of your sweater.
Clark swallowed hard.
It looked fresh.
Not severe enough to panic over, but enough that his stomach twisted unpleasantly anyway.
Lois followed his line of sight with painful ease, then let out one long dramatic sigh like she was exhausted by his existence.
“Okay,” she muttered, shutting her laptop halfway. “Spill it, Smallville.”
Clark immediately lowered his voice despite the fact nobody around them was paying attention. “I think she might be a vigilante.”
Lois stared at him blankly.
Clark pressed forward before she could interrupt. “Or a superhero. I’m not completely sure yet.”
For three full seconds, Lois said absolutely nothing.
Then she burst into laughter loud enough that three people looked over, including Jimmy, halfway across the bullpen.
Clark frowned immediately. “I’m serious.”
That only made her laugh harder.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. “You are serious.”
Clark crossed his arms defensively. “There’s evidence.”
“The fact that she’s pretty is not evidence.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Mmhm.”
“She disappears every lunch break.”
Lois deadpanned. “So do you.”
Clark blinked once.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Clark opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Lois smirked victoriously before continuing. “Clark, this is Metropolis. Half the city disappears during lunch because something explodes every twelve minutes.”
“She comes back injured.”
Lois snorted. “I got clipped by a taxi last month and still came into work. Last week Jimmy walked into a parking meter and got a concussion.”
“Hey,” Jimmy called from across the room. “That was one time.”
Clark ignored both of them. “These aren’t normal bruises.”
Lois glanced toward you again, her expression softening slightly as she caught sight of the mark on your collarbone. “Okay, maybe they’re not ideal, but you’re jumping from concern to full conspiracy theory pretty fast here.”
“She hides behind glasses.”
Lois stared at him slowly.
Very slowly.
“Clark.”
“Yes?”
“You also wear glasses.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
Clark opened his mouth again.
Then closed it.
Because honestly, hearing it out loud made his entire theory sound insane.
Lois rubbed both hands down her face. “You have a crush and your brain stopped functioning.”
“It’s not a crush,” Clark said immediately, far too fast to sound believable.
Like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of gossip, Jimmy suddenly appeared beside Clark’s desk holding a soda and an expression full of dangerous curiosity. “Who has a crush?”
“No one,” Clark answered at the exact same time Lois said, “You.”
Jimmy gasped dramatically loud enough to earn a glare from Perry’s office.
“On Y/N?” he whispered aggressively.
Clark nearly inhaled his own tongue.
Jimmy’s grin widened instantly. “Dude.”
“I do not have a crush on her.”
“You stared at her for like six straight minutes yesterday,” Lois said.
“I was thinking.”
“About her mouth?” Lois shot back.
Clark physically choked.
Jimmy looked delighted. “Oh my God, you’re down bad.”
“I’m not down anything.”
Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk with all the confidence of a man who enjoyed making situations worse. “You should ask her out.”
Clark immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
Because what if you really were risking your life every night somewhere? Because what if getting involved complicated things for both of you? Because what if you looked at him too closely and saw through every carefully built layer separating Clark Kent from Superman?
Because maybe a part of him desperately wanted you to.
Clark looked away instead.
Jimmy squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait.”
Clark already hated that tone.
“Are you scared of her?”
“No.”
“You totally are.”
“I’m not scared of her.”
“She is kinda intimidating,” Jimmy admitted thoughtfully. “In a hot way.”
Lois gagged.
Jimmy ignored her. “Last week I saw her come back from lunch with blood on her sleeve.”
Clark went completely still.
Every sound in the bullpen seemed to dull instantly around him.
“Blood?” he repeated carefully.
Jimmy nodded, suddenly less amused now that he had their full attention. “Yeah. Not a ton, but enough that I noticed. She was trying to hide it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I saw her scrubbing it out in the bathroom sink afterward.”
Lois sat up straighter now too, concern flickering across her face despite herself. “Okay, that is a little weird.”
Clark’s pulse started hammering.
Jimmy continued, oblivious. “And she looked exhausted after too. Like she’d been in a fight or something.”
Clark’s stomach dropped.
A fight.
Lois pointed a finger at him before he could spiral further. “Do not start building your murder board yet, Kent. There are normal explanations for this.”
Clark looked unconvinced.
“She could’ve gotten a nosebleed,” Lois argued. “Or spilled ketchup on herself. Or helped somebody who got hurt.”
Jimmy made a face. “Who spills ketchup directly on their sleeve?”
Lois ignored him. “My point is you are going from zero to one hundred.”
But Clark barely heard her anymore.
Because across the newsroom you laughed softly at something another reporter said, completely relaxed, completely normal, while absentmindedly tugging your sleeve lower over your bruised wrist like you didn’t want anyone noticing.
Like you were hiding something.
Clark narrowed his eyes slightly.
Definitely a vigilante, he thought to himself.
If only Clark knew how catastrophically far he was from the truth.
You were not a vigilante. Not a superhero. Not a masked protector operating out of another city with a tragic backstory and secret double life.
You were just unbelievably unlucky.
That was genuinely the entire story.
Your apartment building elevator broke so often you were convinced it had developed personal hatred toward you specifically. Twice a month it jerked violently enough to send you crashing into the wall, and once it trapped you between floors for nearly an hour while you sat on the ground eating stale crackers from your purse and contemplating every bad decision that led you to Metropolis. You bruised absurdly easily too. The smallest things left marks on your skin for days. You once woke up with a bruise on your thigh so dark and dramatic that you genuinely convinced yourself you had some terrifying hidden illness before remembering you’d walked into the kitchen counter half asleep at two in the morning looking for water.
Another time?
A pillow.
An actual pillow.
You had dropped face first onto your bed after a sixteen hour day and somehow managed to bruise your shoulder against the wooden headboard in the process.
Your body simply refused to cooperate with you.
It became such a normal part of your life that eventually you stopped noticing the bruises entirely until other people pointed them out. You were always distracted, always thinking too fast, always halfway somewhere else mentally, which meant you regularly walked into doors, clipped corners, slammed your hips against desks, tripped down stairs, or forgot objects existed directly in front of you. Half the bruises on your legs appeared without explanation because apparently your body just enjoyed creating mysteries.
The rest of your “suspicious behavior” was equally uninteresting.
Your disappearances during lunch breaks were usually spent crying in your car from stress, scarfing down vending machine snacks while answering calls from insurance companies, or sprinting halfway across Metropolis trying not to miss your younger brother’s physical therapy appointments. Since your parents passed, taking care of him became your responsibility, and balancing that with the Daily Planet nearly killed you some days. There were mornings you barely made it to work because you’d spent hours arguing with doctors or trying to convince your brother not to give up on recovery entirely.
The blood on your sleeve?
Your brother dropped an entire cherry slushie directly onto you after laughing too hard at one of your jokes.
You spent twenty minutes in the Planet bathroom trying to scrub fluorescent red sugar syrup out of your cardigan while wondering if adulthood was punishment for something you did in a past life.
That was it.
No secret missions.
No hidden enemies.
No rooftop fights.
Just terrible luck and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.
The only thing Clark had accidentally gotten right was the Superman part.
Because the reason you barely reacted to him anymore was simple.
You had already met him once.
Technically, though, he definitely didn’t know that.
It happened three years ago during what remained, to this day, the worst night of your life.
You’d been visiting Metropolis for a college journalism conference when the bridge collapsed.
Even now the memory felt sharp enough to cut.
You remembered screaming. Metal twisting like paper. The deafening sound of concrete splitting apart beneath hundreds of terrified people. Cars tipping sideways. Smoke everywhere thick enough to choke on. One second you were sitting in the backseat of a taxi answering emails on your phone, the next the entire world tilted violently and disappeared beneath you.
The impact shattered something in your leg instantly.
You still remembered the pain.
White hot and nauseating.
You had been trapped beneath mangled steel and broken concrete while people screamed around you in complete panic. Somewhere nearby a child was crying for their mother. Someone else was praying loud enough for you to hear every word. Smoke burned your lungs every time you inhaled and your vision blurred from the pain until honestly, truly, you thought you were going to die there.
Then suddenly everything changed.
There had been blue.
Bright against all the gray dust and smoke.
Then warmth.
Strong hands lifting impossible weight like it meant nothing.
And a voice.
God, that voice.
Gentle. Calm. Steady in a way that made the panic inside your chest loosen instantly despite the destruction surrounding you.
“I’ve got you.”
You remembered staring through tears as Superman crouched beside you in the wreckage, one hand braced against collapsing concrete while the other carefully untangled twisted metal from around your leg like he was terrified of hurting you further.
You remembered his cape moving in the wind behind him.
You remembered the symbol on his chest.
But mostly?
You remembered his eyes.
Kind.
Not performative kindness either. Not the polished, public version the world saw during interviews and press conferences.
Real kindness.
The kind that reached all the way down into a person.
You had looked at him while shaking from pain and fear, and somehow he made you feel safe immediately.
Like nothing terrible could happen while he was there.
He stayed with you until paramedics arrived even though half the bridge was still collapsing around him. You remembered him brushing dust from your forehead carefully, asking if you could breathe alright, speaking softly enough that only you could hear him over the chaos.
Then he smiled at you.
A small thing.
Quick.
But warm enough that your chest hurt afterward every time you remembered it.
For months after that, every man you met felt disappointing in comparison.
Not because they couldn’t fly or lift buildings or stop disasters.
But because none of them looked at people the way Superman did.
None of them carried gentleness so naturally.
Then you started working at the Daily Planet and met Clark Kent.
Clark Kent, who smiled exactly the same way Superman did.
Clark Kent, who tilted his head while listening exactly the same way Superman did.
Clark Kent, whose voice dropped softer whenever someone was upset.
Clark Kent, who had the exact same eyes as Superman did.
You figured it out in less than a week.
Honestly, it was almost concerning nobody else had.
The glasses helped more than they should have, but still.
Sometimes Clark would disappear for suspiciously long stretches of time right before Superman appeared downtown. Sometimes he came back looking exhausted with his tie crooked and his hair windblown while pretending nothing happened. Once you watched him return to the bullpen with ash smeared along his sleeve less than fifteen minutes after a chemical plant explosion Superman had supposedly been rescuing people from across the city.
You nearly laughed out loud.
But you never said anything.
Because it wasn’t your place.
The secret clearly mattered to him. Deeply. You could see it in the careful way he carried himself, always slightly restrained, always holding pieces of himself back. If Clark ever trusted you enough to tell you the truth himself, then he would. Until then, you would protect it too.
Besides, there was something strangely endearing about watching him maintain the act.
Clark tried so hard sometimes.
Too hard.
He’d intentionally stumble over absolutely nothing whenever people looked too closely at him. He lowered his voice around the office compared to Superman’s. Occasionally he pretended not to understand basic sarcasm because apparently Clark Kent was supposed to be awkward and harmless and incapable of throwing someone through a wall.
It was adorable.
Especially because underneath all of it, he was still just Clark.
Thoughtful. Sweet. Quietly protective.
You noticed the way he always carried extra snacks in his bag because he knew you forgot to eat during deadlines. The way he stayed late helping interns finish assignments without asking for credit. The way he checked if you got home safe after rough weather warnings.
That was the thing. Even as Clark Kent, he was still Superman.
“Hey.”
The sound of Clark’s voice pulled you out of your concentration immediately.
You looked up from your desk to find him standing there awkwardly between the rows of cluttered cubicles, broad shoulders slightly tense beneath his blue button up, two coffee cups clutched carefully in his hands like he was afraid he might spill them if he moved too quickly. His glasses had slipped lower on his nose again, and there was something almost unbearably nervous about the way he hovered there waiting for your attention.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly with a ridiculous little flip.
Which was honestly unfair.
A man should not be allowed to look like that while also being sweet.
“Hi,” you said, trying to sound significantly calmer than you felt.
“Hi.” Clark cleared his throat softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I got your order.”
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise as he handed one of the cups toward you. “You remembered my order?”
Immediately, his entire expression changed.
Clark looked flustered so fast it was almost painful to witness.
A faint flush crawled up the back of his neck, his grip tightening slightly around the remaining coffee cup while his eyes darted away from yours for half a second before returning.
“Well,” he started carefully, “you order the same thing every morning, and I just happened to notice, and I was already there anyway, so I thought maybe…” He trailed off awkwardly before adding quieter, “You looked tired today.”
Something warm unfolded in your chest so suddenly it nearly hurt.
Because of course he noticed that too.
You smiled softly as you accepted the coffee from him, your fingers brushing briefly against his. The contact only lasted a second, but Clark went strangely still afterward, like he felt it too.
“Thank you,” you murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened almost immediately at your reaction. Just slightly, but enough that you noticed. Clark always looked like he carried invisible weight around with him, something heavy tucked behind his eyes even during lighter moments, but right now he looked quietly pleased in a way that made your chest ache.
Then his gaze dropped downward.
Your wrist.
Ah.
You had forgotten about the bruise.
It wrapped faintly around the inside of your arm, darker today than it had been this morning, peeking beneath the sleeve of your sweater where it had ridden upward while you worked. You followed Clark’s line of sight automatically and watched concern settle over his features almost instantly.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
The sincerity in his voice caught you completely off guard.
Clark wasn’t asking carelessly. He wasn’t fishing for gossip or trying to satisfy curiosity. There was genuine worry in his expression, in the slight furrow between his brows, in the way his body leaned toward you unconsciously like he was already prepared to help if you needed it.
And suddenly your heart felt painfully full.
You glanced down at the bruise before offering him a small reassuring smile. “Yeah,” you said gently. “Just clumsy.”
Clark looked profoundly unconvinced.
Honestly, insultingly unconvinced.
His eyes lingered on your wrist another second too long, jaw tightening slightly like he was debating whether or not to push further. You could practically see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, all that concern tangling together with whatever conclusions he’d already convinced himself of.
“You can tell me if something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly hard.
Because he meant it.
God.
He really meant it.
Clark looked at you like helping people was as natural as breathing. Like caring was instinctive for him. And maybe it was. You had seen Superman pull strangers from burning buildings with that same expression on his face, gentle and determined all at once.
Now, Clark was looking at you exactly the same way.
The realization sent something dangerous curling low in your stomach.
For one reckless second, you wanted to reach up and touch his face.
Wanted to smooth out the worry between his brows with your thumb. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to look at you like you were breakable. Wanted to know if his skin felt as warm as you imagined.
Dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
Especially because Clark already occupied far too much space in your thoughts.
You looked away first before the feeling could settle too deeply inside you.
“I’m okay, Clark,” you said softly.
The newsroom buzzed around you both, phones ringing somewhere in the distance while keyboards clicked endlessly across the bullpen, but for a second the noise felt strangely muted beneath the weight of his attention.
Clark studied your face carefully like he was trying to determine whether you were lying.
And maybe you were, just not in the way he thought.
Because no, nobody was hurting you.
But there were things exhausting you. Things wearing you down piece by piece until you barely recognized yourself some mornings. Bills piling up. Hospital visits. Sleepless nights. Fear. Responsibility. The constant pressure of trying to hold your life together with shaking hands.
You wondered briefly what would happen if you told him all of it.
Something in Clark’s expression softened further, his concern melting into quiet helplessness when you held his gaze again. Like he wanted to fix whatever burden you carried even without understanding it.
Finally, after a long moment, he nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured.
But he still looked worried.
And somehow that affected you more than it should have.
Two nights later, Clark followed you.
The decision sat horribly in his chest from the moment he made it.
It felt invasive. Hypocritical. Wrong in ways he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried justifying it to himself. Clark spent half his life protecting his own secrets, carefully balancing two identities and guarding every vulnerable part of himself from public scrutiny, and now he was trailing you through the city because he couldn’t let go of a theory.
But then he remembered the split across your knuckles that morning.
The bruise beneath your eye.
The way you smiled through it anyway like pain was something you’d learned to carry quietly.
And suddenly the guilt became easier to ignore.
That morning had nearly driven him insane.
You walked into the bullpen ten minutes late with your glasses slightly crooked and exhaustion written across every inch of your face. There was a bruise shadowed beneath your eye, dark enough that even makeup couldn’t fully hide it, and when you reached for your bag Clark saw the raw split across two of your knuckles.
His stomach dropped immediately.
“Come on,” Lois had said the second she noticed. Her voice softened with genuine concern as she leaned against your desk. “This is not nothing. What happened?”
You barely looked up from your laptop while setting your coffee down carefully. “I walked into a shelf.”
Jimmy stared at you. “With your face?”
You laughed quietly. “It was a very aggressive shelf.”
Nobody laughed with you.
Clark sat frozen at his desk watching you too closely, chest tight with something ugly and helpless. The bruise beneath your eye looked painful. Angry. Fresh.
And the worst part?
You looked tired. Not just physically, soul-deep tired.
The kind of exhaustion Clark recognized immediately because he saw it in the mirror some mornings after nights spent saving people until sunrise.
“Yeah, you can tell us,” Clark added carefully, trying to keep his voice light despite the tension in his chest. “I’m friends with Superman. I can make sure nobody’s hurting you.”
The second Superman left his mouth, you laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not mockingly, just this surprised little breath of amusement that made your shoulders shake slightly.
Clark blinked.
That was odd.
You rubbed at your forehead afterward and smiled tiredly. “I’m fine, seriously. Like I said, I’m just very clumsy.”
Clark did not buy that for one second.
Not remotely.
So yes.
He followed you after work.
Metropolis blurred gold and gray around him as the sun dipped lower between buildings. Clark kept enough distance that you wouldn’t notice him, perched silently atop rooftops while watching you move through crowded sidewalks below.
You looked painfully ordinary.
That somehow made him more suspicious.
You stopped at a pharmacy first. Then a bookstore. Then, finally headed toward your neighborhood, disappearing farther into the rougher parts of the city where streetlights flickered weakly, and buildings leaned tiredly into one another.
Clark’s confusion only grew.
No secret headquarters, no underground base, no suspicious contacts waiting in alleyways.
Just a rundown apartment building with cracked windows and buzzing hallway lights that barely worked.
You disappeared inside.
Clark perched silently on the rooftop across the street, cape tucked close as he frowned down at the building below.
Maybe this wasn’t where you operated from, maybe the real entrance was hidden somewhere else. Maybe you were intentionally throwing off anyone following you.
Twenty minutes later you emerged again wearing loose sweatpants and carrying two grocery bags.
Clark stared.
That was somehow even more confusing.
You adjusted the bags against your hip while locking the apartment door behind you, expression distracted like you were mentally planning tomorrow already.
Then suddenly you froze.
Clark heard it at the same moment you did.
Shouting.
It was sharp, aggressive, coming from the alley beside the building.
Clark straightened immediately.
Two men crowded near the dumpsters, one of them gripping the arm of a terrified teenage boy clutching a backpack against his chest. The kid looked maybe fifteen at most, eyes wide with panic while one of the men shoved him hard against the brick wall.
Clark moved instinctively.
Ready to intervene, ready to land between them before anyone got hurt.
But then you moved first, and Clark wanted to see what you would do.
Your purse hit the nearest thug square in the chest hard enough to stagger him backward.
“Hey!” you shouted, stepping directly between them and the teenager without hesitation. “Back off, don’t hurt him!”
Clark blinked.
The men laughed immediately.
One of them looked you up and down dismissively. “Mind your business, sweetheart.”
You shoved him backward before he could touch you.
The entire alley went still for half a second.
Then chaos erupted.
One of the men lunged toward you, and you punched him directly in the throat. Not with trained precision or with impossible strength.
Just pure instinct and adrenaline.
Clark watched in stunned silence as the fight spiraled. He waited for you to use your powers.
You got hit almost immediately.
Hard enough that your head snapped sideways against the brick wall.
Clark nearly intervened right then.
But you kept moving.
Kept fighting.
You grabbed a broken broom handle off the ground and swung it wildly, breathing hard while shoving yourself between the terrified kid and the men trying to grab him. One of them caught your wrist hard enough to bruise instantly, but you twisted free and slammed the broom into his ribs with enough force to send him stumbling backward cursing.
It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t superhuman but God, it was brave.
Eventually the men fled swearing under their breath after attracting too much attention from nearby apartments. The teenager bolted immediately afterward, clutching his backpack while mumbling a terrified thank you over his shoulder.
And you?
You just stood there breathing hard.
One hand pressed tightly against your ribs while the other wiped blood from your split lip.
Clark landed behind you before he could stop himself.
The sound made your entire body tense instantly. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around.
Your eyes widened behind your glasses.
“Superman?”
For a second genuine confusion crossed your face before suspicion followed immediately after. “What are you doing here?”
Clark stared at the blood on your mouth.
The bruise already forming along your cheek.
“You’re hurt, ma'am.”
You let out a weak laugh despite yourself. “Little late for that observation, don’t you think?”
“You could’ve been killed.”
The words came out harsher than he intended. It was not Superman speaking; it was Clark. His theory was wrong, and he hated that he doubted you for a second. Instead of asking you, he followed you like a creep and watched you get hurt.
Fear still pulsed violently through him.
You looked startled by the intensity in his voice before your expression softened slightly.
“So could that kid.”
Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. “Why would you do that?”
Your face changed then. Not dramatically, just enough that something inside Clark’s chest tightened painfully.
“Because no one else was going to,” you answered quietly.
God.
You looked exhausted. Bruised. Completely human standing there beneath the flickering alley light.
Not invincible, not secretly powerful.
Just good.
Clark suddenly felt unbelievably stupid.
“Oh,” you said after a second, voice softer now.
“What?”
A tiny smile appeared despite the split on your lip.
“ You watched the fight. Probably heard it before it happened, yet you didn't intervene. Because you thought I could handle it, didn't you? You followed me back to my neighborhood. Clark. You thought I was a superhero, didn't you?”
Clark’s entire face burned instantly.
“No,” he lied horribly.
“Clark.”
“I just…” He groaned quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I just didn’t believe someone could actually be that clumsy.”
That made you laugh again, a real laugh this time. Warm and breathless and bright enough to completely wreck him.
Then you winced sharply halfway through it, one hand clutching your side.
Clark crossed the distance between you immediately.
“Easy, easy. I got you.”
His hands settled instinctively against your waist to steady you.
The second he touched you, both froze.
Clark became painfully aware of everything all at once.
Your breath caught softly as Clark’s hands settled against your waist. The warmth of his body this close to yours made your head spin a little, especially when your eyes slowly lifted toward his and found him already staring. Your heartbeat fluttered fast beneath his hearing, but not from fear.
His own pulse thundered in response. For a long second, neither of you moved, caught in this strange quiet tension that suddenly felt too intimate for the dark alley surrounding you.
And then it hit him.
You called him Clark. Not Superman. Clark.
Like you already knew. Like you saw through every careful layer, every disguise, every attempt to separate the two identities, and still looked at him like he was just himself.
Clark’s expression shifted instantly, something stunned and uncertain flickering across his face.
“Did you just call me Clark?” he asked softly.
Then softly, almost teasingly, you murmured, “You know, for someone hiding the biggest secret in the world, you’re surprisingly bad at recognizing them in other people.”
Clark froze completely.
Every sound around him vanished. The city disappeared, his hands tightened slightly against your waist before he caught himself.
“You…”
Your gaze met his steadily, affectionate in a way that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
“I know, Clark.”
For one horrifying second he forgot how to breathe.
Then your hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing lightly against his arm like you were grounding him before he could panic.
“I figured it out almost immediately.”
Clark stared at you in complete disbelief. “You knew?”
“You’re not exactly subtle.”
“What? I am subtle.”
You gave him a look, and Clark immediately deflated a little. “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe not all the time.”
Your smile softened at that. “You wanted privacy. It wasn’t my place to say anything.”
Something tightened painfully in Clark’s chest. Most people reacted to Superman with awe or fear, but you were looking at him like he was just Clark, and somehow that affected him more than he could explain.
“You’re not scared of me?” he asked quietly before he could stop himself.
Your expression softened almost heartbreakingly. “Clark, I watched you hold a collapsing bridge together while comforting strangers so they wouldn’t panic.” His breath caught as you smiled faintly. “I think you’re the safest person I’ve ever met.”
The intensity in his chest became almost unbearable. Before he could overthink it, Clark reached up carefully, his thumb brushing beneath the bruise on your cheekbone with impossible gentleness.
“So all this time,” you murmured, amused now, “you thought I was fighting crime?”
A sheepish smile finally pulled at his mouth. “Cut me some slack, will you? You disappear constantly. What else was I supposed to think?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I have a brother with a disability. He needs constant care, so he stays in a hospital where they can help him properly.” Your voice softened. “I don’t really have other family left, so I try to spend as much time with him as I can. I don’t want him feeling alone.”
Clark stood completely still.
Every stupid theory he’d built over the past weeks collapsed instantly into embarrassment.
You kept talking quietly.
“Sometimes I come in late because we lose track of time playing Uno together,” you admitted quietly. “I think he lets me win now because his hands shake too much to hold the cards properly, but he still smiles like he used to, so I pretend not to notice.”
A faint smile crossed your face before fading slightly. “And sometimes I read stories to the kids in the pediatric wing during treatments because they get scared. It helps keep them calm, and the extra money helps me cover bills.” You looked away for a second. “I think I just… know what it feels like to be stuck in a hospital room wishing somebody would stay.”
Your laugh came softer after that, almost fragile. “Children are brutal critics, though. Apparently my dragon voices all sound the same.”
Clark honestly did not know what to say anymore.
All this time, he had built this entire version of you in his head. A masked vigilante slipping out of the Daily Planet during lunch breaks to save people somewhere across the city. Someone carrying bruises like battle scars, hiding secrets behind nervous smiles and thick framed glasses because they understood the impossible balancing act he lived every day.
Meanwhile, you were just… taking care of people.
Your brother. Sick children. Strangers in dark alleys.
You carried all of it alone without powers, without recognition, without anyone stepping in to help carry the weight with you, and somehow that affected Clark far more than the idea of you being a superhero ever had. Because there was nothing separating you from the pain of it. No invulnerability. No super strength. No ability to fly away from exhaustion or grief or fear.
Just you.
Still choosing kindness anyway.
Clark looked at you standing there beneath the flickering alley light with a split lip and bruised ribs after throwing yourself into danger for a stranger, and something deep inside his chest ached painfully.
“What about the bruises?” he asked softly after a long moment, almost like he was still trying to piece you together properly now that he finally understood.
You looked nearly offended. “Clark, I told you. I’m clumsy.”
“You had one shaped like fingerprints.”
“I sleep weird.”
Clark blinked at you slowly. “...how?”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
The seriousness in your voice nearly made him laugh again.
“And the blood Jimmy saw on your sleeve?”
This time you actually looked embarrassed, your hand lifting to rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “That would be the cherry slushie my brother accidentally launched directly at me.”
Clark stared at you for half a second before closing his eyes briefly.
“Oh my God.”
The sound of your laughter echoed softly through the alley then, bright and warm despite everything, and Clark felt something inside him loosen unexpectedly at hearing it. You looked exhausted, bruised, and emotionally wrung out, but you were still laughing.
“So this whole time,” you said between laughs, “Superman has been secretly investigating me because I walk into furniture too often?”
“When you say it out loud, it sounds bad.”
“It sounds insane.”
Clark finally laughed too then, helpless and warm and completely unable to stop himself. The sound bounced between the alley walls as he shook his head, looking down at the ground for a second in disbelief before meeting your eyes again.
And suddenly neither of you could stop smiling.
The tension that had followed both of you for weeks dissolved so naturally it almost felt unreal. The alley somehow seemed smaller now, quieter somehow despite the city noise surrounding it. Intimate in a way Clark wasn’t prepared for.
His hand was still resting gently against your face.
Your fingers still curled softly around his wrist.
Clark looked at you for a long moment before speaking softly. “You know what?”
“What?”
A small smile pulled at his mouth then, warm and almost disbelieving at the same time. “I was right.”
You blinked at him. “About what?”
“You are a superhero.”
The teasing smile on your face faded slightly into something softer as Clark stepped a little closer, his thumb brushing carefully against your cheek again despite the bruise there. The touch was impossibly gentle, and somehow that made the words hit even harder.
“You take care of your brother by yourself. You carry work and bills and hospital visits and all this weight every day, and somehow you still show up smiling like none of it hurts.” His voice lowered quietly, full of something that made your chest ache. “You throw yourself into danger for strangers even though you’re scared and human and breakable. I think that’s a lot braver than flying.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Nobody had ever looked at your life and called it brave before. People called you responsible. Stubborn. Overworked. Occasionally a disaster. Nurses at the hospital constantly told you to sleep more, and your brother liked to joke that you were secretly a seventy year old woman trapped inside a twenty something year old body. But brave?
Never brave.
Yet Clark stood in front of you looking at you with the same certainty he probably used while telling terrified people everything was going to be alright during disasters. Like he truly meant every word.
“That’s not really the same thing,” you said softly after a moment, trying to laugh it off despite the warmth spreading painfully through your chest. “You literally stop meteors.”
Clark shook his head immediately. “That’s easy.”
You stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“For me,” he clarified quickly, his expression turning thoughtful, almost frustrated by his inability to explain himself properly. “I was born like this. Flying, strength, hearing buildings collapse from miles away, none of it feels difficult because it’s just…” He hesitated briefly. “Part of me.”
Your expression softened immediately.
“But you,” Clark continued more quietly, “you’re human.”
Something about the way he said it made your pulse flutter.
Not lesser. Never lesser.
Clark said human like it meant something sacred.
“You get scared anyway and still choose to help people,” he murmured. “You’re exhausted all the time, carrying responsibilities that would crush most people, and you still stop for strangers.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the alley where the teenager had disappeared earlier. “You don’t have powers protecting you.”
You looked down for a second, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity in his voice. “I was a little terrified back there,” you admitted quietly. “I genuinely thought that guy was going to break my nose.”
Clark’s jaw tightened instantly at that. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and certain. “He won’t touch you again.”
The protectiveness in his tone sent warmth straight through you, immediate and dangerous. God, you really needed him to stop doing that. Stop sounding so soft and protective while looking at you like you mattered more than anything else around him.
You tried very hard not to think about the fact that one of his hands were still resting carefully against your waist.
“Honestly,” you admitted with a quiet breath of laughter, “I mostly acted before thinking.”
Clark huffed softly. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“It’s a problem.”
“It’s also why that kid got home safe tonight.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly ruined you.
Your eyes lifted back toward him slowly, and suddenly he felt very close again. Close enough that you could see every tiny detail in his face beneath the dim alley light, the soft curl of dark hair near his forehead, the faint shadow along his jaw after a long day, the tiny crease between his brows that only appeared when he worried.
And God, Clark Kent worried about you constantly.
The realization settled warmly into your chest.
Clark looked at you like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with how much he liked you, and maybe that should have scared you more than it did. Instead, it made your entire body feel strangely light.
“You’re laughing,” he said quietly after a moment, sounding almost surprised by it.
You smiled faintly. “So?”
“You don’t do it enough.”
The softness in his voice stole the breath straight from your lungs.
Somewhere along the way your life had become schedules and hospital rooms and bills and exhaustion, and people stopped looking closely enough to notice when you were genuinely happy versus when you were only pretending to be okay.
But Clark noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed everything about you.
“You notice a lot for someone who claims he wasn’t investigating me,” you murmured.
Clark actually looked embarrassed by that. “I can explain it.”
“You followed me across the city.”
“…in hindsight, that sounds concerning.”
You laughed softly. “In hindsight?”
“I really thought you were secretly fighting crime,” he admitted, the warmth in his voice returning.
“You thought I was Batman, huh?”
A helpless laugh escaped him then, low and unfairly attractive enough to make your stomach twist. The teasing lingered between you for another second before fading naturally into something quieter, softer, the space between you suddenly feeling charged again.
Clark didn’t move.
Neither did you.
His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, and your heartbeat stuttered immediately at the look on his face. Slowly, carefully, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away, Clark stepped closer.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked softly.
Your voice came out quieter than intended. “What?”
A faint smile touched his mouth, but there was real vulnerability underneath it now, the kind that made your chest ache. “I think I started liking you before the conspiracy theories.”
A startled laugh escaped you immediately.
“I tried not to,” Clark admitted quietly. “I thought maybe it would make things complicated.”
“You mean because you thought I was secretly fighting crime at night?”
“That was part of it.”
“And the other part?”
Clark looked at you for a long moment before answering, his expression softening into something painfully honest. “Because when I care about people,” he said quietly, “they get hurt.”
Your heart cracked a little at that.
You could hear it then beneath all the teasing and softness. The fear. The loneliness he carried around hidden beneath careful smiles and gentle hands. Clark said it so simply, but it sounded like something he had convinced himself of a very long time ago.
Before you could overthink it, your hand lifted carefully to his face.
Clark went completely still beneath your touch.
“You don’t get to decide other people’s choices for them,” you whispered.
His eyes searched yours carefully.
“I know what you are,” you continued softly, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. “And I still…”
The words caught in your throat suddenly.
Still what?
Still wanted him?
Still trusted him?
Still felt your entire chest tighten every time he looked at you?
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes again, his voice turning almost unbearably soft. “Still what?”
Your fingers curled slightly against his cheek. “Still think you’re worth knowing.”
Something in Clark’s expression changed after that.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like he had spent so long expecting fear or rejection that simple acceptance hit him harder than anything else could have.
Then, slowly, almost cautiously, his hand slid upward from your waist to rest against your jaw. Warm. Gentle. Careful enough that your breath caught immediately.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
And God.
Nobody had ever sounded like that asking before.
Like it mattered.
Like you mattered.
You nodded once, barely managing the movement before Clark kissed you carefully at first, tentative like he was afraid pushing too hard might shatter the moment completely. Then your hand slid into his hair and something in him gave way.
The kiss deepened instantly, warm and aching and full of weeks worth of tension neither of you had known what to do with. Clark kissed like he cared too much already, one hand cradling your face while the other tightened carefully at your waist like grounding himself against you.
And maybe the craziest part was that for the first time in a very long while, you didn’t feel exhausted anymore.
You just felt safe.
Safe.
That was the only word your brain could hold onto as Clark kissed you beneath the flickering alley light, one hand cradling your face like something precious while the rest of the world carried on around you unnoticed. You had blood on your lip, bruises already forming beneath your skin, your ribs aching every time you breathed too deeply, and somehow none of it mattered when he touched you like that.
For a few dangerous seconds, you forgot about everything else completely.
The hospital bills waiting on your kitchen counter disappeared. The exhaustion clawing constantly at your bones vanished. The pressure sitting heavy on your chest every waking moment, the schedules and responsibility and fear, all of it faded beneath the warmth of Clark’s mouth against yours.
Maybe that was what made the kiss feel so overwhelming.
Not just because it was Clark.
But because nobody had held you this gently in a very long time.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his hair without thinking, and the soft sound that escaped him nearly ruined you completely. Clark kissed you slower after that, deeper, his thumb brushing carefully along your jaw like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. There was something almost unbearably restrained about him, like he wanted far more than he was allowing himself to take.
Then suddenly he pulled back.
Not far.
Just enough for both of you to breathe.
His forehead rested lightly against yours while you stood there dazed beneath the dim alley light, your glasses crooked from his hands in your hair and your lipstick probably smeared all over his mouth by now. Clark blinked at you once, still looking slightly stunned, and for one quiet second neither of you said anything.
Then you both started laughing.
Soft at first.
Then harder.
Not because anything was particularly funny, but because the entire situation felt completely absurd now that the tension finally snapped. Clark Kent had followed you across Metropolis because he genuinely believed you were secretly a vigilante, accidentally discovered you already knew he was Superman, watched you nearly lose a fight with a broom handle, then kissed you in the middle of an alleyway like this was somehow a normal Tuesday night.
Clark rubbed a hand over his face with a breathless laugh. “Okay,” he murmured. “Wow.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Wow?”
“Sorry,” he admitted, still laughing softly. “I had a much better sentence in my head five seconds ago.”
“I’m sure it was very impressive.”
“It really was.”
You laughed again, but the movement pulled sharply at your ribs this time. The wince escaped before you could hide it, and Clark’s entire expression changed immediately.
The softness melted into concern so quickly it almost startled you.
His eyes scanned over your face again, lingering on the split in your lip, the bruise darkening beneath your cheekbone, the way your arm instinctively wrapped tighter around your side now that the adrenaline was fading.
“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.
You waved him off automatically. “I’m fine.”
Clark gave you a look so deeply unconvinced it almost made you laugh again. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your arms instead, gentler now, almost hesitant like he was afraid of hurting you further.
“We should go to the hospital.”
The immediate groan that left you made him blink.
“Why do I feel like that’s the exact opposite reaction people usually have to hearing that?”
“Because hospitals hate me.”
“I seriously doubt hospitals hate you.”
“You’ve never seen me filling out paperwork.”
Normally that would have made him smile, but Clark’s expression stayed stubbornly concerned. His eyes never left your face.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” you argued. “They’re just going to tell me I bruised a rib and charge me eight hundred dollars for breathing near a doctor.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I feel fine.”
Clark stared at you in disbelief. “You fought two grown men with a broom.”
“One and a half grown men,” you corrected immediately. “One of them was kinda skinny.”
“You’re joking right now?”
“I cope through humor.”
“That explains a lot actually.”
A faint smile pulled at your mouth, but Clark’s concern only deepened as he watched the exhaustion settle back into your body now that everything was over. Your shoulders had started slumping slightly, your breathing slower now, careful. You leaned subtly against the brick wall behind you for support without even realizing it.
Clark noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
Without thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly beneath your eye again, so gentle it made your chest ache.
“So stubborn,” he murmured.
“You literally fly into burning buildings,” you pointed out softly. “I don’t think you get to call other people stubborn.”
“That’s different.”
“That’s exactly what you said about the glasses thing.”
Clark sighed dramatically. “I hate when you use my own arguments against me.”
“You’re going to have a terrible time dating a journalist.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Both of you froze.
Clark’s expression changed slowly, beautifully, the realization settling across his face while warmth spread through your entire body in immediate humiliation.
“Dating?” he repeated carefully.
Heat crawled instantly into your face. “I mean hypothetically.”
“Hm.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“That smug sound.”
Clark laughed softly then, low and warm enough to make your stomach flip all over again. But the amusement faded quickly back into concern as his eyes searched your face.
“Seriously, though,” he said more quietly. “Let me take you to get checked out.”
The sincerity in his voice made it impossible to joke your way around it completely.
Because Clark cared in this overwhelming wholehearted way that made refusal feel almost cruel.
You looked away with a sigh. “I really am okay.”
Clark stayed quiet.
Reluctantly, you glanced back at him. “Probably.”
“Probably.”
“It’s a very optimistic probably.”
“Y/N.”
The way he said your name should genuinely be illegal.
Soft. Patient. Concerned enough that guilt twisted faintly in your chest.
You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Maybe urgent care tomorrow if I still feel awful.”
Clark frowned immediately. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“Clark.”
“What if you cracked something?”
“Then I’ll simply suffer dramatically.”
“That’s not a real plan.”
“It’s been my plan for years.”
He stared at you for another long moment before something softer crossed his face suddenly, realization settling quietly into his expression.
“You really don’t take care of yourself enough, do you?”
The disappointment in his voice hit harder than you expected because he wasn’t judging you.
He just sounded sad about it.
Your gaze dropped briefly toward the ground. “There’s not always time.”
Clark’s expression softened instantly, and God, you hated how quickly he understood things you never actually said out loud.
He stepped closer again, one hand settling carefully against your cheek despite the bruise there, his touch impossibly gentle.
“There should be,” he said quietly.
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest.
For a moment neither of you moved. The city hummed faintly around the alley, distant sirens echoing somewhere far away while Clark looked at you with that same impossible tenderness that made it hard to breathe properly.
Then he sighed softly through his nose like he was losing an argument internally.
“At least let me walk you upstairs.”
You blinked at him. “You want to walk me home?”
Clark looked genuinely baffled by the question. “I followed you across the city and watched you fight people with a broom,” he said. “At this point it feels irresponsible not to.”
Sometimes you come across a fic, that like touches your soul ✨ and leaves you with things to ponder on, and this is it !!!
I read it a few hours ago, and have been thinking how to organize my thoughts. This is it: I kept thinking that Clark spends the entire fic mentally checking things off on his "mysterious vigilante behaviour" checklist, when the actual explanation is that she's just catastrophically kind in the most painfully human way possible. There's no secret lair or dramatic double life, it's simply - "my brother is lonely, and "the kids in the paediatric wing get scared", which is SO much more beautiful because the answer isn't mythical...
She's not helping people because she's invulnerable or was blessed with alien powers to save people - she's helping because she knows what it's like to be alone and can't bear seeing other people feel that same way too.
AND IT'S THE SMALLEST DETAILS - like the uno games, and the dragon voices, and cherry soda, and stepping in for the kid in the back alley that made it feel so real. It's Clark's realization that there's no safety net, no powers cushioning the exhaustion of grief or fear. It's an ordinary person who is continuously choosing between softness and kindness, whose version of heroism is "I know what loneliness feels like, so I stay". Which in my opinion, is a beautiful reflection of the human condition???? Devastating.
Anyways, @satellite-evans congratulations on briefly resurrecting my Grade 12 English analysis voice
this genuinely made me emotional to read 😭 You understood the story so well, I’m so happy you enjoyed reading it and felt the need to write such kind words. Thank you so much for this truly, I think your words are one of my favorite things anyone has ever said about my writing, ever. I love you💓💓🥹🥹
summary: you and alexandra have been friends since you were little and she's been scheming on getting you with her brother in law for years
pairing: reader x arthuer leclerc
fc & warnings: none & poorly translated french
requested: yes! thanks for your patience xoxo
masterlist
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
alexandramalenaleclerc has posted to her private story
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charlesleclerc: good work my love
alexandramalenaleclerc: thank you 😘 he's agreed to dinner tomorrow right?
charlesleclerc: yes and he does not suspect a thing!
alexandramalenaleclerc: great! neither does y/n/n 🤭
ynuser: alex... babe....... what is this
alexandramalenaleclerc: you looked so beautiful today!! and i wanted to make sure he noticed
ynuser: i mean thanks??? but also i dont think i like arthur like that 😭
alexandramalenaleclerc: you will if you give him a chance!!
ynuser: ughghgghghgggggg
arthurleclerc: i mean she does look good but what are you getting at with this 🫣
alexandramalenaleclerc: i am just pointing out how beautiful our best friend is :)
arthurleclerc: can't a boy and girl be friends without feelings being involved?
alexandramalenaleclerc: not in this situation no!
arthurleclerc: .... i mean she is gorgeous......
isackhadjar: if she is single send her my number :)
alexandralmalenaeclerc: hahaha shes soon to be taken ;)
yourbff: cryinggggggg this is awesome
alexandramalenaleclerc: doing my best to match make hehe
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yourbff: she actually did it
ynuser: they did........ charles it seems lied to arthur and alex told me we were having a girls dinner and so we ended up here... on a "date"
yourbff: i mean i can't blame them!! you've been crushing on arthur since we were kids 🙄
ynuser: NOT TRUE
yourbff: oh pleaseeeee!!! then why did you giggle and kick your feet every time you went to one of his races? or why did you always choose him as your partner in class during school? and why do you always look for him in a crowd?
ynuser: ok ok thats enough 😭
alexandramalenaleclerc: and did you have FUN?!
ynuser: .......... yes
alexandralmalenaeclerc: HA and will you go out again?
ynuser: perhaps...........
alexandramalenaleclerc: HAHA Y E S
iamrebeccad: oh you two would make such a cute couple
ynuser: not you too rebe 🫠
arthurleclerc: i had fun (don't tell charlie and alex)
ynuser: so did i (don't tell them that either)
arthurleclerc: i'd love to do it again
ynuser: saturday?
arthurleclerc: i'll pick you up at 7
ynuser: make sure you turn off your location so they don’t see us at the same place 😭
arthurleclerc: done and done
isakchadjar: i could take you to dinner too.....
ynuser: ok so then why haven't you?
isackhadjar: because you haven't responded to any of my texts!!!
ynuser: hahaah you got me there
carlossainz55: L O L
ynuser: bye
f1gossip has made a post
liked by user1, user3, user2, user4, user5, user6, user7, user8, alexandramalenaleclerc, user9, and 32,414 others
f1gossip: spotted in monaco 👀 longtime family friend of the leclercs, y/n y/l/n, was seen at an intimate dinner with the youngest brother, arthur. while the two have grown up side by side, sources say there was a noticeably different energy between them last night… less childhood besties, more something romantic. with y/n being so close to alexandra leclerc (and basically part of the family already), we have to wonder..... could this be the start of something more?
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user1: shes literally so pretty i could see why arthur would be interested in her
user2: YESS OMG IVE BEEN BEGGING FOR THIS
user8: sigh another nepo baby turned model turned f1 wag
user10: at least she’s a childhood friend!! stop being a hater
user9: ohhhhhhh ik alex is excited about this
user10: not her literally being in the likes hahahaha
user4: need her outfit stat
user5: oooooooooooo i could see this for arthur
arthurleclerc has made a post
liked by charleslecerlc, alexandramalenaleclerc, ynuser, scuderiaferrari, olliebearman, carlosainz55, f1gossip and 354,346 others
arthurleclerc: life has been interesting lately
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user1: mon amourrrrrrrrr
charlesleclerc: this is interesting
alexandramalenaleclerc: very interesting
ynuser: theres nothing to see here
user3: this is tea....
user4: assuming its y/n/n in the third slide and assuming the dinner is for her.....
user2: goodness gracious you are gorgeous
ynuser: consider deleting the third slide
arthurleclerc: no its my favorite
user7: FAVORTE?! HELLO?
user4: oh its for sure y/n LOL
alexandramalenaleclerc: why are neither of you answering your phone?
user5: domestic arthur is hot
ynuser has posted a story
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user1: whoever he is ,,, hes right
flavy.barla: who is he 😫
ynuser: arthur.... leclerc
flavy.barla: QUOI?!!??!?!?!? [what]
ynuser: hehehehehe
user2: i dont like agreeing w men but i have to here 😭
alexandramalenaleclerc: oh mon dieu [oh my god]
ynuser: je sais [i know]
alexandramalenaleclerc: je suis tellement heureux [i am SO happy]
charlesleclerc: YIPEEEEE i hope this is about who i think it is heheeheh
ynuser: yes charles... the he in questions is arthur
user4: i can treat u better than arthur
arthurleclerc: you always look pretty y/n/n
ynuser: oh stoppppp
arthurleclerc: its the truth! im sorry it took me so long to admit it
user6: gorgina
f1gossip has made a post
liked by user1, user3, user2, user5, user6, user7, user8, user9, user4, user19, and 13,234 others
f1gossip: things between arthur leclerc and y/n y/l/n are definitely heating up. after being spotted on multiple outings, insiders say the pair have been spending a lot of time together in monaco 1:1. what started as a setup from charles and alexandra might actually have turned into something real.
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user1: yeah i actually love this pairing
user3: i wish charles and alex would play matchmaker for me
user4: im a y/narthur truther
yourbff: alexandramalenaleclerc you see these pics?
alexandramalenaleclerc: ynuser HELLO?!
user1: STOOPPP HWT ARE YOU GUYS DOING HERE
user5: cant wait to see her in the paddock!!!
user2: cutieessssssss
user6: this is a pairing that just makes sense to me. y/n/n is meant to be a leclerc and alex's sister
ynuser has made a post
liked by charlesleclerc, iamrebeccad, alexandramalenaleclerc, dior, carlossainz55, scuderiaferrari, yourbff, arthurleclerc and 432,353 others
ynuser: turns out blind dates work 🤭
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user1: monacos favorite slow burn
alexandramalenaleclerc: I NEVER DOUBTED
ynuser: you believed enough for the both of us that’s for sure
arthurleclerc: my pretty girl
ynuser: my handsome boy
user2: ahhhhhh!!!!!
charlesleclerc: welcome to the family 🥹
arthurleclerc: lets not get ahead of ourselves 🙄
alexandramalenaleclerc: or maybe you need to catch up to us arthur!!
user3: so soft and so cute
yourbff: its abt gd time
ynuser: yes 😔
user4: god i see what you have done for others
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
a/n: thanks for reading! likes and reblogs appreciated
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction
do fic readers know that their comments actually influence the course of the story sometimes? i don't mean in a "you need to write it this way because i say so 😡" type of comment, i mean when people are asking questions or really engaging with the plot and the themes in the comments they sometimes bring up things that i didn't even think of, or dig into parts of the story that i've overlooked, or get really interested/fixated on something i was going to just kind of glance over--and it has me going 'oh wait that's actually really interesting, that's a good point' and fully adding or tweaking or changing things about the story going forward. i'm literally adding an entire additional chapter to something right now because someone's comment had me like "oh i didn't dig into that as much as i could have." you have impact!
it's literally the evilest thing in the world to finally have time to write but then be tired. like wow you're telling me these two hours before going to bed are completely free but my brain is just Not Feeling It? fuck off
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